Poetry's Courage and Blessings

Poetry has always been a mystery to me. Maybe it's that way with most of us. I recognize and admire the talent, craftsmanship and beauty of poetry, and I place it on a step above narrative writing. In fact when complimenting prose writing I'll often refer to it as poetry. I've often thought of Scott Fitzgerald as a poet who wrote prose. Being a sometime prose writer, I marvel at the imagination, inspiration and discipline poetry demands. There's all those rules, for one thing, and I doubt that poets sit down in the morning and say to themselves "OK, time to write some poetry". I can't imagine it being that way at all. I picture a sort of channeling, or meditation session, where inspiration takes over and violins play in the distance and the lights dim and the poet's hand reaches for a pencil and trance-like the words begin to appear on the page. And afterward, exhausted and in a cold sweat perhaps, the poet withdraws from the writing table to rest on the couch and sleeps deeply for several hours until awakened by the chimes of a magnificent thunderstorm passing through. Yes, I'm serious, I believe in the mystery of it all.

I've had favorite poets now and then. For a long time Tennessee Williams was one, and his poem usually titled How Calmly Does the Orange Branch, and which I have personally titled Courage, was my favorite. There was a dangerous time in my life when I carried that poem folded up in my wallet, even though I'd memorized it. It is the poem Nonno is working on in Williams' play The Night of the Iguana.

I think what I admire most about poetry is its honesty. There is never a doubt in my mind that it comes from the soul. We at Chester River Press were indeed fortunate to be able to publish Fierce Blessings, by James Dissette, a collection of thirty-four of Jim's poems. The book's release was an event in itself, an hours-long book signing and reading that is still recalled as a wonderful, enlightening evening. One can't say enough about the poetry in this book, its truthfulness and wisdom shine through. It's a collection one returns to often, for its writing, design, and sheer pleasure. This is one of my many favorites, titled When In Rome:

I'd like to sack Carthage but the airfare's ridiculous.
I'd settle for a fiddle and box of matches
but I promise to spare the library --

Still, I like their columns,
strong enough to hold up the gathering darkness,
exclamation marks in marble.

O, no worries, I'd blend in
as an embezzler on vacation or stand still looking
very important as I read the instructions
carved across the Parthenon
which I believe loosely translated
means Do Not Steal This City With Your Eyes.

I promise not to embarrass my country
by plotting to add someone to the Last Supper
or yell, 'Fountains Rock' to anyone but the pigeons.

But I would like to sneak into the Colosseum
one midnight for a vegetarian picnic
and nap among imaginary lions

or sit alone among the statues of emperors and generals
so that anyone passing wouldn't notice
there was a break in the tradition of postures.

I might not be able to speak Italian
but I can wave my hands furiously at Etna,
even use the power fist if there's a plume.

Most of all though I would like to trace my fingertips
along the chiseled slots of letters
carved in the Trajan column.

It's not often we can touch a language as lovers.