The Shape of a Poem: Poetry a Three Dimensional Art Form

I've been thinking about the shape of a poem as it ends up on the page (often as a musical score for spoken voice), and as an object to read from in a live reading. So I added some photographs of Swimming By: Prologue & Song which hangs like a zig-zag snake from my hand when I read it aloud. The actual typed shape of the poem determines the cut out. The zig-zags of the poem are simply keys to pitch level of the voice when reading (or in this case, partially, singing), the farther from the left margin the higher the spoken voice.

Here is the poem & song text with the photos of the place (Sandia Mountain area) and the shape of the poem.

Swimming-by-Prologue-Song by Larry Goodell

I consider poetry a three dimensional art form and intend to put down my thoughts as elaborated recently as part of the poetry craft talks -- P(EAR) held at Alamosa Books in Albuquerque.

Rio

Photograph by Lenore Goodell, The 7th Bridge,  Las Conchas, Jemez River, New Mexico

/hear poem read with keyboard backing here: Rio

Thus
 the river
  flows
  out of
  time
   and time
   flows
   out of
   the river
    as water
    molecules
     do not
     suffer
     from
     over
     population
    and the
    suggestion
    of dry
     future
     begins
     to dry
      the future
       as
       the future
       bends
        to meet
        the past
        and comes up
         in the present
          worry
          of things
          tied to
          uncertainty
           the great
           metaphors of
            all time
             fail in
             the heart
             as
            faces
            meet
           faces
           and
          the rock you
          were standing
         on
         dislodges
          and you
            almost
            fall
            but catch yourself
            and think
             I can’t
              afford to
              fall
              to mistake
             myself for
            another
            person
            I focus
           always
           on
          the same
          present
         which hovers
         blurred
         meaning
          of time
          words fail
            more words
            flowing on
           to break fast
          with the past
          lay this
         heartbreak
         where it
         always
        is
        the scheme
       in time
       is always
      to get away
      but tied
      in it
     the pain of
     self-imposed
      suffering
      indulges
       itself
      because
     it can’t
     free
    itself
    from
    knowing
   it’s attached
   and won’t
   let go
   the old
  techniques
  won’t work
  work
 doesn’t work
 on it
 life
is a heart
beating
 against
 itself
 preparing
  to free
  everything
  from
   itself
   as if
  it can
  it reads
   its mind
   and shakes
    free without
    falling
    to liberate
     hearing the voices
     from
     the other room
      hope
      looks at
      itself in
      the mirror
       and
       dissolves
       to rest on
        that glowing
        live self
         what is it
          as you
          whisk away
           the unnecessary
            drudge by
            free association
           with the freeing
          intellect
         the body                            
         safe
          follows
           that burning
           center
             is just like
             an engine
             the refueling
              heart, everything
              is functioning
               so much better
               than your thinking
                of itself
                  your maudlin
                   milieu
                     your dampened
                       opinion
                       of every
                        passing
                          thing
                           gets
                            in the way
                            of
                            your pleasant
                             efficient
                              functioning
                                have heart
                                on that
                                 and let off
                                  the nails in
                                  the fantasy
                                  coffin
                                 nothing exterior
                                 exists
                                but center
                               with this
                               flowing
                               need
                               and
                              the smoke
                             does get
                              blown
                               away
                                to see clear
                                 just what
                                   it is
                                   that catches
                                 the imagination
                               to pull heart
                               up again
                                walk on
                                solid rock for
                               a change
                               let
                                nature
                                  in
                                    by
                                     going
                                      out
                                       out more
                                          as in
                                           here
                                          revivifies
                                          simplifies
                                         reminding
                                        the cycles
                                         are as old
                                        as life
                                      and can’t be
                                      avoided
                                     that water
                                    will come
                                    come back
                                   as the blood
                                  flows
                                 knowing more
                                than
                                in tune
                              with singing
                             if need
                            be
                         thus
                   the river
                 flows
               out
              of
            time
                 and
           time
       that teeny
                 bell
         floats
                out of
    the river
               sparse
      as it
              is
        still
            flowing
         as
           always.




larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 12June2011 
                                                      / for all lovers and beholders of water . . .

The Occult (or An Experimental Song)

poem is on 16" by 8" sheets . . .

The Occult

or

An Experimental Song

                              the magical connection

                        of integers

                                    was

the musical connection

                        of integrities

                              the musical

                        necessity of integrity

                 

                              the mathematical

                        dervish of pillows

                              the hopeful

                        will for discussion

                              the ape

                            no

                                    apes

                      would discover

                              havent I

                                    said it

                                all

                                    be-

                                          fuck

                  another cover

                              until we're

                                    laughing

                        like

                                          you

                   under

               the covers

                                    & we

                                          don’t

                                    know          

                                        we’re

                                           blue

            under the covers

           

                              & we're

                                    talking

                        to

                                 you

            under the covers

                        indeed I

                    do

                        &

                                 you

                  do

              too

            under the covers

                        & my

                              pencil

                  is

                     for

                              you

            under the covers

                              & I

                                    re

                                          ject

                                       ted

                                me

                                          to

                                                you

            where they do lie there

                              in

                                 their

                                          bro

                                    ken

                              down

                                                chair

            under the covers

                              &

                                    she

                                          told

                                    me

                              I’m

                                    a

                                             spoon

            under knee covers

                              &

                                    the

                                          moon

                                    is

                              here

                                            to

                                                burn

            under the covers

                              &

                                    I

                                        wish

                                      I

                                 had

                                          a

                                                loon

            under the covers

                                    when he

                                            wasnt

                              in

                                    the

                                          room

            he be so happy

                              &

                                I

                                   sloped

                              unto

                                      the

                                             West

            ever so lightly

                              that

                                    I

                                     meant

                                 it

                              to

                                 the

                                            Left

            ever so sprightly

                              &

                        spirited

                    did

                                    dont

            ever so tightly

                              that

                                    I

                                          picked

                                  up

                              Clora's

                                                soap

            ever so lightly

                              &

                                    I

                                          threw

                                    it

                              on

                                    her

                                          dope

            ever dont fight me

                              till

                                    I

                                      prove

                                Im

                              not

                                  a

                                       fraid

            please dont bite me

                              &

                                    ac

                                          cused

                                    of  

                                being

                                                staid

            so why indict me.

                              I’m

                                    the

                                          one

                                  to

                              soap

                                    yr

                                          shade

            if you allow it

                              to be

                  free                 

                        of

                  me

                        &

                  take

                        a

                  while

                        to

                  find

                        oh

                  uh

                        .

/4Dec74                                                    

Left margin is lower pitched, farther to the right, higher.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico 

/ scanned from original typed copy & (re)formatted close to original 15Jun2011

    I wrote the following note in the late 80's for Firecracker Soup (Cinco Puntos Press, El Paso), but it wasn't necessary to include it. (States something of the placing of my writing & placement on the page.)

    Writing is an act of life for a poet whose improvised airs are a page breath. 

For me the words speak through pores.

INTRO

    Writing is an act of life for a poet. His improvised airs are page breaths. It's not for me to know what not writing is since I'm always being written with. The pauses are that: pauses, and then I write, my right place and time only once for that esteemed occasion. What a relief to surprise myself – only the makeup of myself with all my severe limitations screens the joy. 

     Or perhaps makes me ordinary. A release into semi-guided fun of my own essential one and only tongue, wagging a new tune that goes till done and not to be mangled with rehashing but is the sacred text of my Goddamned condition. It's always a score a reading aloud at time of writing, a recital – no, a concert of words--hell no, sentences, scores, a going high, a take, a progression, an undulating song, with tips: they say performance.  In front of an audience it repeats. And now a book. 

     The farther from the left margin a line or word begins the higher the pitch in delivery. The bigger the space inside a line, the slightly longer the pause. The word with a single underlined letter is emphatic of course. [I've changed most of these words to italics and eliminated underlining.] Line endings are a pause, however slight. And any directions, usually italicized, to the right of the poem is part of it: what needs to be done or donned, a fact arisen at the time of the poem-writing. 

     I am writing to get to a different place from where I began, where it feels better, some kind of musical word clarification through pun and performance of the airs laid down. Mysterious muse-ic cycle of the Earth, what little bit of it I know: think only of gifts someone might enjoy and even read aloud a time or two.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / for FIRECRACKER SOUP  2May89