Being a poet
you're constantly in source of the origins.
There is no other bell to tinker with.
There is only the finished sound you make
as you make it—all else
is duplications of it.
The wit, swell & well
of the words as they, origin, out
flow,
come out of there like out of a hole.
You rhyme it or place a dime on it
but you dont
tinker with it —
you let the bell sound
sounding it as you do
which is the pulling-apart mystery
of all that you do
that you carry around with you
when you're not playing it.
You are a poet when you arent being a poet
once you are a poet.
It hangs on your face
and meditates on your breast.
You remain unpublished
as long as you do
because the source of poetry has
nothing whatsoever to do
with publishing itself —
that is an artificial invention
of the printing press.
The source of poetry has
nothing whatsoever to do
with making money.
That is why it is so admired
and feared
by those who can do nothing
but rake in money.
That is their only vested interest —
making money
and that which is so pure
and sings so shamelessly of itself
goes by them as
a threat to their own
way of life —
it is so urgent of itself
what they hear of it.
Poetry is so
urgent of and through itself
as it comes, inspired, out
out on top of itself and the voice, glottal,
poet voices on the paper out to
the few in contact,
the utterance of itself
in mutual friendship—
the sheer delight in knowing it exists —
that's what I am
when I concentrate from the waist down
and sing from the belly up
the art and aardvark of these sounds
the Zorastrian delight of
its wings
its current day
happenings,
the ritual of its founding
the finding of its saying
once and for all this
is poetry this this
is poetry I am
the poet of its voice
speaking I am
the poet of myself
speaking, go on song sing
yourself off
naked
sing out sing on
the wording bark out
off the amplified
sound of a larynx
barking
melodious as speech isnt
the wording voice of workaday weaving
into the talk that is melody
song-word songs.
I am the voice
I am.
The poet knows
only
the poet at the ear of
the source
knows —
what is coming
what they are hearing
as they are hearing it.
Ears don't lie when eyes see first—
the hearing of the center which says only
what it says,
is visible only
to the voice
the risk of
hear-saying it
hearing, you see it, say it.
Say it you hear it see it.
The mirror of life is
saying it again
long after you've gone from
the image of life
long after you know
what you're doing.
The voice remains
there
and voices of
the community of poets
we are saying it infinitely
who identify the same source
which is multifarious as science
and can show up in any
neck of the woods —
the vibration of spring
coming —
coming, it came out
to save the world
or save the saying of it
from saving the world
as it does what it does
at dawn
at the shaking of the earth
at spring
the yellow crocuses first
the iris reticulata
the crown imperials
bursting out of the ground
like rams horns meeting
with a clash.
The quiet that follows
anything as noisy as that
is serene.
What is a pastorale without a flute
or at least a French one,
the peace of a quiet French song—
or here a night song
like spring in words
cinco de mayo
victory for what we are
in the quiet confidence of self.
Of ourselves
gained
slowly
here
 |
| poem hung on garden gateway |
here
confiding
only what it talks of
up and through itself.
It threw itself up and through
itself
threw itself out
of my eyes recognizing
that old voice on the page.
/5May81
(holograph copy of the original manuscript)
larry goodell / placitas, new mexico
This poem hung (by way of 2 eyeholes) downtown in an Albuquerque United Artist exhibit in the 80's.
page 5 of the orginal writing on 9 1/2 x 12 1/2 sheets, showing the curve
I was faithful to . . .
lg / 1981
