April 22, 2007


What is the point, Jack?
Is poetry a conversation among the dead
and the poet gets it second hand,
a vampire moon sucking off the sun?

What is the poet, Jack?
A battered radio transmitting static between the stations
on a lonely stretch of road or a punch-drunk fighter
who's taken one too many hooks to the head?

Powerful emotions recollected?
The most exasperating art?
Potts makes an analogy with Mahamudra.
Williams hears a sort of song.
Garcia invents a ragged song,
and Yeats sees tattered clothes upon a stick.

Poetry is experience.
I awake to morning light,
thoughts sweet as honey buzzing in my brain.
Swatting them I get stung by real bees in a dream garden.

—Richard Denner

Posted by dwaber at April 22, 2007 12:46 PM