I doubt Corso lived the high life, poets are generally not well-paid, or even paid at all, so I wasn't referring to his exceptional lifestyle. Nor did I mean to imply his history with the Beat Generation, although that is something exceptional (and for this poet, a bit enviable).
What I meant by 'living exceptionally' is the gift of having a poet's sensibilities. Poets look at everything, and they see it through a prism of language and detail. The poet sees the whole universe in a mote of dust. The poet grasps an entire lifetime in the dash on a tombstone. The poet feels an entire symphony in a dying note struck on a piano.
That is living exceptionally.
It snowed most of the day here in the Big Woods, but this afternoon it has all but stopped, save for the tiniest glints of crystal still swirling in the air, visible only because a half-hearted sun is shining through the gray clouds.
That is living exceptionally.
My dog, Joey, is curled next to me on the sofa as I write, blissfully dreaming his dog dreams and every few seconds his front paws twitch and his brow furrows as if he's digging for imagined rabbits. To play witness to his dreaming...that is living exceptionally.
Later tonight, I'll pour a finger of good Kentucky bourbon, turn off all the lights and stare into the reflected brightness of a waning full moon on the new snow. I can thing of nothing more exceptional to do this evening.
This week, as I rummaged my brain for a poem to write, another friend complained about the winter squalls moving through the area. There were some untamed images running around in my head, but until I read the word 'squall', I'd been unable to put them into a poem.
After writing the poem, I thanked her for giving me the word 'squall' and she replied upon reading the first few lines that perhaps she had been too harsh in her opinion of the weather.
'It is the poet's privilege to experience the world differently,' I replied, thankful to be living exceptionally.
Tim, I am so proud to be a poet and to be your friend. This is gorgeous. Love, Terry
ReplyDeleteTerry, I cannot thank you enough for all the years of your friendship and guiding support. You remain an inspiration.
DeleteHi Timothy,
ReplyDeleteI hope that you take the following as it is intended, as I mean it to be a compliment.
I usually skip over most poetry. I think "Uh huh, mmmm, ok, blah, blah, blah death ... I get it."
But every once in a while, I stop, dead in my tracks, and read. Really read. And I read it again. I feel like it is literally touching my soul. And this is one of those poems.
I will definitely not be skipping any of your poetry, sir.
Dear Aiden,
DeleteI took your compliment as one of the finest compliments I've received, and I thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I should have a new post this coming weekend (I've been down with a wretched sinus and ear infection). I shall try not to disappoint.
Yours,
Tim
Second poem of yours which I have read. If you write like this in winter, I can't imagine what will spring from you in Spring.
ReplyDeleteWe shall see, Barbara. Today, spring officially arrives in my part of the world at 11:57am. I'm a bit of a moody writer, so fall and winter tend to bring out my best work, but it has been such a long, difficult winter, I think I need to write my way into warmer weather.
ReplyDelete