I think all poets have an inner voice that writes the poems
that mean most to them. These poems are written on blank pages
with no thought as to what the next line is going to be.
I can think back as far as 1968 to 'Triad: The Magicians'
and the last was probably 'Mary of the Songs' in 1992
when no creativity was required. (I will append it below).
When you have schizophrenia the poetic inner voice becomes
live in the head and it is marvellous. But the downside is
that the subconscious reveals itself and very nasty sexual
voices wont go out of the head. This is why the drugs are
necessary otherwise you could bask out the rest of your
life in a happy happy state far removed from reality.
Eventually I think the drugs kill the poetry but not
being in love is an additional factor. (Or am I really
not in love with the news from Ottawa).
And I will just complete yesterday's note on Geoffrey Hill
by saying that I think the biggest mistake he ever made
was translating 'Brand the Builder'. It has turned him into
a garrulous old man talking to himself only. (But do read
Christopher Okigbo if you can get hold of him). And for
Trevor Joyce he mentions Robert Desnos at 21, Okigbo is
the last half of 87.
Now for my voluntary job then the pub. My printer just
phoned to say my pamphlet cover is to be in colour but
as I only had a black-and-white digital photo of the
cat to give the graphics man I am puzzled.
This was probably my last given poem from my voice:
(unless some of the Mary-poems but I cant remember).
Mary of the Songs
Great Mary of the Songs said to me:
`Why aren't you writing?'
I answered `My black widow haunts me.
`In the mists of winter I see her face.
`In the brief mid-day sun I strangulate.
`The black widow stands between me and summer.
`I must write her. She will be the death of me.'
Big Mary of the Songs said to me:
`Is it at an end, your poetry?'
I answered `If my lilac takes.
`If my lavender revives. If the sun shines.
`I will live to name the place of my tomb.
`The black widow will dance on my grave in rage.
`I have made her immortal. She will never die.'
Sweet Mary of the Songs said to me:
`Was it worth it, the agony?'
I answered `I have purged the widow.
`No more will the black widow plague me.
`She was there from childhood and I have defeated her.
`I walk into an empty future with a blank mind.
`I lived with the black widow and now am free.'
Great Mary of the Songs said:
`Listen to me.
`You came from the morning. You walked to the citadel.
`You married the black widow. You wrote it.
`There's an end of it. Now you can be happy.'
I answered `Without my widow I am nothing.
`She was the heart of my days. Let it end.'
Douglas Clark, Bath, England mailto: [log in to unmask]
Lynx: Poetry from Bath .......... http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc/lynx.html
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