I am piggy backing here Mike. I have not received the original.Vagaries of
the List, I'm afraid.
A poem has three distinct defined existences I think. There is the poem the
poet thinks he has written, there is the poem he actually wrote, the poem
that demands its own existence and uses the poet as the medium through which
it expresses itself and there is the poem that the reader reads. This latter
poem can have as many existences as there are readers because each reader
involves themselves in the poem through the act of reading. Then the three
becomes many. Each individual reader will read with their experiences and
understanding of words and their connotations unique to them In a sense
reading the poem is an act of creation as unique as the writing of the poem
itself. This opinion extends to viewing art or listening to music. Art in
its many forms, visual, poetry, music, prose etc bestows this gift of
creativity upon the receptor.
I was at an exhibition of Chinese pottery in London once long ago. Progress
through the exhibition was guided by screens which kept each piece apart
from the others, so that on a quiet afternoon one almost had a private
audience with each piece. I rounded one corner and entered into the presence
of this most beautiful vase. Tall, elegant, perfect, serene. A still mirror
of the moving world, as the vase in Four Quartets. I was deeply moved,
physically , to a sob of pleasure and awe. Was that the vase or me, or the
potter and I sharing a view of eternity together in private unity.
In a similar vein I was at an exhibition in Bradford of the Bangladeshi
Poet, the Nobel laureate, Rabindranath Tagore who was an artist as well as a
poet.
The morning was springlike, warm sunshine and I had entered through avenues
of daffodils.
I was the only person there that morning. I wandered round, honestly
unimpressed. I was passing one drawing in red and black ink and noticed some
writing along the edge. I stepped closer and read " Who are you, young poet,
here to read me this fine spring morning, my words long written and I long
dead? Who are you? What do you feel reading my dead words?" I was so
startled I looked round as if somone had spoken but the large room was
empty. What was going on there, Mike? Was I a partner in some strange act of
creation? I often wonder.
Happily those three distinct forms of poetry can merge in many different
combinations.
I think Helen's reading of the poem is legitimate and in fact very close to
my own. There are sexual overtones in the poem and the orchid does feel to
be a metaphor. But then that is my reading and as I say as valid and as
individual an act of creation as your original inspiration.
The secret is to recognise these different forms, almost literary
allotropes, and admit them as all acceptable.
The big bonus comes when all three merge into one and poet and audience are
singing from the same hymn sheet.
Just some thoughts. Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Mike Horwood" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, April 26, 2004 8:09 AM
Subject: Re: At Dawn- Helen


> >
> ...but yellow?


....and purple. Blimey, this guy has a problem....or maybe it´s just an
orchid after all.


>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Mike Horwood" <[log in to unmask]>
> To: <[log in to unmask]>
> Sent: Friday, April 23, 2004 7:35 AM
> Subject: Re: At Dawn- Helen
>
>
> > Hello Helen,
>               Ho, ho, ho! The good old famous male genitals, then, putting
> in an appearance and, I like to think, rising to the occasion. I would,
> though, just like to take this opportunity to deny most strenuously that
> this poem has anything to do with masturbation in any of its
> many...and...well, intriguing forms, tempting though they are (as a
subject
> for poetry, I mean). I would like to make that quite clear, and so would
all
> my fantasy lovers...oh, what a giveaway!
>
>
>
> Best wishes,   Mike
>
>
>
> > Lähettäjä: Helen Clare <[log in to unmask]>
> > Päiväys: 2004/04/22 to AM 10:06:38 GMT+03:00
> > Vastaanottaja: [log in to unmask]
> > Aihe: Re: New sub: At Dawn
> >
> > I've been waiting to comment on this, not wanting to reveal myself as
the
> > only one with a dirty mind... but I guess it is too late to be coy.
> > On one level this is a poem about spring and birth, and the violence
> > implicit that.
> > But I can't help but observe that the orchid is often used to represent
> the
> > male genitals... and I wondered if you were hinting at another kind of
> dawn
> > rising here!
> > Helen
> >
> >
> > ----- Original Message -----
> > From: "Mike Horwood" <[log in to unmask]>
> > To: <[log in to unmask]>
> > Sent: Monday, April 19, 2004 1:33 PM
> > Subject: New sub: At Dawn
> >
> >
> > At Dawn
> >
> > I never wanted this, the heart pumping,
> > blood punishing the veins in thin wrists.
> >
> > The skin below my ribs parts and tears
> > and the orchid pushes its silky stem
> > at the wound´s livid lips,
> > stretching flaps of flesh
> > into a red-raw O.
> >
> > Orchis raises his headbud,
> > dislodging cells like grains of soil,
> > rippling my belly and I cannot look
> > away, though the starting day lights
> > the vegetable world outside my window
> > and streaks the dawn sky.
> >
> > Could I rise and step out, barefoot,
> > on the cool grass beneath the trees?
> >
> > I lie back on my pillow in single
> > contemplation of the orchid blooming
> > below my heart, streaked purple and yellow,
> > lurid as any sky at dawn
> > and imagine the feel of cool grass on bare feet.
> >
> >
> >
> > Mike
> >
>