My point of view is that poetry in some circles has been reduced to
spiritualism. Poetry given over to describing and nourishing the inner
spiritual life. The secret self. Poetry diminished by assuming the form of
self-incantations. Self-recriminations or casting spells on various social
ills, grievances. As those of the past sought out the comfort of dried roots
and the making of charms and the casting of spells upon one’s self or
others.

Perhaps in a sense a literary form of occultism exists. The conjurer, the
two-head doctor. Witchcraft of words, the conjurer and the capacity to bless
or jinx or curse.

The neo-pagan accouterments such as knives, cauldrons, chalices, or wands
replaced by words. Poetry. Words reduced to tea-leaves, palms, or tarot
cards, stars to read for one astrology chart.

Divination from dreams. The writing of poetry bearing the writer good luck.
One’s vocabulary the MoJo bag. Hidden until revealed and brashly sported
about. Loudly decried.

The result --- magic and spiritual cleansing. The spiritual bath. One
spirits soaring, the metaphysical euphoria of self-delusion. The counterfeit
boost to one’s mind, elevated to heights of supreme illumination or
darkness, depending on one’s belief or disbelief.

A sort of vanishing cream that one daubs on one’s face, body escaping into
the words. I strongly suspect this has some validity.

Ernest Slyman
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