For a Daphne

[rowens]

For a Daphne

       "You have taken the conceits of poets quite seriously
        and fashioned for yourself a Laura or a Beatrice out of
        an ordinary person of the present century . . . "
                                                Gerard de Nerval


How easy it is
to hold glory up to the light,
never a graceless motion,
or a cough or sigh out of place.
What burning man can contend
with the wonders of this earth?

For when we stand eclipsed,
she burns the more.
Fire could swim in the lake of her chest
and be refreshed
in the cool of the day.
But what is a simple man to do,
knowing he can't swim,
when approached by a flame
that should kill all fears?

Her nature caught up
in the place, the roving piedmont
around us, through cities
and surrounding counties. How sober I've been
for her not to know
of those great, enormous feelings.
Details fill notebooks of imaginary walks
or drives on dark interstates crowned with forests;
telling of that ghostly cowboy seen
walking once, and a couple things just made up
to get her in the mood
and share in my personal folklore.
I see she sees things too.
But how caught up I am in my own thoughts
even to talk,
or for any of this to be true.

Some women are too good even for dreams,
and I awake exhausted with the effort.
Who says a man creates his own infatuations?
What choice is there? Does a tree slap me
in the face for evoking its mythical roots?
History isn't in the heart, it's in the head;
life is the ever present,
emotions in the loins
and the spirit of the land.
Our brains make cheap motels
out of destinous mountains. 

There is no sense of sadness in the way she moves,
but her eyes are human.
Still startled by strangeness
with her lips curved in joy,
they put all further sorrows to rest
before they happen.
There's no foliage warmer than the leaves of summer
grown luscious and darkly bright
by mid autumn without having fallen.
Sharing her delight gives more life than the sun.

When I hear the train at night,
by my dwindling candle I imagine
the broken bridge between my home and Eden.
And soon even she'll be far from the eponymous garden
where I pluck my laurels,
and the river that flows between us
in glimmering reams of change.

The river of morning still brings her to town,
but how long, like tired workers,
passing unknown truckers along the highway,
can we blend in the same waters, the same atmosphere,
the same auras?—How long have I been self-conscious
of that stray arrow of age and time?
To me they never fade.

[dukealien]

Complete excellence, @rowens. One marvels and sympathizes in equal parts.

[billy]

if i could write a poem, it would be this one, as is i can only read such poetry. will you marry me great piece of writing. i enjoyed it to much to pick at it.

[rowens]

I took this poem to my writers group, and they said it made no sense. And I made a fool out of myself defending it. I won't do that anymore. I already know I can make it through the day just writing.

[dukealien]

I took this poem to my writers group, and they said it made no sense. And I made a fool out of myself defending it. I won't do that anymore. I already know I can make it through the day just writing.

Yeah, but if you take the risk, good crit can even improve your day.  Just sayin'.

Dr. Strangelove>You can't make sense in here!  This is a poetry forum!Dr. Strangelove>

[rowens]

It's the in-person thing is what I always fall back into. I have to ask myself each month if I'm crazy. All these people laugh at my inability to write a cohesive sentence. Then I get drunk and have my days-long anxiety hangover psychosis. My true muse.

[billy]

then don't show them your stuff. while i do think others may have a different view of the poem than me, i can't see anyone saying this is bad poetry.

[rowens]

I really wounded myself, if you consider the erotic connotations of those reams of change. . . . Also, before my anxiety hangover sets in, I'll say that this poem is funny to me, because everything in it, that is figurative, is actual. She does live in a town called Eden. There actually is a broken bridge. There actually is a train and a candle and a river. And there actually was a solar eclipse the day me and her met. . . . But I don't think those details are important. I think, at least to me, that the poem makes sense just as it is.

---

I have one friend left that I kind of trust. I got him drunk and forced him to read this poem. I said tell me if any line sticks out to you. And he said the line about some women being too good for dreams. And that's what I wanted him to say. To me, that's all I wanted to say. And I built a whole poem around it.

---

Uh oh, here comes the psychosis hangover. I'll try not to type any nonsense during this hellfest. But, after all, I always dig and bury myself into a hole, and I write most of my poems and stories while climbing out of them. That's my method.

[billy]

i used to be and addict and when blitzed, would write out all these great couplets as addict writers do. sadly when i was compos mentis i realized i'd written reams of shite.

[rowens]

I'm writing during those sober times, those sober moments that push over into somber. Before those defense mechanisms that help a person function day by day come back.

[busker]

Beautiful. But not quite the same genius of your Ronnie poem.
I’m joking. It’s better.

---

“Fires could swim in the lake of her chest” ?

---

Crap. That was meant to be an emoticon

[rowens]

I dont understand emoticons

and plus I just fell out of bed. On the floor, you know?

---

Explanation  

Poetry is a battle
with the shadow of the Self,
and girls.

---

I debate whether self should be uppercase or lowercase. Because sometimes it is, and sometimes it aint.

---

I sing a song inmy Heart. many nights,


that goes

Here Iam . . . sittin around in my room      like a hurricanein.

---

Explanation  

Poetry is a battle
with the shadow of the self,
and girls.

[Thunderembargo]

For a Daphne

       "You have taken the conceits of poets quite seriously
        and fashioned for yourself a Laura or a Beatrice out of
        an ordinary person of the present century . . . "
                                                Gerard de Nerval


How easy it is
to hold glory up to the light,
never a graceless motion,
or a cough or sigh out of place.
What burning man can contend
with the wonders of this earth?

For when we stand eclipsed,
she burns the more.
Fire could swim in the lake of her chest
and be refreshed
in the cool of the day.
But what is a simple man to do,
knowing he can't swim,
when approached by a flame
that should kill all fears?

Her nature caught up
in the place, the roving piedmont
around us, through cities
and surrounding counties. How sober I've been
for her not to know
of those great, enormous feelings.
Details fill notebooks of imaginary walks
or drives on dark interstates crowned with forests;
telling of that ghostly cowboy seen
walking once, and a couple things just made up
to get her in the mood
and share in my personal folklore.
I see she sees things too.
But how caught up I am in my own thoughts
even to talk,
or for any of this to be true.

Some women are too good even for dreams,
and I awake exhausted with the effort.
Who says a man creates his own infatuations?
What choice is there? Does a tree slap me
in the face for evoking its mythical roots?
History isn't in the heart, it's in the head;
life is the ever present,
emotions in the loins
and the spirit of the land.
Our brains make cheap motels
out of destinous mountains. 

There is no sense of sadness in the way she moves,
but her eyes are human.
Still startled by strangeness
with her lips curved in joy,
they put all further sorrows to rest
before they happen.
There's no foliage warmer than the leaves of summer
grown luscious and darkly bright
by mid autumn without having fallen.
Sharing her delight gives more life than the sun.

When I hear the train at night,
by my dwindling candle I imagine
the broken bridge between my home and Eden.
And soon even she'll be far from the eponymous garden
where I pluck my laurels,
and the river that flows between us
in glimmering reams of change.

The river of morning still brings her to town,
but how long, like tired workers,
passing unknown truckers along the highway,
can we blend in the same waters, the same atmosphere,
the same auras?—How long have I been self-conscious
of that stray arrow of age and time?
To me they never fade.

---

I've never read, or, perused-really-a poem of it's kind. Something strange and terrible. A roaming, dark, and exhaustive examination of seedy and bawdy sentiments that are cloaked in leather pain and the deep, probing truths of unending sojourn-harlequin impulse-pastoral decadence-and finally, the extremely rare element of chivalry, bravado, hard wrought peace of mind, the sanguine satisfaction of sacrifice and loneliness.

[rowens]

That should drown all fears. Sometimes I read it as drown. But like live concerts, sometimes it's good to change the words to songs or add things. 'Drown' has other advantages too. 'Kill' is a more direct allusion to James Dickey's Awaiting the Swimmer, but it's already direct.

[Thunderembargo]

That should drown all fears. Sometimes I read it as drown. But like live concerts, sometimes it's good to change the words to songs or add things. 'Drown' has other advantages too. 'Kill' is a more direct allusion to James Dickey's Awaiting the Swimmer, but it's already direct.

This.   From the Library of Congress...............................

TitleJames Dickey reading his poems in the Recording Laboratory, May 27, 1960Contributor NamesDickey, James.Archive of Recorded Poetry and Literature (Library of Congress)Created / Published1960.ContentsAwaiting the swimmer -- Trees and cattle -- The vegetable king -- The underground stream -- Drowning with others -- The landfall -- In the treehouse at night -- Between two prisoners -- Fog envelops the animals -- The magus -- Sleeping out at Easter -- The performance -- Uncle -- The string -- The game -- The enclosure.

https://www.loc.gov/item/94838487/

[rowens]

I was wanting one of these for James Dickey. I haven't heard much of his lots and lots and lots of readings out loud.

---

This Daphne also appears, and as a lifeguard, in my long poem The Windmill Factories I started a year and a half or so ago, about my misadventures trying to read my poems at community colleges. Allusions are important and I'm a vehement endorser of sympathetic magic. Dickey has a poem called The Lifeguard in a book called Drowning With Others. I'm keenly adept at dying into the beloved. . . . So I think I'm keeping 'kill'.

[cidermaid]

Hi rowens 
Great read.  lovely set up to the fourth stanza which is a solid pivot point for the whole to hang on.
Particularly liked the mix of small town urban and pastoral imagery intermingling with each other which give the poem a solid and relate-able footing, in my read, for the infatuated, stalker voice.
Fav line ? too many to choose from.  I could easily select one from each stanza -- but that would be tedious.

AJ (or could be CJ quite like both)

[rowens]

I don't feel any guilt or shame in lusting after women. But falling in love is the worst thing I could do to somebody. I nightmare over it. Hell is a proven fact when I realize I'm in love again. I was surprised just now trying to count how many women have loved me, I thought two, but then I kept remembering more and more. I was surprised by that, but not by how they all suffered from obsessive mania. For me, love is an illness, and I can't carry myself beyond that distinction, whatever my twisted heart tells me.

[rowens]

I responded, but it didn't manifest.

[rowens]

I'm trying to read the message that happens when I respond. But even that seems standoffish with me.