“My songs are written with the kettle drums in mind / a touch of any anxious color…with a melodic purring line of descriptive hollowness”
Leave it to Dylan to describe his art better than anyone else.
About poetry we can only utter half truths.
“The medium of poetry isn’t language, really; its human loneliness, a loneliness that poets, having received it themselves from earlier poets, transfer to their readers. Like bees in a honeycomb, writers and reader experience isolation and solitude communally and collaboratively.”
–from Dan Chaisson’s review of Olena Davis’s new book of poems in The New Yorker, December 8, 2014
Chaisson gets his underlying idea from Harold Bloom who says that poets create an “otherness” such that loneliness is “created and alleviated at once.”
I’m not sure I agree with this narrow definition. However, and without getting too far into the weeds, I would add that our frenetic culture has given the idea of loneliness a bad rap.
Art is not a mirror to reflect the world but a hammer with which to shape it.
“Poetry is a deep inner calling in man; from it came liturgy, the psalms, and also the content of religions. The poet confronted nature’s phenomena and in the early ages called himself a priest, to safeguard his vocation. . . . Today’s social poet is still a member of the earliest order of priests. In the old days he made his pact with the darkness, and now he must interpret the light.”
The prone Diogenes asks Alexander the Great
to move out of his sunlight, his testicles sagging
and visible, stained with last night’s glorious wine drunk.
As a bee dances first before it dies for its queen,
so the nuclear sunset looks glorious before it reaches you.
Alexander laughs and moves to one side.
An irradiated lily puts its blossoms away for a time
when the air is safe to perfume again.