Digging The Soils, Sifting The Stones

16 Jul


Boots Of Chinese Leather


Here's a nasty little marble I sifted from the dark nameless pits of those old lost files I've written about elsewhere, dated February 27, 1993. Aaah, the memories, the exciting clarity from the early days at AOL, offering up a short critical blip on the screen from someone identifying himself as the ChromePoet. If mem'ry serves this young cyperpoet hailed from Arlington, VA. Those were sharp crisp hours in labor of a brand new adventure.

Wonder if he ever kept a copy. Yes, we've all summoned its sentiments before, but don't we just love a good repeat during the scowling evenings of summer gone mad with poetry and politics that never please but only chew up into bits to be found washed on beaches and sandlots at the foot of mountains long after we've decided none of it matters as much as a soft smile, a warm confidence of eyes, a gentle wave? Quantify, qualify. Digging the soils, sifting the stones...

I see now there are many ChromePoets listed on the exchanges. Not worth my time to locate the man, but I did very much at the time and even now appreciate this early piece of his.

Seems to be many people in the world who are willing to tell us what is and what is not poetry. There’s the “if it ain’t Marxist, it ain’t poetry” crowd. Wonder how they’re feeling these days. Then there is the meter and form adherents marching to a Western Drum. It goes on and I’m not that current (check the Marxist comment), but I think that Robert Graves comes closest. He quotes a critic who points out that great poetry evokes a physical response to the insight and image.

In other words, if it makes some guy hard, brings tears to the eyes of a girl-friend, causes an environmentalist to gasp or causes an attack of inarticulate grunts, growls and gnashes in the day of a Republican, it’s probably poetry. If no one feels so much as a 1.5 volt tickle, it’s most likely poetastry.


© 2007 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""