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My Muse Left No Forwarding Address A writing crisis, nothing rare, one more humdrum conundrum: in my grandiloquent poetry, I strive for cosmic scope and arrive at the final strope, nothing flagged nor revealed save syllable-sagging zeal. Oh, to write with the slabbery, clabbery dazzle of the Irish poets! I long to write a seminal song, reminiscent of the sensual majesty of the Celtic masters. When they wrote, bells chimed and pealed new notes through trembling air. I may aim too high but I'd rather reach for a star, sigh at Marlowe, or write nil than pen sentimental or rhetorical swill. The heart of poetry, for me, lies in sound, and I haven't found the clear blend of phoneme I want to hear. Something like Coltrane....or the mellow pain of Miles. |
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