The inspiration of the poet has always been a subject of debate throughout history. You know, Plato wanted the poets out of his Republic, because they couldn’t be trusted - unreliable in thought. Poets have long been thought magical and as much as I want to deny this - there is some truth therein. Let me explain.
I recently re-watched this Dylan interview from about 10 or so years ago with Mike Wallace of 60 Minutes. I’ll have to write a long post with all my Dylan stories. I have so many. But here, let me just dwell on Robert’s own words, sincerely spoken in this clip.
He seems at a loss at how he ever wrote his great, early songs. I sympathize. But I don’t think it is as magical as he suggests, though it may be , I may be wrong.
I remember my mentor Irving Layton relating to me how he ran into a restaurant screaming for a pencil - fearful of forgetting his poem “The Swimmer”. Many poets have been through the same kind of trauma. I say “trauma” because it is such, the words, such beautiful words come and then they’ll be gone on a dime. And that’s tragedy and it exacts trauma on its victim.
I had a similar experience, actually many. But the one I remember most is fast walking back, chanting the words over and over again, trying to get home after soccer practice in high school. I’d been overcome with some words. I couldn’t let them go. So I repeated them until in the door and able to add them to my notebook. Here they are, now some 45 years old.
All that I love
like all that I know
just a handful of daisies
picked before fall’s first snow.Little matters, matter little
Desire the unanswered authentic riddle
We often wonder about these words that come to us out of nowhere, us poets. It’s a kind of bewitching thing. I’ve had it all my life, these words still come to me out of seemingly nowhere.
I believe it is through a sensitivity to sound and meaning, a phonetic sensibility. Sound and fury, signifying everything.
In English we say, “a thought came to me”. We don’t say, I created a thought. In many other languages it is the same. A thought came to me. It’s as if we don’t create our own thoughts, we just tap into something. Like Sheldrake’s cloud, morphic resonance.
Words come to us, we don’t create them. They aren’t inside us. We are only a vessel for their own use and livelihood.
I recommend all to read once in your life some Koestler, on this subject. He really sheds such insight into the creative process with his many books touching on this topic. For example, his Act of Creation. Read the chapter “Thinking Aside”. So much of the creative, poetic process, the genius of a poet is, about relaxing, not thinking directly and letting the doors of perception open. Being vulnerable to the signals of the universe. As Koestler also illuminates, it’s also a key to scientific leaps and discoveries.
Myself, I’ve felt the same as B.D. Looking back on some of my writing. But also, I still feel that on a dime, I can tap into the same stream, flux, flow that brings words to the surface and makes deep meaning visible.
A few months ago I spent time in Vegas. To visit the Grand Canyon but also to just meet people. My soul needs “the encounter” as the French say. Played a lot of poker, the best way to nakedly meet others. One night, winning big, I went to the bar outside my hotel (motel) in the Arts District near Freemont. I always stay out of the plastic, phony zoo show of the new Vegas. Anyway, outside the ReBar. I threw some bills into an empty guitar case and sang for 3 straight hours. The two guys on guitar were cool, they were 18-19, couldn’t play worth shit but they could hold a steady strumming together. I sang and sang. Big crowd gathered. Words just didn’t stop, a fountain of water running out in delight. Oh, I did get arrested, but that’s another story. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. More poetic research.
It is like that with me, and I’m not saying I’m any Bob. However, I do understand the mystery that one must stand numbed against - not knowing where these words issue from.
And it’s been like that all my life. I’ve learned to turn the tap off. But sometimes, I let it go - themwords n thoughts pour forth. Usually on my long runs, usually after a few pastis. Usually early mornings, waking up … possessed. That’s all I can call it.
So Bob, don’t worry about where things come from or go to. Just that you allowed yourself to be a vessel through which others might find a toehold of significance while climbing up the mountain of life. That’s all that matters.
Next post, I’ll share some live poetry, just a backtrack and speaking, channeling. Unlike my young self, I’m not longer running to write everything down. The ego fades. Well all be forgotten, even dear, unshaven Shakespeare. He too. But the words, the meaning, they’ll remain and we’ll have given them more lifeblood in our process to tapping into them, nurturing them, giving them a few moments of light and vitamin D.
OH shit was going to not do this but whatdahell. Just an automatic poem to end. I’ll just type and let autocorrect do its thing. For these are words where phantoms bring their baggy eyes and golden rings and leaden nights….
All Across The Unwatched Towers
There must be some kind of way
from here to there
said the con man to the thief.
I’m not really sure,
said someone in the choir,
in relief.
Housewives, they read my poetry
Farmers kill my pigs
None of them will speak the truth
None of them will drink my wine
The rest is just belief.
There’s no reason to be fighting
The con man quietly spoke.
There are so many like us here
Who feel and wear the same yoke.
But you and I, we’ve twisted that
and this is our sorted fate
So let us talk less softly now
the hours can’t wait.
All along the unwatched towers
businessmen sell their wives,
while all the poets weep for
homeless guys at the zoo.
Well, uh, outside next to us
A wild cat begins to purr
Armies are approaching
The basic violence begins to stir.
All across the unwatched towers.
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The Magic Of Our Minds