Spellbound
I never thought I could write the surrealist poem. The metaphysical poem. As much as I love the work of Simic or Jose Hernandez Diaz, my own work has always seemed too tethered to the earth. When I write one, it always comes as a surprise.
When I was younger, I read a lot of Anne Rice. It was racy material for someone with my puritan evangelical Christian background. I read all the Vampire Chronicles, discovering Anne's affinity for New Orleans.
Later, after graduating college, Anne Rice walked away from her Catholic faith in a very public fashion for the day—via blog post. I think she might have been the first deconstructed Christian I witnessed. I didn't know you could even do that. David Bazan would follow a few years later. And then—even later—me.
Last week, I was in New Orleans for the first time to attend a work retreat. And I honestly didn't do much outside the hotel. I went down to Bourbon Street once on the last night. I didn't do the walking tours or Cafe du Monde or try and find Anne Rice's house or her grave. I'll save all that for next time.
But I found a poem.
Today's Poem
I never thought I could write the surrealist poem. The metaphysical poem. As much as I love the work of Simic or Jose Hernandez Diaz, my own work has always seemed too tethered to the earth. When I write one, it always comes as a surprise.
In fact, in order for it to happen, I need to actively stop myself from tethering the poem to the earth, to reality. I think I do this because it's where I tend to find the most truth.
But there are other truths to be had. Some poets live in that metaphysical world, a framework where almost anything can happen. And while such a world often feels too open for me, like an endless screen of Netflix options, when I let myself sit in the strange feeling and marinate—something good happens.
It's easier when it comes to me in a dream. Those are freebies. Forging these kinds of poems—for me, at least—is harder.
