Opening Line
April 20 2014


Even old poets
are full of promise.

Because there is nothing chronological
in taking delight
in creation.
And fresh eyes, trained on the world

still dance,

in the dim light of frailty
shine just as bright.

The laugh-lines
deeply etched in his face
are the residue of practice, not age.
The art of being a child
is his discipline,
no less a regimen
than the ascetic, the monk
the samurai.

While the craft of words
is the muscle he's learned
to hone;
language as taut
as the stone-age patriarch,
fit as a welterweight.
Because good poetry
is all lean, no fat;
its substance
matters less than its space.

Although in late middle age
he permits himself
more sentimentality
than the angry young man,
writes sentences
with beginnings and ends,
sometimes tending to ramble.

Too old
to be precocious, anymore;
but the opening line
on an immaculate page
is just as promising,
offering
to accompany you
without taking you by the hand.
Like cracking open the sky,

a shaft of light

slanting off thunderclouds.
Or too high to see down,

climbing hand-over-hand

forking your way out
to the thinnest branch.

The same expectant thrill.
As electric as sex
as wired as lust,
as hopeful
as falling in love.

There is a lot of this, in literary criticism: the promising young poet, the best 30 under 30, the old soul in a young body. I started writing relatively recently, but in my late 40s. So in late middle age, am I still a "young" poet? Or, as so much in our culture, does being of a certain age make one less worthy of attention?

There is a good argument to be made that we may be more ferociously creative in our youth. It seems to be true that Nobel laureates in science did their best work before the age of 40. On the other hand, many continued to shine long after. In poetry, the explosive originality may burn out, but I think the craft of writing improves with time and practice. Anyway, the essence of poetry is to see things as if for the first time; a discipline which keeps one young, whatever one's chronological age.

One thing that does not dim is the thrill of the first tentative line on a blank page, the excited feeling of expectancy and possibility and infinite creative power; that is, as long as you have the confidence to just put it down and riff, and as long as you're willing to fail. You are never too old for poetry, when all it takes is a piece of paper and the strength to hold a pen. Or simply a tongue, and a willing amanuensis. Or just a good memory.

In "offering/ to accompany you/ without taking you by the hand", the "you" is the reader. (The voice changes from "he" to "you", directly addressing the reader. So it should be clear; but I'm not sure it will be read as a personal "you", as opposed to a more colloquial version of the 3rd person "one".) Just as I said earlier in "sometimes tending to ramble", this is the hardest part for me: writing too much; patronizing the reader by thinking I have to do all of the work. The most satisfying poetry to read is when the writer gives you just enough to point your imagination in the right direction, and then lets you do the rest. The power is in what isn't said -- in the space between the words. So the poet accompanies you; but without narrowing your vision, without all the wordiness and the hand-holding. In this way reading becomes a creative act as well: the reader as the poet's collaborator and accomplice. The real truth in this becomes clear in how varied readings can be. People will find all sorts of things in my poetry I never imagined, let alone intended. (And, as I've said before, I'm never shy about taking credit! While it also makes me wonder if I've failed. Was I that unclear and ambiguous??)

The rest of that stanza is as much about poetry in general as it is about opening lines. The first image tries to convey something akin to cracking open the lid of a black box full of light in a dark room: a sense of sudden illumination; of the heavens opening. And the second gets at ambiguity: the idea of all the possibilities suggested by a well-written line, and the reader choosing where to follow. There is also the implication of faith: making the investment in starting to read that opening line, having trust that the poet will reward you. So it could just as well have been a blindfold, but it ended up being too high to see the ground.

I wonder if the imagery in the first few stanzas seems a bit arbitrary and scattered. There actually is some coherence here, in jumping from an old poet with cataracts to a samurai to some fit hunter/gatherer in Borneo who looks half his age. The unifying thread is body parts: from dimming eyes to a wrinkled face to muscle. And the poem ends with the same sense of physicality. Except here, it's more shocking, because -- like the myth of the "dirty old man" -- conflating sex and old age is not only unexpected, but somewhat discomfiting.

A poem about writing poetry. Which might seem more like navel-gazing than legitimate poetry; and certainly not a topic you can too often return without appearing to have nothing much to say! But I think it will reward the attentive reader, even one who has never tried to write even a line of his own.