by: Michael McClure
It’s the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me,
That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously—
The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of lemon verbena—
Or to learn rules for the game the sea otters
Play in the surf.
It is these small things—and the secret behind them
That fill the heart.
The pattern, the spirit, the fiery demon
That link them together
And pull their freedom into our senses,
The smell of a shrub, a cloud, the action of animals
—The rising, the exuberance, when the mystery is unveiled.
It is these small things
That when brought into vision become an inferno.
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Okay, so I love living with mystery. I think that's why I'm a poet. It's all about the searching after something illusive, whether it's God or a sand dollar or Bigfoot. That's the true joy of writing.
I guess I've never tried to define poetry before. There's something very temporal about a poem. It exists in a moment of time. If it's a good poem, then that moment is captured forever. Like an insect in amber. Reading the poem is like a visit to the Smithsonian or the Museum of Natural History. It's the Hope Diamond or a stuffed buffalo. A poem brings something alive. It's breath and blood.
Saint Marty is always on the hunt.
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| Painting by Bryan Hercules Hart |
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