October 5th, 2000

Loon

OK ... now we'll see how this goes ...

As I mentioned in this space previously, I had "given up writing" for a couple of years due to having gotten into a nasty rut where it seemed to me that I was writing the same damn poem over and over and over again. Sort of like Zuul's never-ending defeatism and self-loathing in his journal, but in a series of 40-line poems that pretty much used the same words and images, just reshuffled to reflect the current shape of my misery. Fun, huh? Anyway, it occurred to me that, from a N.L.P. perspective, this was only concretizing these thought patterns and reinforcing them on a near-daily basis and that if I didn't stop the underlying realities weren't going to change much either. Now, I can't say that I'm any less of a pitiful failure NOW than I was then, but at least I thought I'd give the writing (which I have missed from an ego-identity standpoint ... I have spent so much of my life being "a published poet" that I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around being "an ex-writer") another chance.

One obvious difference is the idea of putting these up here "for all to see" ... in the past, I wrote A LOT ... typically 250 poems a year. My publishing pattern was to put out a very small (30 copies) edition of a comb-bound xeroxed volume of the whole output of the year, and then every two years select from these the "top 10%" or so ... eventually whittling it down to about 48 poems to go in a book. While some of the poems that didn't make the cut for the books might have shown up in Eschaton's quarterly literary mag, The Terminal Journal, for the most part, 90% of what I wrote was never seen by more than a handful of lucky (?) folks.

I have been planning (for quite a while, actually) on having an "archive" site up that will have ALL my poety (some 2-3,000 pieces at this point) up (heck, you can even get cool promo items for it HERE ... talk about ego issues!), and this might just get me off my butt on that project, who knows!

Anyway, here for your consideration (OK, so imagine Rod Serling saying that) is the first fruit of my new venture back into the world of poetry...


                    AND IS AGAIN


                    so far away
                    the trail so strange
                    we have set distant
                    and become drift
                    this then returns
                    but without form
                    nothing we can touch
                    and only know

                    too many cords
                    lines of binding
                    too many threads
                    weaving back through time
                    have we changed anything
                    by this silence?
                    have we shifted
                    or sought stagnation?

                    no one will know
                    the cost of this
                    no one suspect
                    how great a risk
                    was ventured in the game
                    to take away
                    controlling hands
                    and the programming voice

                    but what has changed?
                    is any new?
                    has darkness lightened
                    or only turned
                    to deeper routes
                    to reach us yet?
                    we feel its tendrils
                    and fear its grasp

                    and now, to this,
                    wider still...
                    more naked,
                    so exposed
                    taking refuge
                    and blasting it apart
                    burning brightly
                    in conflagration's stand


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                10/04/2000

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp
 
 
Loon

More, more, I'm still not satisfied!

Oh, now this was interesting ... I used to write in the late afternoon when I was in the P.R. biz (usually the last thing I did before leaving the office was write my poem for the day), and I used to write late at night after that (usually fighting sleep). The following just sort of spurted out around lunch time today ... a very unusual time for me to be writing!

Got one other poetry-oriented thing done today ... I have been looking all over for these little tiny notebooks I used to get ... they were about the size of a business card, staple-bound through the spine, with "leatherette" covers. I loved those since they could go in ANY pocket and not be a bother ... all the notebooks I've been able to find at at least twice the size, and most of them have spiral bindings on them (oh, yeah, that's real comfy to carry around). Well, I had the big DOH! realization that I have a paper cutter, I have a saddle stitcher, I can fold paper, so all I needed was supplies. About $3.50 and an hour later I had sixteen nice little 48-page 4.25" x 2.75" grid-lined notebooks! Now I will always be ready to catch those ephemeral bits of brilliant phraseology that might otherwise slip back into the aether.

Anyhoo ... here's today's poem:


                    ONCE MORE THE MAGE


                    sought out
                    the missing acts
                    the absent tools
                    the unlearned stance
                    sought within
                    to realign
                    to form again
                    what's left behind

                    our systems falter
                    go for naught
                    amid the struggle
                    and our search
                    too many markers
                    stand amid
                    the swirling chaos
                    and draw at once

                    this dissolves
                    the focused self;
                    these vectors drag
                    at anchor points
                    shifting, distorting,
                    making unwhole,
                    topographies melt
                    and subdivide

                    in this corruption
                    invokes the storm
                    speaking words
                    unheard through wind
                    yet uttered still
                    upon the planes
                    where power bides
                    awaiting call

                    then the wielding
                    the gestures made
                    as all returns
                    and snaps the lines
                    out of the past
                    sweeping clear
                    the madness
                    and the empty age


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                10/05/2000

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp