Poetry Howls
When I first heard of “poetry howls,” I said to myself, “how sad”; is poetry meant to wake the dead or liven the living (though I’ve read of the living dead)? haven’t we enough noise around to confound and confuse a universe of smaller sounds, en train thoughts, low sung birds? haven’t we sufficient “icy pandemonium” (in S. Weil’s words)?
I would propose “poetry whispers” instead; of poets living, of poets dead, sharing a find, perhaps one supposed all spent, a jewel borrowed, or one discovered in a rent of the Self. And if unable to express epics lying buried within, begin by sharing a briefer line that – who knows? – may become the wine that loosens another’s tongue.
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