A Poet's Alphabet <continued> J is for the joy of writing. As if there were such a thing! The truth is that writing is joyless, at least for me, for when I think of my happiest moments, not one occurred while I was writing. J is for jasmine, for the sweet torment of being overcome by its scent. I remember how it was when I was young: when twilight would give way to darkness, I would lose myself among the jasmine's yellow stars. And I would drift in a senuous version of the galaxy, always further and further away. That was joy, that drifting away. K is for Kafka, and the authority of his peculiar realism. In the first paragraph of "The Metamorphosis," the inexplicable has happened. Gregor Samsa wakens to find himself transformed into a gigantic insect. Our astonishment is immediately tempered by the narrator's calm as he describes the "new" Gregor, for he is much more interested in having us visualize Gregor than in having us feel anything towards him. Over the course of the story, as Gregor disintegrates, our feelings for him increase - somewhat. But in the beginning we only know that Gregor has undergone a bizarre transformation. It is not just that he felt like an insect or that his waking was an illusion and he was still asleep in one of his uneasy dreams. He was in fact an insect. The story's power depends on our acceptance of this singular truth. If Gregor screamed on first seeing his new body, we would immediately cease to believe in him. It would indicate that he knew or felt the extent of his misfortune, when actually his misfortune had only just begun. Kafka's methodical, dispassionate description of Gregor, which sets the tone as well as the terms of the story, makes it very hard for the reader to reverse - even if he should want to - the story's outrageous premise. It would be too much work. The facts insist that whatever doubts we have about what happened are bound to be groundless. We are safer, for the moment, if we believe in Gregor's misfortune than if we did not - for if we did not, what would we believe in? There would be no story, and what is almost as bad - no universe that accommodates the unexpected. L is for lake. I prefer the ocean and some of the rivers I've seen, but for writing I like the manageable water of lakes. A lake is a more flexible prop. It doesn't demand the respect of the ocean, which compels us to fairly predictable reponses; that is, we too easily slip into feelings of awe or peace or whatever. Nor does it tease us with hints of the infinite. A lake can be made to fit what the poem's topography demands. Rivers will generally run through a poem, or carry it along, and they tend to resist formal containment, which is why they are so frequently (but mistakenly) likened to life. They also tend to be shallow, a feature which might be equated with life as well, but not with poetry. So, for a body of water, give me a lake, a great lake or even a salt lake, where water can be still, where reflection is possible, where one can kneel at the edge, look down, and see oneself. It is an old story. <To be continued.... > -- ○ ╭╭╮╭╮╭╮╮ ＊ ｏ │╯│╰││╰│ ↗↗ 。 ╰╮││││╮│ ╳╳ ∥▎▍╰╯╯╰╯╰╰╯▌╱▊ s.i.n.c.e ∥▎▍╭╮╮╭╮╭╭╮▌﹨▊﹍﹎ ﹡1981 --

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