Of Poetry.

I'm going to go back a step now and talk about the poem about poetry we were supposed to discover. As many others have found, mine not only related to poetry, but mentioned poetry directly (I got July Mountain, from the late poems).

We live in a constellation
Of patches and of pitches.
Not in a single world,
In things said well in music,
On the piano, and in speech,
As in a page of poetry--
Thinkers without final thoughts
In an always incipient cosmos,
The way, when we climb a mountain,
Vermont throws itself together.

---

A mythology reflects its region. Here
In Connecticut, we never lived in a time
When mythology was possible--But if we had--
That raises the question of the image's truth.
The image must be of the nature of its creator.
It is the nature of its creator increased,
Heightened. It is he, anew, in a freshened youth
And it is he in the substance of his region
Woods of his forests and stone out of his fields
Or from under his mountains.

The second part, I think, is its own untitled poem, but it seems to relate, and I thought it was worth throwing in anyway. But anyway. The "constellation of patches and of pitches" reminded me of an orchestra tuning up, all of those different noises that eventually come together to make a beautiful song, and that's how poetry seems to come together, too, at least when I'm writing it - I take a jumble of ideas and toss them in a bowl, shake vigorously, and then pull out the things that seem to have some sort of connection.

I want to write more poetry.

Anyway, I don't think that I experienced the same epiphany from this experience that Carla and Grace and others did, but I did it at least, and I do see the connection there. Maybe if I read it again once I stop asking questions it will make more sense.