Sam Hamill: "Ars Poetica"

PREFACE: ARS POETICA

Some say the poem's
best made from natural speech
from the inner life.
I say, That is sometimes true.
The poem's a natural thing.

Some say the poem
should rise into purest song,
a formality,
articulate expression
achieved through complex structures

derived from classics--
which also is true enough.
Let the song arise
as it will.  Learn to revise
the life.  Beware.  Disguises

rise up everywhere:
most dangerously, self-in-
fatuation.  "More
poets fail," Pound declared,
"from lack of character than

from lack of talent."
Some insist the poem is
heaven-sent, claiming
angelic heirs.  The poem,
I believe, is a failure

elevated in-
to triumph, a form of truth
wrought from mortal flesh
and blood that will soon perish,
but which--for one brief moment

or an hour--reveals
the tragic human spirit
in the very act
of imagining itself
cured of the sickness of self.

The poem cannot,
finally, be explained nor
defined.  The true gift
poetry bestows begins
and ends with humility

before the task.  All
the suffering of this world
can be truly felt,
absorbed adn transcended, just
by the act of listening

to that deepest voice
speaking from within.  Forget
hagiography.
All the great masters are dead.
Forget rime and irony.

Forget words, meter,
diction, whole syllabaries--
the literary.
The heart by way of the ear.
What's that you wanted to say?

--SAM HAMILL



from Gratitude,
BOA Editions, Ltd.
Rochester, NY  1998


(This one is for Eric, a very welcome house-guest)

Expressive--of What?

Old clay.

A Twist In Time

Wire art: two pieces, four shots.   I made these one weekend in 1996 at a point in my life between grad school and the rest of it when I didn't think I'd be teaching again.  An octopus and a merman, among others, came out of that angst.  Maybe my first move toward sculpture besides carving pumpkins, decorating Easter eggs, whittling sticks, and playing with random play-doh since childhood.

Clay came later.

Clay: Figures of Speech

Exercises with models: 2008 or 2009, I believe.

Crossley-Holland's 'Leaf-Girl'

LEAF-GIRL

'Round and round the trampled 
ground between the flaming
maple and the black walnut,
and out across the nickel rink 
to the winter warming-hut,
round, round with bounds and 
yells, skips and little rushes 
you chased October leaves.

Curtsy, shout, leap and spin, 
your pale face thin and hair 
haywire, the best red-gold:
so you became the leaves 
you caught. And watching you 
I think I thought there's 
some movement, some pursuit 
best expressing each of us.'

--Kevin Crossley-Holland