[stylist] Poem -

[Lynda Lambert]

Hi Bill,
I enjoyed reading your poem this morning as I sat in the dark room around 5 
am. I think the time of day and the aloneness of the pre-dawn reading of it 
was just the perfect time to encounter this poem. The others in the house 
this morning are fast asleep, it is just me and the cats here, moving around 
in the dream of my own reality.
It gives me the sense of looking into a surreal painting. You "painted" 
images such as would be encountered in a surreal landscape painting. From 
the first words at the beginning of the poem, I had entered into that world 
as you took me through your experience layer by layer.

It begins "in the dream," which is the perfect entrance into this  surreal 
world. You have given us a place to enter into your own dream by positioning 
yourself (the personna of the poem) in a "canyon of red and earthlike rock." 
I envisioned standing in Colorado at Red Rocks, or a similar place on earth. 
Yet, at the same time, you removed my comfort of being in a familiar place 
when you pair that thought with the reality that we are very far removed 
from what we are seeing and experiencing as you move forward taking us into 
your world.
There is a strong sense of voyeurism and we continue to watch from that 
distance in both place and time. Actually, we have entered into 
timelessness, I felt.
The place you describe is both other-worldly yet in some ways quite 
familiar.  And, I liked the matter-of-fact "voice" as the poet describes the 
dream/reality of the metaphysical space.

I like this poem very much, Bill. You paced it perfectly and have given it 
breath and livingness.  And, you left me with imagery I will not soon forget 
and a question that I can continue to think about as I begin this day in 
November.
You pose the question at the perfect place in this poem. And, it is a deep 
philosophical musing which I liked very much. I think your timing is just 
perfect in this poem. And, I am left with the continuing thought , "Yet 
maybe the cosmos dreams us to each other..." as my day begins.

I look back once again to the title again and again, "Alien." Just what is 
an alien?  I think of what this word means and I continue meditating on the 
thought of who is the "alien!"

I am not sure what you meant in your prelude to the poem when you said it is 
"less literary." Just the fact that it is a poem  (an excellent one, at 
that) gives it literary clothing.  It is the work of a poet with concerns 
and something to say that is meaningful and timely.
I could go on, but I think this poem holds  the very essence of what 
"literary"  means, Bill.  No apologies please, for having a thoughful mind 
and an imaginative spirit in your writing.

Lynda McKinney Lambert

-----Original Message----- 
From: William L Houts via stylist
Sent: Tuesday, November 04, 2014 2:28 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: [stylist] Poem -

HI Bards and Poets,

Been away for some time, I guess.  Finally surfacing after solving some
unusual access problems.  Anyway, hope all here are well and productive,
assuming you want to be.

As for me, the past few months have been extremely productive. Below is
one of my favorites.  It's gone through some revision since I wrote it
this summer, and I think this is the vest version so far.  Also, my work
over the summer has, by design, been aimed at being somewhat less
"literary" in my approach. Comments welcome, as always.


--Bill




---




*Alien*

In the dream, I stood at an

uncountable remove, in some canyon

of red and earthlike rock.

Before me, at twelve unblurred feet

were a couple.They were

not remotely human, and yet

I sensed their minds or something deeper.

they'd neither hands nor heads, and the female

in her had a kind of hollow

into which her mate would go, a pen or roost.

They were boxlike, somehow, with short fur.

And here's the great reveal:

they knew I was there, and didn't mind.

They were peaceful and decent in the most ordinary way:

not saints, yet sacred, earnest folk,

bearing gravity's grip without complaint.

I might go or remain, they seemed to say,

and all would be well. They were light years

away, I think, and suppose they were real enough,

convincing as thunder or suns.

How could you know such things, you say.Poetry's fine,

but we dwell on a rock among rocks

in the black unhomely cold.

Yet maybe the cosmos dreams us to each other

I venture, across the stellar gulfs

that we might abide for dreaming seconds

in the presence of friends both strange

and utterly dear; neighbors or kin like us:

adrift on rocklike rafts in a dark and motherlike sea.


WLH
8/14



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