[stylist] Poem - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" - Finalish Draft

[William L Houts]

HI Jackie Lee,

Once again, I'm so pleased and honored to have won your approval with my 
work.  I say "work", as we all do, but in many ways it's more like play  
--that's often the kind of experience I have while writing.  The poet 
voice in my head and the writing voice afterward are very dry and cool, 
all business, but it's like they're dry and cool skate punks or 
something:  avoid this, jump that, circle round the other.

As far as I know, I made up the word "untellable", but I may have read 
it somewhere, I'm not sure.

I'm not sure where the asterisks came from, as I copied and pasted the 
poem from the draft in my poetry folder, and there's not a single 
asterisk on it.  Mighty peculiar, but then that's how things are at my 
house, you have no idea and you wouldn't believe me if I told you.



--Bill





On 7/9/2015 9:22 AM, Jackie Williams via stylist wrote:
> Bill,
> Is this the right word? Untellable.
> I would benefit from you writing a note after your poems that says: "About
> this poem," which suggests the motivation and meaning of the poem as Poem a
> Day always does with their poems. I usually do not read it until I have
> given a try at understanding, but then, when I read it, the meaning shines
> through.
> I have to tell you that your introduction to your poems fascinates me as
> much as your poems themselves. Example: today, I was kind of appalled at how
> clunky it was, and set out to break
> its crooked bones so I could reset them again with, it is hoped, more
> patience and expertise.
> Incidentally, I agreed with Chris's comments about your short poem with all
> of the astericks. With JAWS it interfered with any understanding even with
> many readings.
>
> Jackie Lee
>
> Time is the school in which we learn.
> Time is the fire in which we burn.
> Delmore Schwartz	
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of William L
> Houts via stylist
> Sent: Wednesday, July 08, 2015 10:07 AM
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List; kempiro at yahoo.com
> Cc: William L Houts
> Subject: [stylist] Poem - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" - Finalish
> Draft
>
>
>
>
> Hello Friends,
>
> Here's an almost complete revision of a poem I posted here maybe eight
> or nine months ago.  I received a number of comments, almost all of them
> useful and to the point, then set it aside.  Sometimes I do that, just
> let things age for a while so I'm not quite as ego-driven about the
> damned thing.  A good thing, too, because when I looked at this one
> today, I was kind of appalled at how clunky it was, and set out to break
> its crooked bones so I could reset them again with, it is hoped, more
> patience and expertise.  Anyway, here it is; comments welcome as always.
>
>
> --Bill
>
>
> ---
>
> *Close Encounters of the Third Kind *
>
> /"Encounters"/crucible heart:
>
> Not that truth incarnate ark,
>
> singing, bringing our captured crewmen
>
> to earth again, forty years after abduction,
>
> but coming home wise if staggered
>
> white with untellable answers.
>
> No: it's that terrible, gorgeous scene
>
> in the embattled countryside home
>
> where the starfolk lay their light-siege,
>
> sending scorching demands through the vents:
>
> O remember that five note song,
>
> that call from the small black-eyed
>
> seraphs, so trumpet bright and fierce,
>
> setting mother and child at odds,
>
> his toys themselves climbing to life, crying
>
> come,O come, you brother, you son
>
> while mother must not, must not lose her Barry
>
> to stark ferocious angels,
>
> who brook no mere mother's rage, their sage enchantment
>
> voiced five tone bright, their scorching light
>
> surging through cracks as Barry
>
> is birthed through the dog door, earth to mystery air,
>
> loosed from house and awakened toys
>
> to sky home, a child's top flying,
>
> while thwarted mother shrieks below,
>
> until they land at the tower,
>
> release a boy joyous for secrets,
>
> for mother, for deep aching earth.
>
> Years later he'll tell of singing blue spheres,
>
> of star folk free as light,
>
> and of rooms where time itself dozed,
>
> benign as an uncle.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>


-- 


"Oh, Sophie!  Whyfore have you eated all de cheeldren?"