I think I’ve finished the book. I keep writing new poems that I want to include, but I have to stop somewhere, so I’m stopping now. Maybe. There’s one more poem I might want to include, I’ll have to think about it. Then I get to upload it to my Kindle page, and see what happens to the architecture when that happens. I almost always have to make corrections to the layout to get the pages to look the way I want them to look. I’m not looking forward to that, but hey, maybe I did it right this time. This is the back cover for the book ‘the book of the dead’, vol. 2.
The last poem is a haiku, called ‘Empathy equals Memory
times the Sea of Love, Twice. (E=Mc2) I wrote it in 2015. It’s a mathematical haiku.
One two three four five
six seven eight seven six
five four three two one.
(Five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables).
The book has ended up being 150 pages, which is a good number. The last one was 144. Now I can start the next one.
The basic premise for the poetry is that every syllable is a musical note, and that even when you speak, you sing. If we didn’t, we’d sound like early voice synthesizers from the 70’s, so all speech is musical.
The first thing I had to figure out was that all syllables are not created equal. Stressed syllables are higher notes than unstressed syllables. You really have to write the words as musical notations. I did that with one verse at the back of the previous book, ‘dancing down entropy street’. I’m not a musician, so I got a program that writes musical notes from a computer keyboard to illustrate the idea. In the beginning, I didn’t appreciate this fact, and some of the poetry worked by accident, and some of it didn’t. It took me quite a bit longer than it should have to figure out what I was doing wrong. You can do short ‘songs’, or long ‘songs’. I like longer ones, because they flow better. All poetry is like bonsai. Sometimes you have to wire the branches to make a pleasing shape.
I say poems are like dreams, because you get the emotional truth without necessarily getting the facts. That sounds like I’m saying poems are alternative facts, but I’m not. The truth is the truth. Or maybe your heart has one truth, and your brain, another. Maybe they’re mutually exclusive. Or maybe they’re the opposite sides of the same coin. Either way, they’re metaphors for the real world. Poems to me are also like collages. They’re bits and pieces glued together to make a new image of something, like dreams. I do have underlying themes that come from ‘The Wizard of Oz’, and ‘The Garden of Eden’, and other myths and legends.
If you took all of the water out of the well, there would be a small object at the bottom, a blue butterfly, a wish to be remembered. A wish not to be forgotten. A hand-print on a cave wall, to say, ‘I was here’.
A burning of the clocks. A time machine. A divination of swans. A skeleton dancing in the dark.