| Why do this? by John Peterson First printed in periodic letteR 1 as a statement of what Poetic Matrix is about. |
This is the first of a continuing series of letters on the field
of living that I call the Poetic Matrix. A true believer might
claim that poetry was the essential stuff of life but that is true
mostly of poets and some artists and affected lovers and
others.
In an essay in San Diego's poetry monthly No Street Poet's
Voice in the mid-eighties I wrote about poetry that creates "a
place in which we can live" realizing that I had lived inside the
life of some of the poetry that I later read. What is this kind of
poetry that we can write intentionally and that can be "a place
in which we can live?" This question is in part what this
on-going letteR is about. (read that original essay A Place In
Which We Can Live)
Poetry comes in many guises as does all art. Much poetry is
therapeutic for both the reader and the writer; confessions of
past karma; working out the confusions of life in the late age
of america. Some has the power to change the world, for the
good we hope, or at least to lay open the ills of the world. The
poetry written around the Gulf War did more I suspect to
expose to our soulfulness the error of that war than could
even be imagined. This kind of poetry must continue. But still
there is a kind of poetry that when read or heard or felt is just
that, a feeling that is a strange awakening both to what is and
to what is possible. For what is, we nod in recognition and
breath into it. For what is possible, we sit and muse on it and
hence, open a place in our being for it to grow. This is the
poetry that is
"a place in which we can live" and it is this that I am mostly
interested in, but of course the other kinds of poetry get us on
the road to this place and we will look at them as well from
time to time.
of living that I call the Poetic Matrix. A true believer might
claim that poetry was the essential stuff of life but that is true
mostly of poets and some artists and affected lovers and
others.
In an essay in San Diego's poetry monthly No Street Poet's
Voice in the mid-eighties I wrote about poetry that creates "a
place in which we can live" realizing that I had lived inside the
life of some of the poetry that I later read. What is this kind of
poetry that we can write intentionally and that can be "a place
in which we can live?" This question is in part what this
on-going letteR is about. (read that original essay A Place In
Which We Can Live)
Poetry comes in many guises as does all art. Much poetry is
therapeutic for both the reader and the writer; confessions of
past karma; working out the confusions of life in the late age
of america. Some has the power to change the world, for the
good we hope, or at least to lay open the ills of the world. The
poetry written around the Gulf War did more I suspect to
expose to our soulfulness the error of that war than could
even be imagined. This kind of poetry must continue. But still
there is a kind of poetry that when read or heard or felt is just
that, a feeling that is a strange awakening both to what is and
to what is possible. For what is, we nod in recognition and
breath into it. For what is possible, we sit and muse on it and
hence, open a place in our being for it to grow. This is the
poetry that is
"a place in which we can live" and it is this that I am mostly
interested in, but of course the other kinds of poetry get us on
the road to this place and we will look at them as well from
time to time.
Photo by Kiirsti Peterson
"...discover the poetic matrix
which underlies poetry, art, and
daily living. ...access new and
magical entrances into the poetic
experience."
- from the Taoist Sanctuary of
San Diego brochure on a class
titled Meditation and the Poetic
Matrix
which underlies poetry, art, and
daily living. ...access new and
magical entrances into the poetic
experience."
- from the Taoist Sanctuary of
San Diego brochure on a class
titled Meditation and the Poetic
Matrix
| sierra poem i love it when the sun shows under clouds low on the horizon making scrawled patterns on the foothills violet mountains lifted up behind i see green in that diffuse light i saw it that way once behind my eyes still the poem only gets close sometimes i have to stop and look and feel my nerves excite spreading across my body letting in emerald dark green earth purple liquescent yellow sun blowing light across granite outcropping into red grey thunderheads breath deep and do not forget if it's a good poem find the thing it says and have it john |