Coming Around the Corner

In November
There was something I wanted to say
I remember
But no one would listen anyway
So I forgot
And I cannot remember today
But I am not
Important and it does not matter
What I say today or any day at all
Memory seems a curse
I am small and was forgotten in the fall

Things go from bad to worse
I cannot remember anything
Nor can I bear to now
I only hope that summer will bring
Sweet mindlessness somehow
I will lie in the sun
And forget what was done
In November
Since waiting just out of sight impatiently
Is December
Coming around the corner for you and me

+Steven Curtis Lance



Copyright MMV

ummmm....?

If you are asking a question about the poem, I can tell you that, on one level, "November" represents the election and re-election of Bush, while "December" represents death.

Through voting irregularity, I found out after the fact that my vote--against Bush--was not counted, and then I always wonder about life and death, my own and everyone's.

If you are the same Unknown who told me that I still have a lot to learn, you are indeed correct; I know that better than anyone. That is why I write all these poems: I am trying to learn, to expand such consciousness as I have.

No one is forcing you to read my poetry; indeed, The Secret Place is my personal board, one of the little rewards of my support of this site over the years. If you do not like my poetry, as it would seem, you needn't read it; it always only seems to upset you. It is not written to upset you, but as exercise that I might learn; I only seek to light a spark in the dark of my ignorance.

I mean no harm nor offense; I only seek to learn, to grow, and maybe even make the world a little bit better.

I wish you peace.

Love,

+Stevie

In this poem, "November" refers to the American presidential election, whereas "December" refers to death. While the latter may be obvious, the former might be less so. As a disabled person who votes from home by mail, I voted--for change and against Bush and the war--only to find out later that my vote and those of many other so-called "Permanent Absent Voters" was not counted, through some unexplained irregularity. So my vote was not counted, I am at least halfway through my mortal span and in poor health, therefore I wonder about political and existential questions and write poetry about them.

It has been argued that my "meter" is somehow "off." This misunderstanding arises because people are expecting and seeking and are used to so-called "poetic feet," and they are, instead, finding counted syllables.

As a "savant," as they call freaks like me, I count. I count everything in general, the syllables of my poetry in particular. My poems are filled with numbers and numerical meanings which are not obvious at first reading. I do not consciously apply poetic feet or traditional meter; I count syllables. The reason my poems rhyme as they do is that, in my case, rhyme is a function analogous to counting; I tie everything together, so that the poem is woven. As in weaving, where they speak of woof and warp, the two parameters analogous to those horizontal and vertical functions are, in my poetry, counted syllables determining the length of the line and the rhyme which connects the lines in verticality.

Therefore every poem of mine is a matrix of counted syllables and rhyme; this is the structure which bears the ideas which I seek to express, the matrix the vessel, the ideas the wine.

I mention these issues not in answer to my friends and fellow authors, but in answer in general to criticisms received in my Poetry Journal and on poetry boards. One wag offered this gem:

"lance, you still have a lot to learn"

Of course I do! That is why I seek so relentlessly, that I might find. And I do find, if slowly; I grow a little every day, come one halting, faltering step closer to the end of all things at the end of every day. Whether one calls it death or enlightenment, whether it is both or neither, my life is process, and the train never stops, until it is "there." "Are we there yet?" No, but inevitably we will be. Therefore I seek to make the trip meaningful, and to "improve the time," as my Grandma said.

Thank you for reading these words of "explanation," exercise in futility though they may be--it is manifestly impossible to ever "explain" art: art is, by its very nature, inexplicable--and for your beautiful support of me and of my work. Were it not for the few people with whom I connect through this admittedly-eccentric poetry of mine, I would be utterly alone, and life would seem meaningless to me. Thank you, my few and faithful readers; you and I share a transcendentally intimate relationship.

Love,

+Stevie

Fiat lux!

Savant.