| Muses Review - Poetry - Winter 2006 |
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| Christopher Porpora's poems: |
| Christopher Porpora, Poet from New York |
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| From: "christopher porpora" To: admin@musesreview.org Date: Wed, 01 Feb 2006 ------------------------------------------------------ Christopher Porpora's Background of 3 poems: "Two Poems" and "The New Poetry" had similar beginnings, though written at different periods, in different styles. The genesis for both was an increasing frustration with the contemporary state of poetry- a frustration with much of the nonsense usually surrounding certain (but prevalent) unbearable discussions of poetry. The form of "All That Needn't Be Known" was dictated mysteriously as it was written. ------------------------------------- Two Poems by Christopher Porpora Source: Becoming, (2005), p. 1 Of the first, the scholar and critic both agreed: Sublime content, precise form- perfectly married Of the latter, the two's opinions would not part: Such simplistic drivel makes a mockery of the Art A work-weary soul found the two by the road And wondered, What is this the wind has blowed? Of the first, he inhaled the chill, biting air, And confused, unmoved, resumed his despair Of the second, he no longer felt alone, And clutched the poem the whole way home ------------------------------------------------------- Editor's rating: (not yet rated) Readers' rating: (not yet rated) ----------------------------------------------- The New Poetry by Christopher Porpora Source: Becoming (2005), page 26 I. Don't ever rhyme. It's archaic. Do something new. II. Avoid cliché: love, longing, loss. III. Edit, edit. Include nothing which might suggest a past something. IV. Stay elusive. Leave the reader uncertain that anything has happened at all. -------------------------------- Editor's rating: (not yet rated) Readers' rating: (not yet rated) ___________________________________________ |
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| All That Needn't Be Known by Christopher Porpora Source: Becoming, (2005), page 70 There is something so sad, secretive, about the cello suites, especially those in the minor keys. Strange that I should be listening to them while thinking of you; you would be listening to something colourful-- something Spanish, or Italian. No, I'm not quite sure where Bach came from (I can hear you asking me); perhaps some place called Cothen? Still, it's better not to know. The music is familiar nonetheless; too much detail demystifies. And this reminds me, of the dream I had about you last night-- the dream I told you very little about. Yes, I told you about the house you were living in, with the tiles and the marble and the stones and jewels embedded. I must have mentioned the magnificent pool in the yard as well. And then about when I was roaming the great yard, looking for you, but all in vain. No one had seen you. If I told you anything more, it was not much. I wanted to tell you about the rest (in your eyes, I could see that you wanted to know), when I found you at last. But how could I tell you about the flames, that warm water, the steam rising between us, and your flickering glances through that foreign fog? No, there were no words that were spoken, no sounds. In one of the flashes, heavy and soft, dull, I could see you smiling -- it was exquisite, like nothing I had ever seen. Squinting in the dim light, I could see that you were wearing black eyeliner, like kohl through a veil of mist; or was it the humid dark? ---------------------------------- Editor's rating: (not yet rated) Readers' rating: (not yet rated) |
