The Poet's Heart

The Poet's Heart is not altogether like the heart of the nonpoet. There are no musical works entitled "The Nonpoet's Heart," whereas I have heard of more than one musical works called "The Poet's Heart." This always invokes the image of a heathen sacrificial rite, does it not? Fortunately, that is not the matter at hand, as heathen sacrificial rites make me queasy, which is a very strange word when one thinks deeply on it. "Queasy," that is.

Queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy queasy.

Non sequitur...

I dreamed recently I met Erik Satie. We had a wonderful time. It is sort of like the time I dreamed I met Edvard Grieg. Of course, it is sort of disappointing to wake up on these instances.

The Poet's Heart has a special substance to it, lacking in the hearts of nonpoets. I believe that this substance is a deadly poison. When a nonpoet with a Poet's Heart fails to write poetry or engage in some other such Art, the poison will likely build up and kill that poor individual. This deadly poison, of course, is what I refer to as longing. The word "longing," when it comes out of me, does so ambiguously (though not androgynously, mind you; it is pure masculinity), in the sense that if one (a rational one) believes it could mean something, it probably does. Longing can be drawn out by the making of art, and it is for this purpose that I insist on making art. That is, I am full of longing, and I have no idea what to do with it.

Thus I became an Artist, specializing in the Arts of Mediocre Music and Pedestrian Poetry. Of course, this is a dangerous pursuit, but well worth it, I think. I have made three poems and numerous pieces of music, I tell you, and I am a better and healthier being for having done so.