Still.
I can’t quite dispute
the sheer, yet diaphanous force
of the steely beam of just light
you dropped out of a dark cloud,
clonk
on my throbbing knot.
(Head)
It’s a fair cop.
“Coherence” is not really what’s being critiqued
here, but:
a lack of elegance.
Simplicity
is the sprung prong of elegance,
and must be observed. What is present
should be present for a purpose, and serve it.
What is present should be
what would serve in that place best,
the purpose of the whole. Each word
the best right word and none lesser. All
needless words omitted, as per Strunk
& White: all that does not serve, all
that is purposeless,
should be gone to ghost before any other eyes
than author-omniscient’s ever beheld such right,
mighty work.
Elegance
is above all spare, there is nothing extra
in it. Every spar
and strut bears weight,
in such a balanced way
the resulting edifice - rises
as if weightless! Borne up
in the light streaming through
its clear and unstained three-story,
clerestory or howevermany windows.
Now that’s a prose-job! Gotten up
on the populace for the express
purpose of their edification
whether they like it or not!
When you yank out a lead-weighted
sap like that and clap it across the back
of their skull just-so, they can’t help
but drop
like a sack of wet asparagus. Beguiled
by your elegant prose. Bravo,
author!
I won’t say I do it, or have ever done it.
I won’t even say that’s my aim. I will say
I’m a dab hand at blackjack.
My problem is I amble a bit too much. I love
too much
the view and the way, maybe. I love
finding ways out, and tumbling down
off them (it’s a bit of a bluff).
If all I say
does not conflict
or contradict with itself,
within its parts, if the whole
hangs together and is not at internal odds, then this
technically
suffices for coherence.
Incoherence is where no
point is made at all, where
parts are disarrayed
to no discernible aim, OR
where parts actively torpedo
each other to undermine the whole.
Psssh! Psssh! Psssh! BWOOOM
*glub glub glub*
That is not my problem,
though at a cursory examination
- due to the flourish outré
here and all through the oeuvre,
the tell-tale touch of elaboration present,
the as-I-call-it discursory
(portmanteau of “discursive” and
“cursory,” naturally, which means
whatever it suggests) character
of the progress as a whole - it may
be hard to spot the scheme's design.
Too much opulence. The diametric
"other end" of luxury's pole,
from the end at which
elegance simply sits.
There is a design, though, and it does
hold. If it doesn’t I should know the reason
why. I should be surprised to find
the point of direct conflict, pointed out
- surprised and gratified, and grateful
by the way, everywhere curiosity and wonder
are indicated!
No workman even so projectile-workmanlike
as I ever has so perfect a mastery over
his own gaffes and blunders as to doubt
even their possibility. I’m sure
awry and amiss
are not omitted
to perfect degrees
from my self-ostensibly kickass body
- of work that is, which includes
my body and brain, but more vision
and voice held in mind by aim. Yet
in a given piece of ass-kicked,
or slapped, or seized upon
and smothered with kisses
- I kick ass at that, but
call me no "kiss-ass" please
unless you want a smack
and know where, and
are prepared to bear
and bare it without shame,
shamelessly. I am,
though,
reasonably satisfied
in my monstrously critical eye: it hath
its flaws. But it does make a detectable case,
and it does not conflict in itself.
Not habitually, and fair reliably.
It is coherent.
Still. I’d hardly fault the critic whose eye
rests more heavily on those ungainly-to-some
surface deficiencies of style and ornament.
That opulence too profuse to be called tasteful!
This bareback riding of the living language
in a rude display of high-horsemanship too
unruly and indeed, uppity, to be called
"ennobling" to anyone. This ostensible
"super-equinimity" - as if to ride on iron
U's roughshod upon a horse above!
Or making flourish and bucking panache
in as-if a "higher horsemanship"
then the common! "Extraordinary!"
All call it who read that far! But
take it apart! Extra ordinary
is no more and no other than
abnormal!
Indeed, I’d thank such a critic profusely!
I’d offer him or her my shaking hand, fumble
out words of perfect true gratitude - sincerely,
I’d hand them a brimming and wobbling chalice
or goblet (their choice - the vessel with the pestle’s
got a kick to it!), overflowing with bright and
staining libation. Whoops! I done ya proud, there,
sorry.
Always happy to receive criticism. Criticism
is the ape of art, and makes away with it
as if rapaciously - yet the result? In defiance
of all the world’s mores - is a happy and lasting
union! And the baby they (art and critique) together
produce is a monster.
Hi
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