Why I Write
As a child I saw everything, learned nothing.
Learned nothing directly, that is, as my mother was
insane and my father had been edited out of the
team picture.
The words, bat out of hell crazy, had not invented
yet. But that’s what it was living with her.
In paradise. On a tropical island with the most amazing
colors: bright and vivid and fraught with a kind of muted terror.
A kind of paradise, with night creatures in it.
Everything before and after that was dull and lifeless.
Even the acting out. The screaming.
Everything after the age of six was some kind of interior
island with dark colors in it. A noir movie with
shadows instead of light, was a colorless dream that
went on and on and on......
What I learned from her was my art. The ability to
make associations, that no one else would ever make,
to see things that weren’t there, weren’t anywhere, and
to make stories and poems out of what was seen:
in The Interiors. The darkness was a hostile, threatening,
strange place, but it was never boring.
Experts say there is a fine line between madness
and creativity. The trick is to maintain your balance
and not fall off the tightrope to land in the place
without light from which there is no escape. I have been
on both sides of that island, and the better one is the one
where the images and colors assault your senses and leave
you almost speechless when confronted with such
unedited beauty.
I have grandchildren now. Their parents are loving and
instruct them, answering questions the children have and
providing information that will lead them to make
discoveries of their own. When our sons were young I
wrote a short book of poems called My Son and I
about a parent whose ambivalence about his imparting
a flawed world view to his child is the major theme.
No matter how hard we try there are always flawed views.
When I see the grand children play and dream and read I have
hope that the darkness can be contained. I write for them now.
An Epithalamion for Marcus and Karen
At dawn on Beaver
Lake the mist
is a cover lifting
off still waters
the loons
will dance on
calling each to each
as they
rise, disappearing
into clouds leaving
only their
laughter behind.
Morning scents are
of trees,
the tall thin pines
that come together
with the wind
knocking wood for
good luck, futures
foretold in
peace, pacific calm,
not so much
unsettled
here as remote,
where the light
makes shadows
into perfect shapes,
splendor a poet
cannot describe.
This is the way
of true love, the way of
the marked
path the anointed
follow and will
cherish all
of their lives together,
be it the shore
of lake
or where the forest
ends the laughter
of loons is
the joy of love
the sanctity of love
they will share
as their hands and
hearts are joined in
marriage. May
they always go in beauty.
Alan Catlin has published well over seventy chapbooks and full-length books of prose and poetry. His most recent full-length books are Asylum Garden: after Van Gogh (Dos Madres), Lessons of Darkness (Luchador Press) and The Blue Hotel (Cyberwit).
He is poetry and review editor of Misfitmagazine.net
As a child I saw everything, learned nothing.
Learned nothing directly, that is, as my mother was
insane and my father had been edited out of the
team picture.
The words, bat out of hell crazy, had not invented
yet. But that’s what it was living with her.
In paradise. On a tropical island with the most amazing
colors: bright and vivid and fraught with a kind of muted terror.
A kind of paradise, with night creatures in it.
Everything before and after that was dull and lifeless.
Even the acting out. The screaming.
Everything after the age of six was some kind of interior
island with dark colors in it. A noir movie with
shadows instead of light, was a colorless dream that
went on and on and on......
What I learned from her was my art. The ability to
make associations, that no one else would ever make,
to see things that weren’t there, weren’t anywhere, and
to make stories and poems out of what was seen:
in The Interiors. The darkness was a hostile, threatening,
strange place, but it was never boring.
Experts say there is a fine line between madness
and creativity. The trick is to maintain your balance
and not fall off the tightrope to land in the place
without light from which there is no escape. I have been
on both sides of that island, and the better one is the one
where the images and colors assault your senses and leave
you almost speechless when confronted with such
unedited beauty.
I have grandchildren now. Their parents are loving and
instruct them, answering questions the children have and
providing information that will lead them to make
discoveries of their own. When our sons were young I
wrote a short book of poems called My Son and I
about a parent whose ambivalence about his imparting
a flawed world view to his child is the major theme.
No matter how hard we try there are always flawed views.
When I see the grand children play and dream and read I have
hope that the darkness can be contained. I write for them now.
An Epithalamion for Marcus and Karen
At dawn on Beaver
Lake the mist
is a cover lifting
off still waters
the loons
will dance on
calling each to each
as they
rise, disappearing
into clouds leaving
only their
laughter behind.
Morning scents are
of trees,
the tall thin pines
that come together
with the wind
knocking wood for
good luck, futures
foretold in
peace, pacific calm,
not so much
unsettled
here as remote,
where the light
makes shadows
into perfect shapes,
splendor a poet
cannot describe.
This is the way
of true love, the way of
the marked
path the anointed
follow and will
cherish all
of their lives together,
be it the shore
of lake
or where the forest
ends the laughter
of loons is
the joy of love
the sanctity of love
they will share
as their hands and
hearts are joined in
marriage. May
they always go in beauty.
Alan Catlin has published well over seventy chapbooks and full-length books of prose and poetry. His most recent full-length books are Asylum Garden: after Van Gogh (Dos Madres), Lessons of Darkness (Luchador Press) and The Blue Hotel (Cyberwit).
He is poetry and review editor of Misfitmagazine.net
