Saturday, August 23, 2008

ON: 'About the Nature of my Poetry"

Those of you who know me, know that I do not like to really define what my poetry is about. To me, that is an essential function of the reader as they interact with what has been written. What is most important is what they think about it. Still, there are often important themes in what the artist brings to his or her own work. It comes out of their unique expressions after all. Does that make what they think about it--the correct intrepretation? And, is there any single correct intrepretation? I believe the answer is an emphatic 'No" on both counts.

Still, in my humble opinion, there is one answer that is more correct than almost any other, and that is what the reader thinks; what the reader experiences at the moment of perception or reflection. When it becomes the combined expression, a truly dialogical encounter--is what is striven for.

That is the essential correct intrepretation. So why do I try to explain my work at all? Since artists sometimes have a difficult time explaining or understanding their own work, perhaps I shouldn't even try. Yet sometimes I am misunderstood in my intentions and purpose. After all, the artist's work is an objective manifestation of an inward and subjective process. The artist may not have insight always. Still, other people like to think they know what the subjectivity is--but they are sometimes standing outside of it. (In dialogue they may glimpse it). So they think I am a certain thing or this or that. Those are categories, but I see myself as merely a poet and a mystic. (Hopefully tehse are more correct categories!) For example, I may be writing as much about spiritual love as physical love when I talk about the goddess.

In addition to all of my later training in my various fields and education, I write also from a mystical tradition. These would be my early years as a young man when I was a recognized mystic in a community of like minded believers, which for better or worse, made a stamp on my consciousness. (Also my later years in a different tradition). For me, communion with the transcendent Other is both a physical and spiritual existence. It began there in those early years but evolved in the mystical experience until the concrete became particular and back again as self and non self morphed and changed again and again. And as much as sometimes I sought to quiet the mystical, or to limit it it with rationality, the mystical message and ways of connection are still there and undeniable.

So, for lack of any further analysis, I felt compelled to place the following description upon my poetry pages today. So,for those of you who are interested, and from whatever perspective I am writing from--right now; this is what my poetry means to me--at this historical moment, and from my own unique vision. I need YOU as my dear readers to complete it. I need you to approach it as Other, and see what it means to you. I hope at least, whatever YOU find my poetry to mean, that it will always inspire you to reach higher. That is my only goal. I am all for dispelling ignorance, raising tolerance, for the freedom to be, and for the power of love over hate.

About the Nature of my Poetry:

My poetry celebrates the power of the unbridled feminine goddess in the world. In my poetry I also attempt to express ideas that reflect dialectical and dialogical themes of historical and interpersonal relations as we move beyond personal development (the ego) to the larger collective of social mind in the world.

I hope you like my poems. Many of them admire women (or the importance of femininity), as I believe there is a goddess in every woman. These are the qualities that she has learned about, the messages from her unique culture and history that are positive, and the idealizations that help her become the woman she is always meant to be! (I am not the only one to say this. I have been inspired by books about the goddess by Jean Bolen, my mentor Christine Downing, and Miranda Shaw). Despite this I believe there are powerful messages for men in my poems too, and this may include the appreciation of the anima as a historical force in their own existence, as well as helping them to appreciate all the women in their lives.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

On Writers as Readers: A Brief Note of Appreciation for Ken Follett.

On Writers as Readers: A Brief Note of Appreciation for Ken Follett.
by Tim Kavi

You know most writers I know of are avid readers, both in their genres of specialty, and across all kinds of writing.

We do that for a lot of reasons. Although it sounds circular, many of us became writers because we first enjoyed reading good books.

My story is simple. I read at an early age. My oldest brother would often leave his books lying about and I would read them. My parents saw I liked to read and encouraged me to read more. I discovered I could be entertained, and learned all kinds of information. (I read many more books than my brother's, that were for my level).

Of course, reading my brother's advanced books, I discovered there were many words in them I did not know or could not understand. So I began keeping vocabulary notebooks where I wrote down every word I didn't know, looked them up, and copied down it's definition with an example of usage that I completely memorized. (My parents did not know I was doing this, but soon noticed I jabbered in big words).

One could say then that from an early age, I admired a writer's work!

Of course there are many people who like to read that are not writers. They read just to enjoy it. When I started out, I didn't read to become a better writer. However, by the time I was seven years old I announced to my parents I wanted to write as an author. They encouraged this also.

Readers are wonderful and the appreciative ones are those that writers like to write for. This is our audience. Fans too are generally wonderful, if a writer is lucky enough to have them.

Whole fields of literature are supposedly aided by "literary criticism"-- works of alleged scholarship that supposedly help us to understand written works by various authors. Still, to read the work and let it first and foremost speak to us,is one of our most valuable joys as a reader.

However, as writers, we often read, to both be instructed and entertained by our fellow writers. Then occasionally, we are held in awe!

Hopefully this awe is not a prison, but an encouragement for us to simply write more by inspiration. (Imagine if every writer read someone's work and said: 'there you's so good, nothing remains to be written. I might as well give up writing right now!'). I admit I have sometimes thought this, but I keep writing.

I also admit that sometimes we writers are damned envious or jealous because of our reading ! heheheh

Occasionally as I read a fellow writer's published works, I am so appreciative of what I have just read that I feel like I have been struck with something so significant and strong, that it becomes utterly unforgettable.

Such is the case as I have recently been reading Ken Follet's "The Pillars of the Earth". This novel, is assuredly a mammoth undertaking by any standard, but is absolutely remarkable to say the least.

It is also instructive to the point of greatness!

Now, it is not my intent to provide a supposed scholastic reference of literary criticism, but I know it when I read something as a writer that I really like!

So, I am implored to tell you about Follet's significant use of a simile--in a way that I have not seen for quite some time.

According to the website: -- A simile is the comparison of two unlike things using the word 'like' or 'as', e.g. an example of a simile would be as big as a bus.

Well, there I was the other day just beginning my read of this wonderful novel, when Follett used a simile that really hammered a passage home!
While describing the characters, he described a priest using the following simile: "He had an alert, dangerous look, like a black cat that could smell the nest of baby mice".*

Wow! When I read stuff like this, I am seriously taken to school as I am reminded that sometimes the act or writing is such an artistic and creative art.

I smiled so big when I read this! I knew exactly what Follett meant, and I learned a lot about the character he was describing.

Not only that, I am damned envious! :-)

Happy reading, whether you are a reader, or a reader and a writer!

* (This is from page. 13 of the Deluxe Edition published in October 2007 by New American Library ISBN: 978-0-451-22524-5).

Saturday, August 16, 2008

My Friends and I (A New Poem Dedicated to Friends)

brief poet's comment: There is an intentional shift in the focus and style of this poem, from plural to singular form. It moves from a discussion of friends in general, to a specific discussion of the specific friend to whom it is addressed. Also the notion of distance, does not just refer to friends across cyberspace or from other cultures, but the existential distance than can exist between two unique individuals even when they first encounter one another in perceived otherness.-- T.K.

My Friends and I (A Poem Dedicated to Friends)
by Tim Kavi

We finally reached across the miles
My friends and I
Forever touching in blissful smiles,

The gap and wall between us was imaginary
and is history
for in the feelings that seem contrary,
we defined them in new ways.

Never underestimate the power of a friend
to find a new way of love
and onward to the uttermost end
of our lives we find solace,

in each other's heart.
we are never apart,
this is the love of a good friend.

Looking at the Clouds (New Poem) (Written in the Grass)

this poem is for mature audiences, if you're immature don't look at it. ;-)
Seriously if erotic descriptions about nudity bother you, pass it up. My goal is to make you laugh!--T.K.

Looking at the Clouds
by Tim Kavi

kiss you

hug you

hold you

lay your head opon my chest

and laugh with joy

we stare at the clouds in the sky

we laugh at the characters there

look! there's a funny guy

a maiden fair

a castle of gold

a Buddha old

but none are as beautiful

as my love

lying there

in Nature

naked in the grass

chisled beauty

sculptured lass

goddess nary covered

look! that cloud's


shaped like

your lovely ass!

My Angel's Telling Eyes (Poem)

My Angel's Telling Eyes
by Tim Kavi

When we see your telling eyes,
We glimpse the wonderful soul that is there

O wondrous heavenly creature
Angelic wings brush everywhere

Winged beauty, feathered not,
Mortal men in love below, we do fare

In earnest we seek thee
To kiss you, our heart made bare

Is our love made perfect
In your telling eyes together
love's gentility we share

None Like YOU (Poem)

None like YOU
by Tim Kavi

when one thinks of a beautiful mosaic
many rivers flowing into one
a melting pot of humanity
where united the race is won

there are many who stand out
like a rainbow
a glistening diamond
a brilliant rare treasure

found in the most sweetly rained on
where the grasses grow green
and the mosses make a place for a solemn rest
looking at the sky
on a warm summer night

counting constellations
of earth and heaven
none of these are as beautiful
as you
my dear sweet friend.

Chinese Kiss (poem)

Chinese Kiss
by Tim Kavi

what kiss
is this
drew across
her lips
but the love
of China?

her majesty
gentle eyes
reflective sighs
gathers her young
in the daylight

her ascendant kiss
is arising bliss
China rises to the skies
her love
comes from above
and waters the gardens
of the world!

Choices in Time (Poem--Oct. 2007)

Choices in Time
by Tim Kavi

wheels of time
moving so fast
blowing my mind
my past
shines only
like memories
my present
moments pass
like grains
of sand
ticking like a watch
on the old man's compass

identities change
doors will open
all paths seeming true
which direction to go?
what does one do?

landforms shake
and move
continental drift
canyons cut
forms a rift
across all time

down the glass
the moments
run out
on the ground
sandy and fine
there is only
terrible purpose
in the mind divine

like a snail
destiny's shell
is like a jail
for time's
sure release
from nature's
limited hell

transcendent ones
will all
not resigned to mere
free will
destiny's hill
vanquishes all fear

not by any
except one's
own making
nature lies
at the sure one's
Victory cries

directions not seen
familiar surfaces
unfold in the between
similar purposes
guide joint souls
in surest expression
to stand still
in the light of a sun
while Winter's
shadows fall long

across gaps
in the translucent
flames of time.