One of my earliest poems, from 11/23/1987, is called "The Dreamer's Creed," and attempts to set forth my (then) views on life and (still current) creed regarding the nature of my poetry.

As a poem, it contains some serious flaws -- as did the majority of my poems at that time. It also contains several wonderful passages that I still take pride in having written some thirty-five years later.

Here is the poem, in full:

As dreams fade with the dawn's first light
Expelling us, forever, from their bourne
-- Lands we have seen, tho' never held in sight --
So all the simple pleasures which adorn
Our mem'ries, hopes, and daydreams of this life
Wither and die the moment they take form --
Lost in the hardship, misery and strife
Which like a horde of Furies ever swarm
Through ev'ry aspect of reality.
Youth lasts but a Summer; beauty, a day
And joy departs like waves upon the sea --
Or Naiad dreams dashed by the breakers' spray.
For smiles stem from fond anticipation
Of untold ecstasies we've never known
-- And never shall, save in imagination --
Fond beauty dwells in fancy's folds alone,
And love, despite its object's echoed sighs
Lives only in the lover's heart and eyes.

Yet deep within our cherished memories
We find our pasts embellished with a hue
Of burnished gold thrown down from Summer skies
-- A gentle truth that never quite rings true.
I watched my (too brief!) childhood hours pass
'Midst rolling meadows, flush with April flowers
Beside a brook whose rivulets of glass
Would blithely break beneath the chestnut's bowers.
I had no cares then, worries, aches, or pains
No bruise escaped my Mother's healing kiss
-- No demon there to wake me to life's banes --
My consciousness full overcome by bliss.
There did I while the days of youth away
My ev'ry thought uplifted on the wind
-- Elysian wanderings I knew as play --
Though never past the portals of my mind.
Remembrances imbued with fantasy
Yet held more dear than truth could ever be.

In manhood I, with youthful zest explored
Each worldly kingdom ever known to man --
Each tale of bravery since time began
I've seen firsthand -- no one detail obscured
No single image disjointed or wan.
For I with Grendel, through Heorot roared!
And fought beside Achilles in the van
Upon Troy's blood-soaked shore.
All I've adored
I've readily obtained. Each lovely maide
I'd spy became a whore I could afford,
Or else a saintly lady whom I paid
With flattery and praise -- whom I implored
To be my only love. Howe'er I played
Love's little game, I won the same reward.
Yet how far from reality I've strayed!
Or have I? O'er my mem'ry I am Lord
And smite "Truth" down with my tongue's dual-
edged sworde!

Who does not spend his life pursuing dreams?
Or thinks tomorrow holds more than his death?
How vain our desp'rate hope of Heaven seems
When life fades with the dying's final breath!
No secret joy hid 'neath reality
-- Quixotic quests can only end in pain --
Divorced from life, I live it beautifully,
Surrend'ring to fate's dictates, ne'er again.
I'll never yearn to travel far-off lands
-- Truth always turns bright expectations pale --
But live to meet my reverie's demands
-- Insanity to be my Holy Grail!

For happiness is only found in dreams
And in my dreams is where I choose to stay.
Attempts to realize wishful, worldly schemes
Are little more than throwing life away --
For even daydreams vanish from our sight
In the reality of endless night.

The main message is one of my choice to abandon the mundanity of life for the idealized "reality" of my daydreams. I was to be the honorary bard of King Oberon's faerie court. And my poetry and tales abound in depictions of my inner life -- with starry-eyed poets chasing after elusive Muses, engaging in love-hate relationship with death, going off in search of adventure, interacting with ghosts that may or may not be real, and longing for a past that never existed.

This theme was reiterated in what became the titular poem of my second collection, "Crossed Swords," twenty-three years later (in 2010):

Give me windmills fierce to tilt
And maidens fair to chase and win
A saber with a crimson hilt
A new adventure to begin!
Fetch me a clipper ship of yore
With sails to catch the Orient breeze
And rolling waves that charge the shore
Like mermen racing off to war
Across a hundred stormy seas.
The salty sting of ocean spray
The burnished sun upon my brow
Rum-scented haunts in Mandalay
The siren songs of San Tropez
Unfurl my soul like sails a-play
And such were 'Paradise enow!'

Bring me a steed with flanks of steel
That I might feel the lancer's thrill
When flying toward the thund'rous peal
Of cannon choirs, whose fires fill
My heart with blood-borne battle cries
And deathless deeds in glory sown
Till I would ride against the skies
And dare to topple Heaven's throne!
Pass me my quill of raven plume
That I might scratch my name in stone
-- Be it Gibraltar or my tomb --
Tho' it be read by me alone
Or known by all 'til time falls still.

Grant me the strength to heed my will
To strive until the day is won
To strap on wings of sealing wax
And hurl myself into the sun
For I shall soar on dragons' backs
And set the clouds afire for fun.
Throw me a torch to light my way
As I march onward thro' the mist
Searching for windmills fierce to slay
And beauteous maidens yearning to be kissed.

I find it both interesting and instructive to compare these poems, as the quality of the later poem far surpasses that of its predecessor. Unlike a certain poet, whose poetry from 1978 is indistinguishable from that of 2023, I grown as a writer, and, hopefully, shall continue to do so in whatever future I may have.

This creed (to live in a fantastical idealization of the world) resurfaces in many forms throughout the vast majority of my tales and poems, and provides a secondary, or underlying, level through which to approach my work.

This is a celebration of the introvert's unique (and unrepentantly self-centered) take on reality. It is a defiantly personal approach that I hope will resonate with, and find similarly-oriented advocates among, my fellow introverts, eccentrics, and dreamers.

Of the 600 poems (exactly) that I have written, I am happy to say that I've remained faithful to this creed; for even when not overtly implied, its theme nevertheless remains amenable to that of all (or nearly all) of my poems.

On Thursday, April 13, 2023 at 11:42:28 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> One of my earliest poems, from 11/23/1987, is called "The Dreamer's Creed," and attempts to set forth my (then) views on life and (still current) creed regarding the nature of my poetry.
>
> As a poem, it contains some serious flaws -- as did the majority of my poems at that time. It also contains several wonderful passages that I still take pride in having written some thirty-five years later.
>
> Here is the poem, in full:
>
> As dreams fade with the dawn's first light
> Expelling us, forever, from their bourne
> -- Lands we have seen, tho' never held in sight --
> So all the simple pleasures which adorn
> Our mem'ries, hopes, and daydreams of this life
> Wither and die the moment they take form --
> Lost in the hardship, misery and strife
> Which like a horde of Furies ever swarm
> Through ev'ry aspect of reality.
> Youth lasts but a Summer; beauty, a day
> And joy departs like waves upon the sea --
> Or Naiad dreams dashed by the breakers' spray.
> For smiles stem from fond anticipation
> Of untold ecstasies we've never known
> -- And never shall, save in imagination --
> Fond beauty dwells in fancy's folds alone,
> And love, despite its object's echoed sighs
> Lives only in the lover's heart and eyes.
>
> Yet deep within our cherished memories
> We find our pasts embellished with a hue
> Of burnished gold thrown down from Summer skies
> -- A gentle truth that never quite rings true.
> I watched my (too brief!) childhood hours pass
> 'Midst rolling meadows, flush with April flowers
> Beside a brook whose rivulets of glass
> Would blithely break beneath the chestnut's bowers.
> I had no cares then, worries, aches, or pains
> No bruise escaped my Mother's healing kiss
> -- No demon there to wake me to life's banes --
> My consciousness full overcome by bliss.
> There did I while the days of youth away
> My ev'ry thought uplifted on the wind
> -- Elysian wanderings I knew as play --
> Though never past the portals of my mind.
> Remembrances imbued with fantasy
> Yet held more dear than truth could ever be.
>
> In manhood I, with youthful zest explored
> Each worldly kingdom ever known to man --
> Each tale of bravery since time began
> I've seen firsthand -- no one detail obscured
> No single image disjointed or wan.
> For I with Grendel, through Heorot roared!
> And fought beside Achilles in the van
> Upon Troy's blood-soaked shore.
> All I've adored
> I've readily obtained. Each lovely maide
> I'd spy became a whore I could afford,
> Or else a saintly lady whom I paid
> With flattery and praise -- whom I implored
> To be my only love. Howe'er I played
> Love's little game, I won the same reward.
> Yet how far from reality I've strayed!
> Or have I? O'er my mem'ry I am Lord
> And smite "Truth" down with my tongue's dual-
> edged sworde!
>
> Who does not spend his life pursuing dreams?
> Or thinks tomorrow holds more than his death?
> How vain our desp'rate hope of Heaven seems
> When life fades with the dying's final breath!
> No secret joy hid 'neath reality
> -- Quixotic quests can only end in pain --
> Divorced from life, I live it beautifully,
> Surrend'ring to fate's dictates, ne'er again.
> I'll never yearn to travel far-off lands
> -- Truth always turns bright expectations pale --
> But live to meet my reverie's demands
> -- Insanity to be my Holy Grail!
>
> For happiness is only found in dreams
> And in my dreams is where I choose to stay.
> Attempts to realize wishful, worldly schemes
> Are little more than throwing life away --
> For even daydreams vanish from our sight
> In the reality of endless night.
>
> The main message is one of my choice to abandon the mundanity of life for the idealized "reality" of my daydreams. I was to be the honorary bard of King Oberon's faerie court. And my poetry and tales abound in depictions of my inner life -- with starry-eyed poets chasing after elusive Muses, engaging in love-hate relationship with death, going off in search of adventure, interacting with ghosts that may or may not be real, and longing for a past that never existed.
>
> This theme was reiterated in what became the titular poem of my second collection, "Crossed Swords," twenty-three years later (in 2010):
>
> Give me windmills fierce to tilt
> And maidens fair to chase and win
> A saber with a crimson hilt
> A new adventure to begin!
> Fetch me a clipper ship of yore
> With sails to catch the Orient breeze
> And rolling waves that charge the shore
> Like mermen racing off to war
> Across a hundred stormy seas.
> The salty sting of ocean spray
> The burnished sun upon my brow
> Rum-scented haunts in Mandalay
> The siren songs of San Tropez
> Unfurl my soul like sails a-play
> And such were 'Paradise enow!'
>
> Bring me a steed with flanks of steel
> That I might feel the lancer's thrill
> When flying toward the thund'rous peal
> Of cannon choirs, whose fires fill
> My heart with blood-borne battle cries
> And deathless deeds in glory sown
> Till I would ride against the skies
> And dare to topple Heaven's throne!
> Pass me my quill of raven plume
> That I might scratch my name in stone
> -- Be it Gibraltar or my tomb --
> Tho' it be read by me alone
> Or known by all 'til time falls still.
>
> Grant me the strength to heed my will
> To strive until the day is won
> To strap on wings of sealing wax
> And hurl myself into the sun
> For I shall soar on dragons' backs
> And set the clouds afire for fun.
> Throw me a torch to light my way
> As I march onward thro' the mist
> Searching for windmills fierce to slay
> And beauteous maidens yearning to be kissed.
>
> I find it both interesting and instructive to compare these poems, as the quality of the later poem far surpasses that of its predecessor. Unlike a certain poet, whose poetry from 1978 is indistinguishable from that of 2023, I grown as a writer, and, hopefully, shall continue to do so in whatever future I may have.
>
> This creed (to live in a fantastical idealization of the world) resurfaces in many forms throughout the vast majority of my tales and poems, and provides a secondary, or underlying, level through which to approach my work.
>
> This is a celebration of the introvert's unique (and unrepentantly self-centered) take on reality. It is a defiantly personal approach that I hope will resonate with, and find similarly-oriented advocates among, my fellow introverts, eccentrics, and dreamers.
>
> Of the 600 poems (exactly) that I have written, I am happy to say that I've remained faithful to this creed; for even when not overtly implied, its theme nevertheless remains amenable to that of all (or nearly all) of my poems.
>

The Influence of Edgar A. Poe.

It's no secret that I'm a fan of Edgar A. Poe, and the degree to which Poe has influenced me as a writer cannot be overestimated. This is not to say that I consciously set out to imitate Mr. Poe, or that my work bears any similarity to his (although it often does). Rather, it means that at a crucial stage in my development as a writer (my senior year in high school), I found a copy of The Laurel Poetry Series' volume on "Poe," presenting his complete poems with an introduction and notes by Richard Wilbur.

I had been fascinated with the poetry of Edgar Poe since I read, and memorized, "The Raven" in the 8th grade (where it appeared in our English Literature textbook). As additional Poe poems appeared in my high school curriculum, I read and memorized those as well (perhaps a half dozen poems in all). But with the "Poe" book, I thoroughly immersed myself in his poetry, memorizing all with the exception of the two "epic" poems of his early career, "Al Aaraaf" and "Tamerlane." I also paid close attention to Mr. Wilbur's introduction and notes, and referred to them time and again, as a means of better understanding Poe's work.

It is difficult to say where the influence of Poe over my writing began, as his "Sonnet -- To Science," which opened the collection, had a similar theme to the one surviving poem I had written, roughly one and a half years before. Similarly, the opening line of "The Sleeper" was similar to what had initially been the opening line of my poem, utilizing the same meter and same alliterative use of the letter "m." I had read neither of these poems before, and their correspondences to my own affected me in such a way that can only be compared to having been struck by lightning.

On Friday, April 14, 2023 at 9:51:04 AM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> On Thursday, April 13, 2023 at 11:42:28 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > One of my earliest poems, from 11/23/1987, is called "The Dreamer's Creed," and attempts to set forth my (then) views on life and (still current) creed regarding the nature of my poetry.
> >
> > As a poem, it contains some serious flaws -- as did the majority of my poems at that time. It also contains several wonderful passages that I still take pride in having written some thirty-five years later.
> >
> > Here is the poem, in full:
> >
> > As dreams fade with the dawn's first light
> > Expelling us, forever, from their bourne
> > -- Lands we have seen, tho' never held in sight --
> > So all the simple pleasures which adorn
> > Our mem'ries, hopes, and daydreams of this life
> > Wither and die the moment they take form --
> > Lost in the hardship, misery and strife
> > Which like a horde of Furies ever swarm
> > Through ev'ry aspect of reality.
> > Youth lasts but a Summer; beauty, a day
> > And joy departs like waves upon the sea --
> > Or Naiad dreams dashed by the breakers' spray.
> > For smiles stem from fond anticipation
> > Of untold ecstasies we've never known
> > -- And never shall, save in imagination --
> > Fond beauty dwells in fancy's folds alone,
> > And love, despite its object's echoed sighs
> > Lives only in the lover's heart and eyes.
> >
> > Yet deep within our cherished memories
> > We find our pasts embellished with a hue
> > Of burnished gold thrown down from Summer skies
> > -- A gentle truth that never quite rings true.
> > I watched my (too brief!) childhood hours pass
> > 'Midst rolling meadows, flush with April flowers
> > Beside a brook whose rivulets of glass
> > Would blithely break beneath the chestnut's bowers.
> > I had no cares then, worries, aches, or pains
> > No bruise escaped my Mother's healing kiss
> > -- No demon there to wake me to life's banes --
> > My consciousness full overcome by bliss.
> > There did I while the days of youth away
> > My ev'ry thought uplifted on the wind
> > -- Elysian wanderings I knew as play --
> > Though never past the portals of my mind.
> > Remembrances imbued with fantasy
> > Yet held more dear than truth could ever be.
> >
> > In manhood I, with youthful zest explored
> > Each worldly kingdom ever known to man --
> > Each tale of bravery since time began
> > I've seen firsthand -- no one detail obscured
> > No single image disjointed or wan.
> > For I with Grendel, through Heorot roared!
> > And fought beside Achilles in the van
> > Upon Troy's blood-soaked shore.
> > All I've adored
> > I've readily obtained. Each lovely maide
> > I'd spy became a whore I could afford,
> > Or else a saintly lady whom I paid
> > With flattery and praise -- whom I implored
> > To be my only love. Howe'er I played
> > Love's little game, I won the same reward.
> > Yet how far from reality I've strayed!
> > Or have I? O'er my mem'ry I am Lord
> > And smite "Truth" down with my tongue's dual-
> > edged sworde!
> >
> > Who does not spend his life pursuing dreams?
> > Or thinks tomorrow holds more than his death?
> > How vain our desp'rate hope of Heaven seems
> > When life fades with the dying's final breath!
> > No secret joy hid 'neath reality
> > -- Quixotic quests can only end in pain --
> > Divorced from life, I live it beautifully,
> > Surrend'ring to fate's dictates, ne'er again.
> > I'll never yearn to travel far-off lands
> > -- Truth always turns bright expectations pale --
> > But live to meet my reverie's demands
> > -- Insanity to be my Holy Grail!
> >
> > For happiness is only found in dreams
> > And in my dreams is where I choose to stay.
> > Attempts to realize wishful, worldly schemes
> > Are little more than throwing life away --
> > For even daydreams vanish from our sight
> > In the reality of endless night.
> >
> > The main message is one of my choice to abandon the mundanity of life for the idealized "reality" of my daydreams. I was to be the honorary bard of King Oberon's faerie court. And my poetry and tales abound in depictions of my inner life -- with starry-eyed poets chasing after elusive Muses, engaging in love-hate relationship with death, going off in search of adventure, interacting with ghosts that may or may not be real, and longing for a past that never existed.
> >
> > This theme was reiterated in what became the titular poem of my second collection, "Crossed Swords," twenty-three years later (in 2010):
> >
> > Give me windmills fierce to tilt
> > And maidens fair to chase and win
> > A saber with a crimson hilt
> > A new adventure to begin!
> > Fetch me a clipper ship of yore
> > With sails to catch the Orient breeze
> > And rolling waves that charge the shore
> > Like mermen racing off to war
> > Across a hundred stormy seas.
> > The salty sting of ocean spray
> > The burnished sun upon my brow
> > Rum-scented haunts in Mandalay
> > The siren songs of San Tropez
> > Unfurl my soul like sails a-play
> > And such were 'Paradise enow!'
> >
> > Bring me a steed with flanks of steel
> > That I might feel the lancer's thrill
> > When flying toward the thund'rous peal
> > Of cannon choirs, whose fires fill
> > My heart with blood-borne battle cries
> > And deathless deeds in glory sown
> > Till I would ride against the skies
> > And dare to topple Heaven's throne!
> > Pass me my quill of raven plume
> > That I might scratch my name in stone
> > -- Be it Gibraltar or my tomb --
> > Tho' it be read by me alone
> > Or known by all 'til time falls still.
> >
> > Grant me the strength to heed my will
> > To strive until the day is won
> > To strap on wings of sealing wax
> > And hurl myself into the sun
> > For I shall soar on dragons' backs
> > And set the clouds afire for fun.
> > Throw me a torch to light my way
> > As I march onward thro' the mist
> > Searching for windmills fierce to slay
> > And beauteous maidens yearning to be kissed.
> >
> > I find it both interesting and instructive to compare these poems, as the quality of the later poem far surpasses that of its predecessor. Unlike a certain poet, whose poetry from 1978 is indistinguishable from that of 2023, I grown as a writer, and, hopefully, shall continue to do so in whatever future I may have.
> >
> > This creed (to live in a fantastical idealization of the world) resurfaces in many forms throughout the vast majority of my tales and poems, and provides a secondary, or underlying, level through which to approach my work..
> >
> > This is a celebration of the introvert's unique (and unrepentantly self-centered) take on reality. It is a defiantly personal approach that I hope will resonate with, and find similarly-oriented advocates among, my fellow introverts, eccentrics, and dreamers.
> >
> > Of the 600 poems (exactly) that I have written, I am happy to say that I've remained faithful to this creed; for even when not overtly implied, its theme nevertheless remains amenable to that of all (or nearly all) of my poems.
> >
> The Influence of Edgar A. Poe.
>
> It's no secret that I'm a fan of Edgar A. Poe, and the degree to which Poe has influenced me as a writer cannot be overestimated. This is not to say that I consciously set out to imitate Mr. Poe, or that my work bears any similarity to his (although it often does). Rather, it means that at a crucial stage in my development as a writer (my senior year in high school), I found a copy of The Laurel Poetry Series' volume on "Poe," presenting his complete poems with an introduction and notes by Richard Wilbur.
>
> I had been fascinated with the poetry of Edgar Poe since I read, and memorized, "The Raven" in the 8th grade (where it appeared in our English Literature textbook). As additional Poe poems appeared in my high school curriculum, I read and memorized those as well (perhaps a half dozen poems in all).. But with the "Poe" book, I thoroughly immersed myself in his poetry, memorizing all with the exception of the two "epic" poems of his early career, "Al Aaraaf" and "Tamerlane." I also paid close attention to Mr. Wilbur's introduction and notes, and referred to them time and again, as a means of better understanding Poe's work.
>
> It is difficult to say where the influence of Poe over my writing began, as his "Sonnet -- To Science," which opened the collection, had a similar theme to the one surviving poem I had written, roughly one and a half years before. Similarly, the opening line of "The Sleeper" was similar to what had initially been the opening line of my poem, utilizing the same meter and same alliterative use of the letter "m." I had read neither of these poems before, and their correspondences to my own affected me in such a way that can only be compared to having been struck by lightning.
>
> I felt a spiritual connection to Poe -- as if we were psychic twins, or I was his reincarnation, or his ghost had been whispering lines of poetry into my ear. This feeling of connection only intensified when I read his early masterpiece, "Alone." As the poem's title intimates, this poem captures the feelings of isolation that an extremely introverted teenager could readily identify with:
>
> From childhood’s hour I have not been
> As others were—I have not seen
> As others saw—I could not bring
> My passions from a common spring—
> From the same source I have not taken
> My sorrow—I could not awaken
> My heart to joy at the same tone—
> And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
>
> I carried that Poe book with me throughout my senior year, memorizing a new poem every few days. In memorizing the poems, I was incorporating them into my own psyche -- reciting them at odd moments throughout the course of the day until their words and thoughts and form became indistinguishable from my own.
>
> I was also taken by the "myth" outlined by Mr. Wilbur, which he believed many of Poe's tales and poems were variations on. To wit: the poet is forever trying to recapture, and return to, the lost paradise of his early youth when he and his psyche (or Anima) were one. This "myth" manifested itself from early memories of his mother, later memories of his stepmother, his first crush ("Helen" Stannard), all of whom had died; and his fiancée Sarah Elmira Royster (whose family broke up their engagement). This idealized nostalgia for a lost paradise also figured in his epic "prose poem" on the nature of the universe, "Eureka," wherein mankind longs to return to its original unity with the undiffused God particle (in a forerunner of the "Big Bang" and "Expanding and Contracting Universe" theories).
>
> This "myth" resonated with me, both because my own mother had died when I was still a boy, and because I had always been drawn to artifacts from the past: particularly the period from the Victorian era through the 1950s. As a high school senior, I drove a 1957 Studebaker, listened to pop standards from the pre-rock 'n' roll era, watched old movies to the point of obsession (including the silents), and had no common ground on which to relate to my peers.
>
> But Poe's influence did not end there. After a stint in the Navy, I realized that my education was not up to snuff. I came to this realization upon acquiring a collection of Poe's complete tales. I had always been in the top reading group in grammar school, and consistently scored two levels above my current grade year on the STS tests, and was laboring under the misconception that I could read any book without the slightest difficulty. Not so, Poe. Reading his literary criticisms were even more frustrating, as I was unfamiliar with many of the authors whose work he was writing about. (Of course, many of these writers turned out to be rather obscure, but I had no way of knowing this at the time). I ended up reading Poe's tales and criticisms with a dictionary in one hand, looking up unfamiliar words as they arose. In this sense, Poe taught me how to read, write, and to analyze and critique literary works.
>
> He also inspired me to gain a foundation in world history and literature -- as his frequent references to both often flew over my head. I read various history books and procured a list of literary classics and set about providing myself with a degree of education that would allow me to read works by writers like Poe, without having recourse to a dictionary and/or encyclopedia. I paid particular emphasis to the Classical period, reading nearly all of the surviving Greek and Roman authors (in translation, of course), including several books on mythology (Ovid, Bulfinch's I & II, etc.). I became something of autodidactic scholar who believed himself to have a college level education before ever having set foot in an institute of higher learning. And, apart from higher Mathematics (which has always been a sore point with me), I was correct. Indeed, my level of scholarship was several levels above the undergraduate level, and by the end of my first semester, I had made the Dean's List, joined the Honors Program, and become the President and Editor-in-Chief of the school's art and literary magazine (synchronistically titled "Excalibur" -- as I had adopted the name/title of Pendragon several years earlier).
>
> How profoundly did the influence of Edgar Poe take hold on me? Upon reading an early chapbook of my short stories, one British writer/editor remarked "Edgar Allan Poe is alive and well and living in New York!"
>

On Friday, April 14, 2023 at 3:49:39 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> On Friday, April 14, 2023 at 9:51:04 AM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > On Thursday, April 13, 2023 at 11:42:28 PM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > > One of my earliest poems, from 11/23/1987, is called "The Dreamer's Creed," and attempts to set forth my (then) views on life and (still current) creed regarding the nature of my poetry.
> > >
> > > As a poem, it contains some serious flaws -- as did the majority of my poems at that time. It also contains several wonderful passages that I still take pride in having written some thirty-five years later.
> > >
> > > Here is the poem, in full:
> > >
> > > As dreams fade with the dawn's first light
> > > Expelling us, forever, from their bourne
> > > -- Lands we have seen, tho' never held in sight --
> > > So all the simple pleasures which adorn
> > > Our mem'ries, hopes, and daydreams of this life
> > > Wither and die the moment they take form --
> > > Lost in the hardship, misery and strife
> > > Which like a horde of Furies ever swarm
> > > Through ev'ry aspect of reality.
> > > Youth lasts but a Summer; beauty, a day
> > > And joy departs like waves upon the sea --
> > > Or Naiad dreams dashed by the breakers' spray.
> > > For smiles stem from fond anticipation
> > > Of untold ecstasies we've never known
> > > -- And never shall, save in imagination --
> > > Fond beauty dwells in fancy's folds alone,
> > > And love, despite its object's echoed sighs
> > > Lives only in the lover's heart and eyes.
> > >
> > > Yet deep within our cherished memories
> > > We find our pasts embellished with a hue
> > > Of burnished gold thrown down from Summer skies
> > > -- A gentle truth that never quite rings true.
> > > I watched my (too brief!) childhood hours pass
> > > 'Midst rolling meadows, flush with April flowers
> > > Beside a brook whose rivulets of glass
> > > Would blithely break beneath the chestnut's bowers.
> > > I had no cares then, worries, aches, or pains
> > > No bruise escaped my Mother's healing kiss
> > > -- No demon there to wake me to life's banes --
> > > My consciousness full overcome by bliss.
> > > There did I while the days of youth away
> > > My ev'ry thought uplifted on the wind
> > > -- Elysian wanderings I knew as play --
> > > Though never past the portals of my mind.
> > > Remembrances imbued with fantasy
> > > Yet held more dear than truth could ever be.
> > >
> > > In manhood I, with youthful zest explored
> > > Each worldly kingdom ever known to man --
> > > Each tale of bravery since time began
> > > I've seen firsthand -- no one detail obscured
> > > No single image disjointed or wan.
> > > For I with Grendel, through Heorot roared!
> > > And fought beside Achilles in the van
> > > Upon Troy's blood-soaked shore.
> > > All I've adored
> > > I've readily obtained. Each lovely maide
> > > I'd spy became a whore I could afford,
> > > Or else a saintly lady whom I paid
> > > With flattery and praise -- whom I implored
> > > To be my only love. Howe'er I played
> > > Love's little game, I won the same reward.
> > > Yet how far from reality I've strayed!
> > > Or have I? O'er my mem'ry I am Lord
> > > And smite "Truth" down with my tongue's dual-
> > > edged sworde!
> > >
> > > Who does not spend his life pursuing dreams?
> > > Or thinks tomorrow holds more than his death?
> > > How vain our desp'rate hope of Heaven seems
> > > When life fades with the dying's final breath!
> > > No secret joy hid 'neath reality
> > > -- Quixotic quests can only end in pain --
> > > Divorced from life, I live it beautifully,
> > > Surrend'ring to fate's dictates, ne'er again.
> > > I'll never yearn to travel far-off lands
> > > -- Truth always turns bright expectations pale --
> > > But live to meet my reverie's demands
> > > -- Insanity to be my Holy Grail!
> > >
> > > For happiness is only found in dreams
> > > And in my dreams is where I choose to stay.
> > > Attempts to realize wishful, worldly schemes
> > > Are little more than throwing life away --
> > > For even daydreams vanish from our sight
> > > In the reality of endless night.
> > >
> > > The main message is one of my choice to abandon the mundanity of life for the idealized "reality" of my daydreams. I was to be the honorary bard of King Oberon's faerie court. And my poetry and tales abound in depictions of my inner life -- with starry-eyed poets chasing after elusive Muses, engaging in love-hate relationship with death, going off in search of adventure, interacting with ghosts that may or may not be real, and longing for a past that never existed.
> > >
> > > This theme was reiterated in what became the titular poem of my second collection, "Crossed Swords," twenty-three years later (in 2010):
> > >
> > > Give me windmills fierce to tilt
> > > And maidens fair to chase and win
> > > A saber with a crimson hilt
> > > A new adventure to begin!
> > > Fetch me a clipper ship of yore
> > > With sails to catch the Orient breeze
> > > And rolling waves that charge the shore
> > > Like mermen racing off to war
> > > Across a hundred stormy seas.
> > > The salty sting of ocean spray
> > > The burnished sun upon my brow
> > > Rum-scented haunts in Mandalay
> > > The siren songs of San Tropez
> > > Unfurl my soul like sails a-play
> > > And such were 'Paradise enow!'
> > >
> > > Bring me a steed with flanks of steel
> > > That I might feel the lancer's thrill
> > > When flying toward the thund'rous peal
> > > Of cannon choirs, whose fires fill
> > > My heart with blood-borne battle cries
> > > And deathless deeds in glory sown
> > > Till I would ride against the skies
> > > And dare to topple Heaven's throne!
> > > Pass me my quill of raven plume
> > > That I might scratch my name in stone
> > > -- Be it Gibraltar or my tomb --
> > > Tho' it be read by me alone
> > > Or known by all 'til time falls still.
> > >
> > > Grant me the strength to heed my will
> > > To strive until the day is won
> > > To strap on wings of sealing wax
> > > And hurl myself into the sun
> > > For I shall soar on dragons' backs
> > > And set the clouds afire for fun.
> > > Throw me a torch to light my way
> > > As I march onward thro' the mist
> > > Searching for windmills fierce to slay
> > > And beauteous maidens yearning to be kissed.
> > >
> > > I find it both interesting and instructive to compare these poems, as the quality of the later poem far surpasses that of its predecessor. Unlike a certain poet, whose poetry from 1978 is indistinguishable from that of 2023, I grown as a writer, and, hopefully, shall continue to do so in whatever future I may have.
> > >
> > > This creed (to live in a fantastical idealization of the world) resurfaces in many forms throughout the vast majority of my tales and poems, and provides a secondary, or underlying, level through which to approach my work.
> > >
> > > This is a celebration of the introvert's unique (and unrepentantly self-centered) take on reality. It is a defiantly personal approach that I hope will resonate with, and find similarly-oriented advocates among, my fellow introverts, eccentrics, and dreamers.
> > >
> > > Of the 600 poems (exactly) that I have written, I am happy to say that I've remained faithful to this creed; for even when not overtly implied, its theme nevertheless remains amenable to that of all (or nearly all) of my poems.
> > >
> > The Influence of Edgar A. Poe.
> >
> > It's no secret that I'm a fan of Edgar A. Poe, and the degree to which Poe has influenced me as a writer cannot be overestimated. This is not to say that I consciously set out to imitate Mr. Poe, or that my work bears any similarity to his (although it often does). Rather, it means that at a crucial stage in my development as a writer (my senior year in high school), I found a copy of The Laurel Poetry Series' volume on "Poe," presenting his complete poems with an introduction and notes by Richard Wilbur.
> >
> > I had been fascinated with the poetry of Edgar Poe since I read, and memorized, "The Raven" in the 8th grade (where it appeared in our English Literature textbook). As additional Poe poems appeared in my high school curriculum, I read and memorized those as well (perhaps a half dozen poems in all). But with the "Poe" book, I thoroughly immersed myself in his poetry, memorizing all with the exception of the two "epic" poems of his early career, "Al Aaraaf" and "Tamerlane." I also paid close attention to Mr. Wilbur's introduction and notes, and referred to them time and again, as a means of better understanding Poe's work.
> >
> > It is difficult to say where the influence of Poe over my writing began, as his "Sonnet -- To Science," which opened the collection, had a similar theme to the one surviving poem I had written, roughly one and a half years before. Similarly, the opening line of "The Sleeper" was similar to what had initially been the opening line of my poem, utilizing the same meter and same alliterative use of the letter "m." I had read neither of these poems before, and their correspondences to my own affected me in such a way that can only be compared to having been struck by lightning.
> >
> > I felt a spiritual connection to Poe -- as if we were psychic twins, or I was his reincarnation, or his ghost had been whispering lines of poetry into my ear. This feeling of connection only intensified when I read his early masterpiece, "Alone." As the poem's title intimates, this poem captures the feelings of isolation that an extremely introverted teenager could readily identify with:
> >
> > From childhood’s hour I have not been
> > As others were—I have not seen
> > As others saw—I could not bring
> > My passions from a common spring—
> > From the same source I have not taken
> > My sorrow—I could not awaken
> > My heart to joy at the same tone—
> > And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
> >
> > I carried that Poe book with me throughout my senior year, memorizing a new poem every few days. In memorizing the poems, I was incorporating them into my own psyche -- reciting them at odd moments throughout the course of the day until their words and thoughts and form became indistinguishable from my own.
> >
> > I was also taken by the "myth" outlined by Mr. Wilbur, which he believed many of Poe's tales and poems were variations on. To wit: the poet is forever trying to recapture, and return to, the lost paradise of his early youth when he and his psyche (or Anima) were one. This "myth" manifested itself from early memories of his mother, later memories of his stepmother, his first crush ("Helen" Stannard), all of whom had died; and his fiancée Sarah Elmira Royster (whose family broke up their engagement). This idealized nostalgia for a lost paradise also figured in his epic "prose poem" on the nature of the universe, "Eureka," wherein mankind longs to return to its original unity with the undiffused God particle (in a forerunner of the "Big Bang" and "Expanding and Contracting Universe" theories).
> >
> > This "myth" resonated with me, both because my own mother had died when I was still a boy, and because I had always been drawn to artifacts from the past: particularly the period from the Victorian era through the 1950s. As a high school senior, I drove a 1957 Studebaker, listened to pop standards from the pre-rock 'n' roll era, watched old movies to the point of obsession (including the silents), and had no common ground on which to relate to my peers.
> >
> > But Poe's influence did not end there. After a stint in the Navy, I realized that my education was not up to snuff. I came to this realization upon acquiring a collection of Poe's complete tales. I had always been in the top reading group in grammar school, and consistently scored two levels above my current grade year on the STS tests, and was laboring under the misconception that I could read any book without the slightest difficulty. Not so, Poe. Reading his literary criticisms were even more frustrating, as I was unfamiliar with many of the authors whose work he was writing about. (Of course, many of these writers turned out to be rather obscure, but I had no way of knowing this at the time). I ended up reading Poe's tales and criticisms with a dictionary in one hand, looking up unfamiliar words as they arose. In this sense, Poe taught me how to read, write, and to analyze and critique literary works.
> >
> > He also inspired me to gain a foundation in world history and literature -- as his frequent references to both often flew over my head. I read various history books and procured a list of literary classics and set about providing myself with a degree of education that would allow me to read works by writers like Poe, without having recourse to a dictionary and/or encyclopedia. I paid particular emphasis to the Classical period, reading nearly all of the surviving Greek and Roman authors (in translation, of course), including several books on mythology (Ovid, Bulfinch's I & II, etc.). I became something of autodidactic scholar who believed himself to have a college level education before ever having set foot in an institute of higher learning. And, apart from higher Mathematics (which has always been a sore point with me), I was correct. Indeed, my level of scholarship was several levels above the undergraduate level, and by the end of my first semester, I had made the Dean's List, joined the Honors Program, and become the President and Editor-in-Chief of the school's art and literary magazine (synchronistically titled "Excalibur" -- as I had adopted the name/title of Pendragon several years earlier).
> >
> > How profoundly did the influence of Edgar Poe take hold on me? Upon reading an early chapbook of my short stories, one British writer/editor remarked "Edgar Allan Poe is alive and well and living in New York!"
> >
> It was during my early 20s that I first began reading Poe's essays on poetry, along with his "Marginalia" and critiques. Poe's poetry theories and criticisms were based on Coleridge, but retooled to reflect Poe's own unique view. Poe's and mine, that is. For Poe's theories corresponded to my own, as set forth in "The Dreamer's Creed" several years before I'd read any of Poe's essays. Even so, Poe may have had some influence, as Richard Wilbur's introductory notes from the "Poe" collection provided a cursory overview of some of Poe's thoughts in that regard.
>
> I felt it necessary to mention this, as I plan to be concentrating on criticism this year, and felt that my victims... er... readers... should have some background information regarding my basic poetical views.