Robert Creeley / Professor Creeley / RC

I really wanted to meet you
I really want to have met you before yesterday
and now yesterday is gone
and today the tears come for regret from now on.

I really wanted to meet you
I hope somehow, in death, you can read this
and understand how badly
and today, as there was a moment of peace, how sad I have become.

I really wanted to meet you
I even irreverently considered the forethought
of being, in this forethought, past life
if the process did not require pain and grief on my relations, but it obviously does.

I really wanted to meet with you, again.
I have some questions I'd like to come by during your office hours.
I'd like to share some ideas & thoughts & anxieties & life with you--
Really, I didn't care so much for that, as for the generosity you reflected of those upon me.

Robert Creeley.
Robert Creeley Robert Creeley Robert Creeley Robert Creeley.
Google: "Robert Creeley". Click on http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/authors/creeley/#poems .
Click on any of his poems. Try him out irreverently like you do 300 things irreverently in a day. Or if you find a bit more interest in him in you, do it reverently, and continue to do so.
Buy it from Borders (they don't really have it, if they do only the miniscule few) or from a good used-bookstore (they usually do). Inter-library loan it.
Speak and hear from people about him, who knew him.
Speak and hear from people about him, who didn't know him, but love him.
Robert Creeley.

Birth & Death

I've had a wedding, birth,
death, all in the time of
three days--and it's all
so life-hectic, feeling
electric, mysterious as
lightning & thunder.

I will never speak to you again;
and birth fills inanimate
lifelessness like it was never there, death
of nonexistence.

A gush of letters after the passing of Robert Creeley

The Finality of It

It's shocking in a way only when it happens.
How it just stops
unchangeable as time moves on

.
My inbox is empty
That hurts more than it ever will
The regret avalanche
- - - - - - and that roar resonates its
- - - - - - first echoes at the bottom
- - - - - - first of my chest,
- - - - - - - - - deep where I first began.

--------------------------

It makes me just want to be Christian
so that I could have a chance of meeting with him again.
What a beautiful part of the religion

---------------------------

I will visit, or, attend his funeral,
and if that is not welcome or convenient for relations,
then I will visit his resting place
sometime and burn the unread letter
I have so it will go to the sky.

That is also a beautiful part of the (other) religion. How fire consumes so metaphorically before our eyes so whatever it is goes where it needs. Letting go; the thing is gone and flakes fo ash blow to the sky.

---------------------------

There's so much that must be read
so he can reflect upon it.
The things I wish were said so I
could grow from it--
that's what you lived
for as a teacher, isn't it?

I have not learned enough from you! You must have had mentors/role models/admirees/fathers whom led you to your entitled fill as a son--I might know some of them, you taught me--but I'm not done with you yet!
Oh please, God,
its wrong of you as far as I can know, of it to have been done so.

-------------------------------------

My Condolences to Your family, friends, lifetime's loves and relations

As I brush my teeth
and look to the mirror--
it's such a reflective,
solitary moment--
every second is a step
in and of this sad day, away
from that last step, somewhere moving behind

I've lost step, I
falter, as one has said today,
and I cry inside in a manner I've never before for
your loss, the ending of our
together existence on the surface of this world.

------------------------------------

Dear Professor Creeley

You taught me something here on the day of your passing: the meaning and lifetime of poetry, its soul.

Poetry--it's a language of mortality to Heaven. It speaks in human form, one-way, to God, the air of afterlife, to the immortal man in the mirror. His ears are wide as a well, and poets pour into, down it, for what will use it. This well, unlike any other, finally, for once, is bottomless, and the water's usage and whereablouts are any body's guess, until one's on the other side. Where does it go? and it keeps filling with the voices of soul, the natures of human, and as any letter of weight sent, I hope the answer's this gets to you.

, , , , , , , , , , , Best eternal regards,
, , , , , , , , , , , Highest respect,
, , , , , , , , , , , Deepest loves from a forever student,
, , , , , , , , , , , , , Abe

Watch Yourself

The life is a drifting—
drifting through carrying below
a dirty secret, until that which will be
becomes what is and what was not—
only on the TV do things are real-
ly meant to be—in the mind, is
a vision of the mind: the brain,
that CAT scan blurs all the waves
that run through your head
and all that’s left is that green
electronic image onscreen.
Personality, however bold,
is weak.

She can save you.
She loves you, and tells you
in a voice youknow; “What the
fuck are you doing? Can you
hear me?” rings through the head.
It’s like Night of the Living Dead
but you’re halfway there dead
and the fungus is clawing to
the remainder of body
that’s still yours: a limb,
an elbow, maybe your jaw.
Teeth clenched, fists tight
and you crave that kiss for living like
Sleeping Beauty did, to give it
and wake her up for yourself.

Last Night

It hooks on and tugs. It must challenge. That’s its nature.
A continual challenge that you harbor and would die without, eventually. I died.

Dead one is fertile the next.
Ferns spring with time-lapse effects.

The cold place, the sun was only bright.
The skin was fresh as newborn skin, felt foreign somehow coating my flesh.

Dew cleared eye opening
Droplets dripped down condensed from dew.

Bodies lie but soil lies
Back in that theatrical stage, the bark reaches out of sight and vegetation crawls.

conversation in sleep

-Writers either have an intense will to be famous, or they have moments of grandeur.

-Fame is worthless. If not for grandeur, what are we left to?--pieces of shit.