As April is National Poetry Month, I felt it was worthwhile to discuss this unique literary form and my own personal experiences.

Back in my poetically lush days in Boston in the early 1990’s, when verse took over the driver’s seat to my creative output, I met several other writers and creatives who were instrumental to my inspiration and development. I had written several individual pieces that had some element of magic or the circus to them. Why these images and themes were predominant is beyond the scope of my recollection. However, I began to discern a connection of some sort.

A notion began to form in my mind, a tale of a young magician learning his craft and trying not to be overwhelmed by it; continuing on through his development; and finally coming to the end of his days, wondering if any of it had any impact on anyone. This could be a parallel tale with that of a poet.

I started putting together other pieces, found a connective thread, and realized there could be thematically similar interludes that identified the passing of time in the life of the magician/poet. These would be other pieces already written. The ‘magic’ part required further writing.

What came out of that was a collection entitled “The Art of Legerdemain.” Many of the pieces contained obscure mythological references and archaicisms chosen specifically for their mysterious sensibilities. Without the benefit of a detailed guide from thirty plus years ago, many are open to interpretation. This particular piece came from early in the collection, showing the fascination a young acolyte has for the work to be before him. It previously appeared in the Mid America Poetry Review, Spring 2000, Volume 1, Number 1

WALLACE NOW.  STEVENS LATER

This is not time for transubstantiation.

That alchemy is left for wizards.

I know of wine & blood and lead & gold

and baser things besides.  They sit

like knick-knacks on my coffee table.

I am too fascinated by wands and canes,

cards, rings, golden cones, coloured balls,

the blur of the hierophants arms

in his many jagged manipulations,

and when a dove appears from darkness.

I stare at auroras awed,

let rhinestones glitter in my eyes.

‘Pizzazz’ to me is still a sacred word,

more holy than ‘Amen’, more sanctified than ‘Love’,

an ever-present credo of my youth.

It is the song of words that sparkles

more than the words themselves.

The magic dance, the play of light,

a language foreign to these green ears.

I hear but know I cannot understand.