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Marc Creamore | This Begging Bowl World
walk down abandoned railroad tracks,
dream hobo dreams, sip from a baroque fountain
but nothing is ever going to alter
this begging bowl world until we realize
that we need to rewrite the map that leads to
the core of the collective heart
where our wounded thirst will finally be quenched
For years I have developed a massive callus on my fingers from holding a pen in my hand and scribbling, carving words onto blank white paper. I never thought that it would lead me to any form of personal recognition, nor did I care for such, because recognition is meaningless, only another particle of illusion given birth to through the womb of the ego. But somehow, regardless of whatever financial or domestic highs and lows I have had to face there was always the poetry. I have often called it a nagging old crone that won't leave me alone, won't give me rest . . . but she, whether she has been a devilish or angelic muse, has always been with me and I have been ever thankful.
I recall the days of my youth, when I was either listening to music or holding a book in my hands because nothing else seemed to really hold any importance for me. As a product of the so called sixties, I guess I couldn't be unaffected by all that enveloped me at that time. I was young, vibrant and both caressed and battered by what I was witnessing and experiencing. Thus, I began trying to chronicle all the feelings and questions that were welling up from within. I read any style of poetry I could get my hands on, some of it bored me to tears, but there were other voices that galvanized me, inspired me and I started to take my little dabbles on paper a bit more seriously.
However I was totally undisciplined, still am for that matter. I took no heed of what the academics had to say, cared not if what I was writing was deemed to be a bastardization of the poetic idiom. I simply went down my own avenue, studied the ancient poetry of China and Japan, devoured Beat literature and the nuances of the singer/songwriters of the day. I became a disciple of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, believed that they were allowing language the freedom to explore the deepest regions of the mind, both consciously and unconsciously. Thus, I began writing very rapidly with very little editing, trying to tap in to the natural linguistic music that I started to believe was inherent in everyone.
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