at UT Austin:
The Mystery of Creativity
____________________
Once and Future Projects
-Alex B.
-Natashia
-Olga
-Alex Y.
TASP 2003 (W)rap-up
I.
Float back in time: these wine-dark, six weeks past,
think back through Austin's bleary morning simmer
These poets, writers thought their words would last-
but which still shine? And which have turned down dimmer?
Does creation have a source divine?
What drives the poet, what drives any maker?
Does madness torch the true inspired line?
Can sublime craft redeem the noisy faker?
And do we surpass Plato and Aristotle
in study of creation's golden goose?
Or does Dr. C. its fair neck throttle,
turning another noxious f-word loose?
(And can we con ourselves that paranomasia
is worth a try before we all go crazier?)
II.
Descending further, we hear the duende's cry,
from Andaluz down to the dark wood's edge.
Look and hear with care: a breath away
the presences take form; they reach and nudge
as we pass; they shuffle their sad leaves. We stick
together; many lost their shadows. Others
never drawn to darkness, yet by force
were thrown there, think of us as lights, which gather
round their stories. What can we retrieve
from these dark woods? That words can guide us part
way out? Or that the words that live and shine
most brightly stand close against its shade?
III.
What next? The process of creation!
Eliot hitchhikes with tradition.
But whose tradition? Tell us please,
and spare me Bloom's anxieties.
(But we beg for Yeats on bended knees.)
We wave our wands and spin our rants
turn enemies to hawks and ants.
We learn what spells and charms to say;
keep ghosts and unicorns at bay.
Create your world-stand proud, elated-
until the critics evaluate it.
Can artistic taste be fed
from a pose disinterested?
If you find beauty in your sleep
must we file by, like nodding sheep?
Or does E equals mc squared
govern art too? Are we prepared
for wild artistic anarchy?
Is the only constant, contingency?
IV.
Robot bodies- soul machine
Chemist creates worlds unclean
Clotted air- seas of shit
Lyric poets swim in it
What would Thoreau think of me
dancing, dancing DDT?
What's your task? New creation?
Or hold the line from devastation?
Eighteen TASPers burning bright
tackle the Muse in broad daylight!
Comic, lyric, logical,
choked, heartbroken-we're enthralled!
Seminar now is done,
nice excuse for other fun.
Next weekdays to the Longhorns bring
a sad, hot town where no birds sing.
TASPer Merlins are outta here.
Snap your fingers- disappear...
- Prof. D'Arcy Randall
8/8/03