Title: Creativity: Where Poems Begin
Author: Mary Mackey
Publisher: Marsh Hawk Press
Genre: Literary Creation: Poetry
Pages: 110
ISBN: 9781732614123 (paperback)
Price: $18.00
Publication Date: September 2022
Review of Creativity, by Mary Mackey
By James Tipton
Where is creativity before it becomes the created thing? Mary Mackey’s new book, Creativity, explores the range of creativity itself: its subtle, pre-language source, experiences and people that helped inspire or discover it, and the poet’s journey from the depths beyond thought to the forming of a concrete, original image. People may think of art as its finished product—as, say, a beautiful sculpture. But what they don’t see are the chips of marble on the artist’s floor: Mackey shows us all the scattered chips and their usefulness for her.
She defines in her introduction the process of creativity as: “…the movement of an adult mind back to the radical innocence and vision of the very young child who sees, not only the reality we all share, but all those unnamed, unclassified parts of reality we learn to overlook as we grow older. “
Mackey consistently returns to the notion that the source of creativity is beyond categories. One has to go beyond the boundaries of the rational mind to find creativity waiting, like a jaguar beyond the flicker of firelight. She starts us with her visions and sensations as a child who can be “conscious and unconscious at the same time…float in infinity.” That child lives in the pre-verbal source of creativity. Adults talk her ”into reality” but at the price of abandoning “all that exists outside its walls.” She enters “the world of time, the world of words.”
Creativity takes us on her journey from the source of creativity to its manifestation as poems and her first novel, and back to the source, which she must rediscover after the rational mind has chased it out of her.
As a child in school, math, with its abstractions, makes her mind ”blank out.” But geometry, dealing with “solid, palpable things: shapes, forms, positions and angles” is a different thing. It’s a process of seeing the world in a specific, minute manner, which leads her to poetry. It’s all about the looking, noticing what’s there, the microcosms that surround us, as in her childhood perspective:
“…the world outside my window is on fire with autumn, and the leaves are blowing like sparks, torn off the trees by a wind that lifts them up and thrusts them toward the earth in wave after wave so the air seems filled with falling embers.”
Her art of noticing continues: “I study one leaf closely, following its flight. I study another leaf immediately next to it.” This close observation leads to a unity of subject and object, of seer and seen: “I feel a thrill of recognition, as if this room has joined the whirling world outside the window. As if both are for a single moment the same.” One could see this as another interpretation of Keats’s ”negative capability,” in which the subject is negated and becomes the object, but it’s more than that. It’s about a fundamental interconnection, the discovery of which emerges as poetry: “I want to sing the words in my head, the words that will go outside and merge with the leaves, and then return to me so I can put them down on paper.”
The structure of Mackey’s book itself is one of integration of rational language and vivid, intuitive imagery: she starts and ends each chapter with a poem that conveys in verse the essence of the chapter. The poems are carefully chosen as microcosms that bring the chapter to the reader on another, more subtle level.
Mackey traces in each chapter a source of inspiration for her, whether pleasant or unpleasant, such as the ecstatic visions of the high fevers, the wildness of the jungle, and the challenges of being a feminist in a non-feminist world. Each of these experiences is boundary-breaking, taking her beyond what she perceived before as the world. And going beyond boundaries takes us to the major journey of the narrator: to discover and rediscover the pre-language source of the poem itself. The book’s narration brings us her story in the present tense: it all unfolds now for her in reflection and for the reader in a style of presentational immediacy.
One experience separates her from the source of creativity, and that is, ironically, the path of the scholar. The Harvard senior thesis, the doctoral dissertation, the articles on literary criticism: even though they take her deeply into her field they take her out of the pre-verbal range of poetry: “my rational mind seems to have taken over at the expense of instinct, intuition, and ambiguity.” Since the act of creativity, and not logical, analytical, scholarly thinking is the deeper truth of her being, this lack of being able to write poetry brings her a sense of “disconnection, a dull ache, a background grief.” She asserts early in the book that “poetry continues after logic ends.” That is why she felt drawn to the worlds of the high fevers, why she loves the jungle: “In the jungle I will fall in love with wildness, and this love for wild things will make me into a poet.” The jungle frees her from the restrictive and relentless logic of the scholar.
So the last third of the book takes us to her rediscovery of the poetic source within her. And to do this she must abandon also the voices of other writers as well as her own scholarly voice. In the dark night of the soul, which, for her, was the dead-ends of her life throughout 1971, she “wrote and wrote, and the words flowed so easily it seemed as if they were being dictated by a voice apart from me, a voice somewhere deep in my brain that finally knew what poetry was.”
The last twenty pages of this little, but powerful book, bring us to the realization of jaguars. Mackey reflects: Jaguars are the keys that unlock the dream work for the shamans…or maybe it’s not a messenger I need, but some sort of technique that will lead me into those parts of my brain that have been inaccessible since I learned to speak. She eventually succeeds in this endeavor to be both “at a desk in a room in Berkeley, California, and…plunging ever deeper into a great ocean—boundless, infinite, and indescribable.”
Mackey simplifies and clarifies the source of poetry: it doesn’t involve the self-destruction of Rimbaud’s derangement of the senses, but a heightened awareness of the senses and of the intuition. Near the end of the book she takes us to the inception of a poem that comes not from suffering or from chaos but from the silent, wordless depths of the mind:
"After a while, ideas and images come bubbling up from the depths. A poem begins to form in my mind, not a complete poem, not a polished poem, but the seed of something. The poem does not come in words."
Read the book to find out more about where poems come from. Mackey’s style is immensely lucid, readable, and engaging. It is a trick to make the complex clear and the abstract concrete, but she does it. This book will be enlightening not just to anyone interested in the creative process, but also to creative writing students at all levels, discovering in themselves their own pre-language source.
-- James Tipton, PhD, Professor of English, College of Marin, and bestselling author of Annette Vallon, A Novel of the French Revolution (HarperCollins).
You can buy copies of Creativity at your local bookstore, on Amazon, or online from Small Press Distribution.
You Just Can't Win
I did a
really,
stupid
thing,
this week,
well, last
week.
I ran out
of Prozac.
I've been
really ill,
all week.
Feeling
nausea,
unable to
eat properly.
It's been a
fucking rough
week.
I finally got
it together
to pick up my
tablets today.
I think it's the
first time that
I've ever read
the instructions
on how to take
them .
It was all there,
" Don't let your
pills run out.
The withdrawal
symptoms
include
nausea,
sickness,
low mood.
Lack of energy,
and motivation.
Etc. "
Basically,
all the shit
I've been
going through
in the last, horrible
week.
It's
my
own
fault.
I
know
that.
But,
I look at
the side
effects from
taking them.
They're
almost
exactly the
same.
You
just can't
win.
Enchantment: After 422 Years A Drama That Evokes Shakespeare
By Federico Wardal
After 402 Years, A Play Evoking Shakespeare
402 years on the wings of destiny until it reappeared: Enchantment, an esoteric drama written around the year 1620 about Shakespeare, four years after his death.
About the author, we only know that they were somehow connected with Denmark, since on May 4, 1709 the drama was donated in Vicenza by King Frederick IV of Denmark to Andrew Quintus, on the occasion of his proclamation as “Count of Wardal”. Andrea Quinto loved the theater and as a Venetian loved The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet, both set by Shakespeare in the Veneto, and the co-star of Incantesimo is Hamlet, prince of Denmark. This could explain the reason for the gift.
The play, however, was given, not in Danish, but in English. It is believed that the author was very close to Shakespeare, perhaps a disciple of him, since, in one scene, Shakespeare’s temperament is described as someone who often changes his mood.
Enchantment intrigues as it describes Shakespeare’s creative mechanisms relating to inventing Hamlet, Ophelia, Richard III, King Lear, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth and Juliet and Romeo. But there is also an intense scene with the character of Death and some prophecies about today’s world. Whoever wrote it is surely an esoteric who wrote the drama with the method of “automatic writing”, that is, through the connection with a spirit: that of William Shakespeare.
There is much to understand between the lines of the text, in which secret codes may be hidden that could be related to political secrets of northern European countries at the time of King Frederick IV of Denmark. All this does not affect the extraordinary theatrical value of the text. Its plot is totally unique. An actor playing Hamlet, at the moment of the appearance of the ghost of his father, the king, murdered by his uncle, is captured by the spirit of Shakespeare, who, during a journey into the afterlife, makes him meet with his most famous characters.
It is interesting that if the automatic writing takes place under dictation by a spirit, by means of a special concentration or trance. Also the actor, co-star of the drama, is already in a state of special concentration or trance, for this reason he has the possibility of communication with the spirit of Shakespeare. The text clearly describes a fact known to few: the timescale of humans is different from that of ghosts. For this reason, the actor can take time off from his Hamlet play and travel with Shakespeare to the afterlife and then return to the scene, continuing the Hamlet play, without the audience noticing his absence in the least!
The richness of the text is impressive indeed. The author must have been a great scholar and soon it will be discovered who he or she is. After 1709, the text again aroused interest and was translated, also in Vicenza, into Italian around the year 1800 by Countess Lucrezia Quinto, great-granddaughter of Andrea Quinto.
Then it was forgotten again, but now it is finally back in the light. Here it is in English and Italian.
A Sad Affair For Celluloid
When they can't
see the obvious you
might want to tell them to
move to a new microscope
telescope or a crystal ball
without blemish or cracks.
A young bartender
friend who's cross stitched
her name to private
thoughts with enticing
gold thread talks to me
more than slightly upset.
I see her eyes red
as if she's escaped from
hell or found love
in a fire sale.
I find out the latter is true.
Her boyfriend and another
bartender are involved
in a film noir plot
with betrayal
the smoking gun
in their manicured hands
adding special effects.
Such as big tears
late night calls from hospitals
police stations and a wax
museum where alibis
melt under combined
duress and inspection.
And I hear Vincent Price
say-no one is winning here.
The boyfriend's cute as
a greeting card, living rent
free with her
steals cash too from her
purse while she sleeps
after coming home at
5 or 530 am.
He has no job
though he's been looking
for months-you gotta
admire tenacity.
Yet she doesn't
blame him, she blames the other
bartender saying
"She knew he was mine."
I would ask to see
papers of ownership but she’s
distraught as a dancer
whose music has been turned off.
I could tell her guys
like that don't belong
to anybody. They just take until
they move on to someone else
with more to take from.
I find it all too exhausting.
"How could she do
this to me," she asks.
Once again blaming
the wrong person.
"I thought she was
my friend." Tears
fall from eyes
azure but now dim
and dark as nightfall.
I tell her it all sounds like
a sad affair for celluloid
with actors chosen only
for scandals in their past.
My comment doesn't register
its footprints in water
as she excoriates her former
best girlfriend so fiercely
I can't hear anymore.
Dispassionate, I pay, head
outside to the stifling warmth
embracing me like a desperate
old lover who won't ask much.
Which drained is all I've got
wondering if in Hell
there's a fire sale
for my soul. or
others like it.
Broken Camera Snapshots
I hang upside down
with my mouth
duck taped
it is our
first date.
Holding a gun
she dares me again
to steal her heart.
Tease of
the warmth of spring
between arguments.
Then love disappears
a butterfly venturing
to wider nets.
A final meeting
lacking even one
moment of grace.
A bouquet of roses
drowned in tears
floats in river.
False Fantasies
I just want
to ravage her madly
he says. in ways
far from Orthodox
on a bed or in grass
even sand, adding she
is all he thinks of.
This young movie star
I'm unaware of.
I tell him to be real
as if he could.
To focus on the
bartender, both
cute, young and
for months now
giving him far more
free drinks than me.
Though I'm a lot more
generous with tips.
He details a dream
that follows the
screenplay of one
of the starlet's films.
Where she meets
him in another
country, they
become lovers
flying to Spain
where he proves
his love, killing a
bull fighter who tries
to assault her holding
sword and cape.
Or maybe I just
made that last part
up like a poem
where any ending
becomes a lie
or close or…
I go play pool
returning to
find him trying
to convince the
waitress she should
go with him to Spain
where he can kill
a bull for her. Maybe
a bull fighter.
She looks at him
like he's crazy.
I do too as I sit
down next to him
and switch to whiskey.
the violets snort without me
tele
comic
scram
bled
which shannon?
a wintry eye
& high beams
you’ve been
silent
skull popcorn
friends help
wilma!a ladder into the television
I miss the winchell’s
& a normal king’s dinner
wallet toe$
a numbered eye
a sporty nectarine
a serious mammal
a friend of the sun
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Love affair with cigarettes
You've kissed my lips,
but why didn't you feel me?
You've touched my fingers,
but why didn't you hold me?
Am I not worth you,
Can't you set me free?
You lighten yourself among others,
the ones whom I loved,
the ones whom I've been loved by,
But I've always been left behind,
Will I ever call you mine?
I stand helplessly,
to see you tasting people
in front of my eyes,
But I stand hopefully
someday I will not be dull
and you'll be my prize.
Many say, you're a menace,
yet I'm ready to kiss and caress,
Never mind,
I'll see you again soon,
kissing my loved and dear ones,
I'll be sadly happy to see you
healing their wounds and burns.
Woken Walks
And the roads
seem alone in
the naive night,
do they despise
being lonely,
or do they enjoy
this presence of
them only,
I've tried to know,
I walk down roads,
but they don't sense
my presence,
and I shout at them
for my relevance,
still, they hide under
the pretence of ignorance,
I guess I disrupt their peace
in the dreary dark,
and somewhere they answer,
they don't like getting marked,
emptiness is what they crave
but why am I here,
do I want the same?
Sniffs
Smell, odour, aroma and fragrance
Always chase the good kinds,
at any stance, at any chance,
good or bad, who defines?
Where are my boxers,
in my house, I shout
Lie they under the table,
worn out and torn out
I pick them up
put them under my nose
Call me gross
But this is what I do alone
behind the doors closed.
Why do I do this,
I don't have any reason,
probably, the odour and aroma
makes me feel human.
Is it bizarre or do you practice it too?
find those boxers in the cart,
don't think much, just do
feel them, sniff them
wear them and dance,
witness the smells transgress
into a fragrance.
Saturday
Saturdays are dreadful
I stay entirely in the cubicle,
stare at the heap of clothes,
the heap so weak,
that it couldn't stand
for a single week,
I see dirt on the fabric and
the shirt hopefully stares at me,
waiting to hold and to be held
but I won't, and scarcely
she will feel my scars
on my shoulders, belly
chest, back and arms,
Today I am just naked
lying down on the floor,
I talk, I sing, I scream, I cry,
It's raining but I feel dry,
and my throat is sore,
I stroke and scratch my wall
and fit the paint in my nails,
I fight my urges and deeply inhale,
I'm glad I succeed or I'm sad
I succeed, I don't want to know,
All I wish is this day to move,
I'll put clothes on my body
and wear fancy shoes,
I will run away astray
without feeling weary,
I need a different day,
Saturdays are dreary.
Self-portrait
Mirror's
a window,
inside we see,
trying to be
real and free
irresponsibly!
lying
on the beach towels
sunburnt nudes
in a vintage
Playboy
Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh
cresting waves
she tells him how
rough she likes it
doing a cartwheel
before the surf
M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin
he fans her with
the wine menu
after a swim
and a cold shower
still feeling hot
M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin
pretty bobbies
in an updo hairstyle
removing pins
the night falls
down to her waist
Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh
picotee edge
white amaryllis
on her lacy lingerie
untying the ribbons
with his teeth
Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh
