Anson Gonzalez

Evolution of a Poet
I started to become a poet at a very early age though I didn't realize it then. Before my first adjustment to an acceptance of the mediocrity of my existence I must have started upon that road. For in the cadences of time, in the interstices of occasions when caught in the powerlessness of my infant role in the set of interactions between myself and parents, teachers and other institutions, there were those moments of purity, of clarity, when one transcended the mundane and the mediocre. Such exquisite moments, short lived, often experienced under a cool Sunday afternoon tree, or inexplicably in the privacy of a broken down outhouse, or late-night staring trying to drown out Oedipal annoyance at complaining springs, were shattered by books, or chores, or siblings (in equally intensive and exhaustive numbers).

Manipulating in a role set to achieve the least disturbing interactions led of course to a succession of compromises with associates, friends, lovers, wife and self. Again, only in the passings between these interactions and in tangential turnoffs and turnings, where self-expression, and indeed selfishness manifested itself did moments of clarity recreate themselves. How to keep and cherish them, how to share them, how to glorify them, became possible in writing, mainly poetry.

And what poems. The first ones gone in a fit of destruction have removed all traces of adolescent ineptitude. These were mainly the outpouring of a young and inexperienced heart, hungry and lonely (and misfitting), seeking love and life. And regeneration.

Then with life's course past the rapids, the forgetfulness of frenzy, and frenzied Saturday nights slowed down to the tempo of contemplation again, the moments began to recur occasionally. The lost moments of clarity, the pure sensation, were revived and recreated now in verse.

The need for skill and craft became apparent, and was pursued in conjunction with the belated apprenticeship and paying of dues, the frenzied compensation for lost time tossed away in pseudo-professionalism, hacking prose and pedantry. The river has widened, the contemplation deepened, the moments lessened. And yet the need remains to place it all there in verse. One, at least, for the school children; one, at least, for my country; one, perhaps, for those who follow. For hope.

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