Hey everyone, glad you're reading words my fingers put into the computer realm, my name is Ross Heffi, I currently live in Ithaca, New York, and my darkest secret is that if reading as a concept and practice was made corporeal in the form of a human, I would marry it. or, failing that, stalk it relentlessly and passionately. My favorite medium is Poetry, because Poetry allows me to expound in an unusual manner, offering many possibilities that prose doesn't. My favorite poet is Wallace Stevens, for reasons that should be obvious to even neophytes of Art. I don't ape him because I'm not a fool, and know that I could never match him in his element.
Reading is, to me, the highest and most noble pastime. The illiterate and semi-literate confuse and sadden me. I believe I was born in the wrong era, and I must tearfully admit I consider this an age of philistinery. These are lurid times, when the flashy draw hooks many minds and leads them to ruin, to ignorance, and to laziness. Without thoughts, wise men, and the dreams of peaceful minds, the world will be robbed of promise and hatred will continue to spread. Wealth will turn to ash without us, and our voices are still strong, still awaiting the return of the audience.
My favorite poem (of my own making) 'Destiny's Argot' concerns a man whose fear for the world drives him mad, and into the arms of the muses (as well as other mysterious forces) and nearly eighty high quality lines (probably the best work I ever succeeded in doing) detail his altered state and journey through a supermarket/drug store, and interactions with shoppers. If you, the reader, are interested in Ross Heffi, or simply adore poetic endeavor, I would recommend reading 'Destiny's Argot' which is available on a trial basis from Wattpad, and also on Goodreads, where you can add me as a friend. You may be inspired to make a purchase of my first and only collection Hell is Pieces of my Heart on Hot Asphalt (digital and paper copies available), for which I would be very, but not eternally (I do not believe the immortal soul), grateful.
@HeffiTymes. Ross Heffi is on Tumblr, as well, serving fresh, daily compositions ,and accepting commissions. Yeah that just happened, my dear reader, and many more adventures await and I will give it my all to produce and curate some of the best poetry of this era, comparable perhaps to the masters of old, and the ancient demigods of poetry, the most learned and exquisite and legendary figures. Of Sappho and Homer you have doubtless heard much, but there are others I can name, which you probably could not. In any case, my list of most admired poets is too long and probably too confusing to list here, so I do invoke the ancients and humbly request they invoke the Muses for me. This latest poem is entitled 'Forever is a Distant Laughing Brook' and is dedicated to the unpopular and much disliked blog P u b l i c a t o and was written at the request of Anonynimous Bosch for a reasonable fee, which is charged for most commissions except at the request of true lovers, lost souls, dedicated fans, certain members of the media, and under-14 poetry fanatics.
Forever is a Distant Laughing Brook
May this simple sacred day, like all others,
Be profitable, and free of dark druthers.
The sun shines not for the internet denizen
Nor is anything granted to the errant netizen.
No word or novel combination of words is
Sufficient for the workmanlike writer to be heard.
The vitriol and base language of the blogger fall
On ears quite deaf, and blind withal.
In despair, the writer turns to a loftier brother
A comrade who worships the Earth Mother,
Who will display such craft and skill,
As would make the genii stand still,
And slackjawed, among the stunned rest,
To read from a poet so clearly the best.
A minor test of miraculous ability,
The difference in style and quality,
Will shock and outrage habitual readers,
With a poem so great, it makes
Mere prose seem like dry sawdust flakes
In a cracked bowl, on the sill of
A forgotten window, in a shack
Near a dry riverbed, in a haunted jungle.
The nastiness of such realizations,
Will drive the audience out of machinations
Set by bastard bloggers, and base braggarts,
And known spendthrifts, and even laggards.
Alas, not all writers can be splendiferous,
Magnanimous, talented, so clearly born
For greatness that their words shine brighter
Than incandescence and all fluorescence:
In the cracked bowl on the sill, behind
The forgotten window, a fibrous tuft of sawdust
Stirs itself, and attempts meekly to escape,
After decades of dreams, it hasn't the means.
Doomed and knowing it, the chip
Off the old and torturous and monotonous block
Listens to a strange noise, not shrill or monstrous,
Nor punctual, but breezy and pleasant,
The far off sound of eternity:
Haunting laugh of a running brook, drifting
Across the dusty riverbed, through the broken
Panes, it sounds to the pathetic flaky flunkey
Like the promise of a brighter day,
The ear of a tastemaker,
Hand of an editor,
Mind of an agent,
Serious things.
'Publication,'
It whispers.
'Royalties,'
It intones.
'Cocaine parties,'
It groans.
'New York City, sepia-toned.'
It invokes.
'Admirers,'
It chokes.
'Do not be afraid,'
It chimes.
"For you I sing this elegiac serenade."
© Ross Heffi, 2014
Ross Heffi's newest collection, tentatively titled A Lone and Ardent Firefly's Lament, will be released sometime in Q1 2015.
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