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The Warrior Poet Group

Behold the Literary Revolution

Dave's Philosophy:

Writing is an open door into a giant feedback loop where the artist creates in order to understand. Since the apparatus of creation is flawed and incomplete, once piece cannot embody such a universal, absolute, and total whole. Therefore, writing can only be used to understand a very small mode of experience. The mode seeks a context that can only be provided by the creation of more art. As the poet T. Crunk says, "What we mistook for flight / was only the long struggle / to surface…"

In essence, art—writing—is a vicious and wonderful cycle. Patience is crucial; practice is key. All pieces are practice; each one leading to something greater, more defined, and precise. This means that an artist's merit can only be rendered through a macrocosm; that is, how his or her work fits into the larger whole of literature. Each creation holds the echoes of another voice or experience. This being said, the artist should not worry about critics, nay-sayers, fans, or brown-nosers. He or she should be worried about two things only: truth and fun. A writer should strive to understand his or her world and have a damn good time doing it. The quest for truth leaves room for many things—criticism, lament, anger, hatred, violence, love, beauty, grace, praise, acceptance—and requires a sense of levity to take the edge off or put the edge on.

Every living being has the capacity for creation and art; therefore, the artist isn't as special as he or she might think. Writers are simply people who chose to render their experience with words rather than another medium. Writing is a process by which we understand and create meaning, a way by which we give context to our short and quiet lives. The way I see it, we are each one drop in an ever expanding ocean. Enjoy the swim while it lasts.

For more information check out Dave's blog: davidharrity.blogspot.com.

Ayin

I wonder if faith
is walking by

sound and not by
sight, because

this morning I
went out while

the houses were still
dark and shut

my eyes. There was
one bird calling

into the cold, then
another answered,

then another, until
one bird cry

opened into the
sound of many

lifting their
bodies through

chaos and swift
noise—a thousand

birds became one
deep flutter

and I let
my eyes see

the field empty
and prayed

for sight through
every single

sound that
blooms from you.

FROM MEMORY

This morning,

There are birds
somewhere close out the window.
They begin to rise and rake

and the glazed ground.

I lie attached

Our ribs together;

Your hair is tangled,

like faucets, open and steady

Later, when I am coherent,

some lightless place around us,
emptiness needs to be filled,

Driving back
down State Road 1980,
I speed by a pasture,
punctuated with livestock,
the hills roll over
one another.
Outside the fence
is a brilliant pink tree,
fully bloomed,
flaring like a torch;
panging with color
like it swallowed
then sent back
the dusk sunlight.

It is bright now-
an hour's
worth of light
has brushed me broad.
Each dawn I am
here to accept
this day, to welcome
what light comes-
its warmth has traveled
far to find me.

I remember that

of my father:
his voice

I heard him say,

Then we are

sawing wood, the blade's teeth are jammed,

They are

His life has been this way:
even, like the face of this slab of wood.

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The Warrior Poet Group

Behold the Literary Revolution

Dave's Philosophy:

Selected Poems by David Harrity