With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Jeffery Beame lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. He’s just finished a collection of poems, What Inn Is This?, focusing on the “creative mysticism of Emily Dickinson.”
Two voices speak in this book. One is the voice of patriarchal pontification. The other, an “embodied voice, and an impassioned one” of the natural world and the world of woman.
Poetry, then, for me, is a journey, a pilgrimage. It is much like the alchemist’s search for the philosopher’s stone, the knight’s search for the Holy Grail, the farmer’s for a good harvest, or the cook’s creation of a nutritious delicious meal. It is my way of connecting with the world.
Wholistic health, I believe, not only should embrace ancient traditional methods of healing but also modern technological methods which exhibit the potential for openness.
He is a poet of immediacy, of the nearness of all things to us in the inner and outer worlds, and of those things we bury, by our blindness, in the rich compost of our lives. When I experience a Bly poem, I enter the miraculous energy of life and the awesome closeness and beauty of death.
The sixties seem to have been a disaster period as far as relationships between men and women go, though one thing did come forward. Women began to feel much more confidence in their own energies.