Prescott poet Kenneth White refers to himself as “old-school.” “Rhyme and meter are the threads that hold the fabric of my poems together.” In traditional verse, rhyme scheme and meter lend a musical structure to a poem, making it memorable for recitation, and often adding a lovely echo to a poem. Kenneth feels his appreciation of traditional poetry started in his teen years, “influenced by listening to song lyrics and from reading the poems of others who used that style.” His inspirations include classic poets like “Poe, Dickenson, and of course the Bard, as well as Kipling, Blake, Frost and Edna St. Vincent Millay.” During those early years he was also struggling with personal challenges that led him to writing. “My family had just imploded. Divorce, relocation and displacement landed me in the care of an aunt and uncle. Most likely it was my isolation from my family, coupled with my sensitive nature, an interest in folk music and a growing familiarity with the work of other poets, that began my writing.”
Kenneth also writes short stories and memoir. “My stories run the gamut, from sci-fi to quixotic romance, fairy tales to ghost stories. Many are fictional tales laced with historical accuracy, and some based on true-life experiences.” He was also a musician for decades, playing guitar, piano and assorted stringed instruments, and writing music and lyrics for hundreds of songs.
Ten years ago, shortly after moving to Prescott, Kenneth was involved in a mountain-bike accident that left him with a permanent spinal-cord injury. He spent six months in hospitals, rehab facilities and nursing homes. He did not write at all during his initial recuperation, but over the years he turned to poetry again, finding that poems fulfill “the creative need to express, as well as the urgency of my heart and mind to empty its contents into the sea that is my soul.”
Kenneth’s poetry covers a wide range of topics and themes. “Sometimes it is beauty or the dark side of human nature. Sometimes it is injustice, spiritual or secular. It may be a memory of lost love. Themes of religious, spiritual, metaphysical/magical references permeate my work.” He appreciates the depth and nuance that poetry communicates to readers. “Poetry can convey feelings, thoughts and ideas, and gently weaponize them with wisdom and beauty in a single sentence or with just a few words.”
In discussing “The Purloined Poem,” Kenneth says, “I have an affinity with Poe’s style. I suppose it is simply a bow to his work, the imagery notwithstanding, his use of old English (though an American) has always played a part in my homages to other writers, like Shakespeare, Burns and Kipling. The image of any of these writers, perhaps sobered by the conditions of their lives, or insanely intoxicated because of them, bent over parchment, recording by candlelight the utmost depths of their souls, is a far cry from the computer-driven efforts of a modern creator of the art.” “Where the Martian Rose Blooms” reflects Kenneth’s “lifelong fascination with the stars/universe and wondering What if?”
Kenneth describes his poems as “gift-wrapped in metaphorical beauty.” Ultimately he strives to create carefully worded poems that have an emotional effect on his readers. “I want to pour the best wine I can make into the finest-crafted cups and let others drink as they wish.”
I will touch my quill to page tonight
And fashion poems by candlelight
As a demon, from the shadows, watches grimly
I will write of the sea and of Annabelle Lee
And of the raven that sleeps deep within me
He dreams of nightshade and the pendulum blade
And of Baltimore solemnly weeping
Now every night the demon is there
Suspended in the chambered air
With every fear I'd ever felt wrapped round it like a shawl
From its gaping mouth I heard
The screeching of a wounded bird
As the face of Poe on the mirrored wall
Danced like Prospero at the ‘ball’
Upon my door the incessant knocking
As though the ghost of fate was stalking
Like the clock of doom
That ticks away until the moment of our death
The demon now my soul possessing
Enslaved and kept it from confessing
My love for the lost Lenore unto my dying breath
So this my final purloined poem
Will burn upon the alter stone
Where Amontillado and Fortunato
Drank deep that which the demon poured
This toast to Edgar Allen's soul
In a cup too small for the wine it holds
Like the mask the ‘Red Death’ wore
Shall be lifted nevermore
Have you received my reply yet?
My dearest friend from beyond the bright moon
I grow ever old and at times may forget
How distant the fields where the Martian rose blooms
The message you sent in childhood’s short day
By the light of an ancient star burning
Filled me with hope that there might be a way
To fulfill the dream of my childhood returning
But I’ve yet to find, though try as I might
A map, a ship or the funds to purchase
At ticket to witness the Martian night
And finally reveal to my soul its true purpose
So until I learn to live without air
Or travel without this flesh from the womb
I must be content to but dream I am there
At play in the fields where the Martian rose blooms
Dee Cohen is a Prescott poet and photographer. deecohen@cox.net.
