Introduction to "Still Life with Icons"

I have come to think of this poem as my "Wasteland". As conceited as this may sound, I make the relationship based on several factors:

1. I consider this one of my best "long" poems.
2. This is one of the few poems I've written which would seem to benefit from footnotes.
3. Eliott referred to his poem as the reflection of a middle-age nervous breakdown. Although I was not middle-age at the time, I think this poem also reflects a sort of emotional breakdown.

The title was inspired by Tom Robbins' novel Still Life With Woodpeckers. There is little to recommend this novel, aside from its arresting title, lovely descriptions of Seattle weather, and typical Robbins-style meditations on a pack of Camels. The weakest aspect of the novel is the on-going battle the author has with his electronic typewriter. I share his dislike of this type of machine (at the time, mine was an Epson), but the joke got old rather quickly.

The poem reflects several events during a period of about two years in my life.  In that sense, it may be a sort of still life, an emotional photograph of a particular person at a particular time.  It would be tempting to say the poem was about these events, or my reaction to them. These themes are for the reader to decide. Hopefully, the footnotes will not lead the reader toward any one interpretation but will simply facilitate the process of arriving at an interpretation of one's own. The worthy seeker will find the link for my e-mail address, should you wish to share your interpretation.

As I mention in the footnotes, I had been reading the work of Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac around this time. Both men made fictions of their lives, to the point that they gave their friends fictitious names. I was building a body of work which featured several of my friends, and I chose to create fictitious names which would remain constant throughout the body of work. So, if someone figures out who "Andrea" is, they'll know who I'm talking about every time I use that name.

OK. So I had delusions of grandeur.

Sometime after I wrote this, I was involved in a writers' group.  We shared and critiqued each others' work.  Over time, the critical response to my poetry became more and more negative, until it became clear to me that I was muttering to myself.  If this poem comes out of automatic writing, and is a communication from the subconscious, what was I  muttering to myself?

As I look back on this poem, it is a sort of fun-house mirror. It stirs up the feelings of that time. I remember I lived through these things. Obviously, I survived. Although the original (see note 14) was a type of automatic writing, it's striking to me - in retrospect - how certain things stand out due to repetition.  Faces, animals, the city, traveling ... these are icons (see note 12) which point to a theme or themes.

This is not a comfortable poem to re-read.  For me, it holds all the dislocation of a mild epileptic seizure.  But maybe – just maybe – that's the point.

James Collins
January 2002
Oklahoma City, OK