Abstraction

The poem 'Loose Change' by Thonatos is written in a way that, without the title, could be difficult for some to understand. Even with the title, some friends of mine admitted they're not sure they'd understand the poem is simply about finding change dropped in the street. While Thonatos has no notes on this poem specifically, the writer does talk about the problem with subtracting details: "there are times when i want to write i choose to leave certain details out. i know that in certain cases this risks no one but myself understanding what i've written. i don't see that as 'bad' really because not everything i write is meant to be a great work but rather another mark passed on the way to it. stepping stones. and this doesn't make them irrelevant but they are what they are. if someone has to think a little more should they read my poetry, i don't think i'm being mean or sly. i would think if a second or third pass reveals a little more on each inspection for the reader, they've discovered something about themselves in the process somehow." I'm not sure what Thonatos means to imply by a reader discovering something about themselves and some would insinuate that this is in fact a gross display of arrogance on Po's part. But Thonatos is/was complex in personal philosophy and artistic techniques, sometimes swinging wildly from one attitude or disposition on a topic to the next. Cynacism and frustration are sitting side by side with hopefulness and sincerity in Thonatos' observations. I enjoy reading 'Loose Change' because each time I have, I enjoy it's simplicity and also think of times I've discovered a dime or quarter laying on the sidewalk and remind myself not to be too terribly upset if I drop them myself. Perhaps someone else will be 'a little richer for the pause'.

Backflips for Pablo

That is the title for the most recently posted poem to the Thonatos poetry journal, bubblingbrain. I think the note on this poem from Po is interesting:

“I asked Pablo out and he said ‘yes’! i came home and skipped around my apartment for fifteen minutes. he’s already made me happy and he’s done nothing more than say ‘yes’.First guy in so many dry seasons of nothingness. So nervous but hid that enough i suppose for him to agree. he’s big, and he’s beautiful and so sweet. now that i’m meeting him, i find that old voice kicking me in the teeth and rattling my nerves about past failures, or those i’ve left behind or how i must refrain from revealing too much. thus, this very quickly jotted poem."

I can't be sure or unsure if 'Pablo' really exists. It's a common name in Spain, and as Thonatos seems to have traveled at least once to France, it is possible he or she found a lover down in Spain or on the border perhaps. It's difficult when all you have is speculation.

While 'Pablo' is clearly a masculine name, and Po's notations reveal a feminine reaction to an agreeable crush, the poem itself has a few masculine overtones. More importantly than any of this to me however, is the last bit of Po's confession to the nervousness about revealing him or herself to this 'Pablo'. For whatever reason, Thonatos is clearly struggling with self-revelation on some level and this is apparant not just here but again, in the near lack of specific personal details. I hate to harp but it's too obvious not to consider.

What was going on with Thonatos? Is it possible that Po was an outlaw or, outside of the law? Or had something so devestating occurred in Po's life that even the most benign questions would perhaps require some reference to it, and Po simply did not want to risk reliving it on any level? Thonatos is clearly too clear headed to be a paranoid, so I rule out mental illness.

Also, 'Pablo' may very well be the muse other of Thonatos' works. And it's very clear to me, having Thonatos' poems and writings on hand, that Po is a deeply romantic person. The love felt for lovers and freinds is genuinine, in my mind, even when Po's apparant mishandling of lovers results in an end. I think Thonatos would be called a 'playboy' or 'playgirl' in our day and age, but that is too superficial a term. Those sorts have a meaness to them, a self-serving need for self-aggrandizement. But when Po is in love, it is deep and it is about that person, even though Po clearly had no interest in lifelong monogamy. Strike that. There are some writings that indicate an attempt. Some lover that struck Thonatos so deeply that they became 'the one muse', as Po puts it in another journal.

But, romantics must have romance, mystery, intrigue, danger etc etc. Subtract these from the relationship, and it will come to an end either by degrees or in big, fiery blow up. Thonatos reveals an enjoyment of dalliance, of the love of chasing and being chased, and being caught or catching. Moonlight, stars, wine, fire, and passion are metaphors and themes in many of Po's writings. When Thonatos is elated or in love, it is not submerged under a mask of sublime thinking. Po puts it right out there in all of its glory and all of its disaster. And this leads me to my next point about Thonatos.

There is very little guile in this artists writings. Reading some poetry, I have the feeling I am being fooled on some level or that the poet is walking me in circles for too long before getting to the point. Po does not rest on elaborate construction. Wether or not Po was as clear in personal conversations, I may never know. I have known some very talented people who on paper can absolutely slay my senses, but in conversation they are awkward and fumbling. There is some indication in 'Doing Backflips for Pablo' that Po suffered this dichotomy as well. For instance, there is a sense of surprise that 'Pablo' agrees to meet with and spend time with Po. And the poem is clear that Po must have gone through some period of isolation that undermined a confidence in his or her social skills.

I think, based on the notes, it is very fair to say this poem is definently in the first person relaying Po's own experience and is not fictional.

Respite In A Church

Thonatos, I think, struggled with or at least found the subject of faith interesting enough to ponder and write about. There are many pages where Po scribbles out this or that thought about God as the idea of, in particular, the Christian God is taught. This leads me to believe Thonatos had been reared with some religious influence. Perhaps a strong one. The fact that even as a child Po did not wholly accept religious teaching, and in fact did not seem to believe what was taught, demonstrates at least what was probably a very precocious child. In a strongly religious household, this tendency rarely is tolerated well by parents or family who accept certain beliefs to be true.

Given that, I think this probably forced Thonatos to develop an even deeper interior life than he or she might've normally had, even with a proclivity for expression through writing. In this respect, writing might have also served as a childhood survival tool. But this also may mean that Po felt an increasing lack of acceptance and may have over time learned to detach from the family. Thonatos would be the 'black sheep' in such a situation and probably resulted in some insecurity or worry or mistrust of people at times. I am generalizing of course. My speciality is not psychology.

Here is an excerpt from a visit to some church and this visit, like many other paths Po took, seems to be a catalyst for exploring not just what others believe, but what Po might have believed.

“the church in the middle of the town was empty in the mid-afternoon and i went inside for a respite from the heat.

the closest thing i have found to an evidence of any god is in human beings. and that does not prove the existence of a god, but rather that when human beings love beyond themselves and beyond their own needs in deference to another’s, it just shows that our good can be very good.

it’s receiprocity though and i probably sound like a cynic when i say that. if i treat you well, and you treat me well in return, we can live next to each other or with each other without harming each other. reciprocity for the common good. many animals we see ourselves as superior to, do this as well.

sitting in the church and staring up at the crucifix i find myself confused. don’t they believe jesus was resurrected? if he was, why do they insist on keeping him on the cross? religion is just good fiction really.

sometimes i think our lives just consist of a fight against tedium and boredom before death comes. just filling our lives with business and various interests to distract ourselves from the inevitable.

churches make me a little morbid.

if there’s no heaven when we die, will that be so bad? this is our lives, now, and that’s not so terrible is it? where is the god of these people who toil in the hot sun, bury their children from sickness, and age far too quickly? why do they attribute good to him, and not bad as well?

i tried confession once as a child but my claustrophobia got the better of me. when the priest told me to confess i told him i’d never sinned. then i asked him to confess his sins to me. he told me to get out.

i can’t even figure out what a sin is to this day. who decides what is sin and what isn’t? another person? and what makes that person so special? some other person saying they are? i have never been able to reconcile the idea of a god that would knowingly create a hell for one human soul and the same god referred to as ‘father’. what sort of an abomination of a father would, no matter his child’s stupidity, force them to suffer neverending torment? if there’s a wickedness, a cruelty, a spite and shallowness...it’s in that idea. that persona.

still, i like the quiet of the church. the earth tones and soft glow of the candles, the pretty stained glass that twists the colors of the sun into rainbows. i like the idea that people who can’t afford psychiatrists or drinking binges, have someplace that gives them a little relief from the turmoil of their often very difficult lives.

I liked hearing fairy tales as a child too. i knew they weren’t real but it didn’t matter. the idea is what counted. the idea of fairies and wizards and knights and dragons and leprechauns made me happy. and happiness can be so hard to find, for anyone.”

Thonatos On A Party

More of Po's notes:

“stuck with the cavier crowd last night. perilous invitations and obligations. not formally imposed but conceded to anyway.

the wealthy foolishly believe that by mere accumluation of money and posessions that somehow they also accumulate intelligence and creativity over the less fortunant. people talk about the deceitful nature of riches and this is one concrete example of it.

they bore me. they bore each other. there’s not enough champagne or fine wine in the world to numb them to this fact. drifting out on the veranda, eavesdropping, the laughter tinkles like cheap crystal, the smirks and winks reveal an inner ugliness so profane i find myself only ever wishing to retreat.

and the feigned interest in my craft by dusty old souls creaking and cracking in the disease of their hypocrisies, the condescending tones of the psuedo-intellectuals, as they fire questions at me about what poetry “means” or “why do we do it?”

“We?”. Well, I am occasionally assaulted by someone’s writings. tonite some knew i’d be attending and brought this or that peice of writing with them to get my opinion. i feel like a complaint box, just sitting there and having words dropped into to me. words the owners don’t really care about and forget as soon as they walk away.

why are the very rich so desperatly insecure? they never have enough and enough is never good enough. they are constantly competing with each other, even though there is always and always will be someone richer or poorer than themselves. do they think death will be kinder to them? i’m tired of thinking about it. they are often so wholly without personal merit, so uninteresting and banal and corrupted on some level that isn’t even exciting. so many of them yammer on about ethics and society and manners and morals, all the while flirting with each others husbands and wives or whispering and laughing with a wink and a nod about some pool boy had or some street waif exploited.

all the apparant beauty. the decor, the catering, the live musicians and intricately planned guest list. Yet underneath it all are dry bones and mold and slime. it’s frightening.

i truly feel these things and i truly should stop going to parties. the hardest part about being human, for me, is the occasional need to be near other humans.”

********************************************************************** Who did Thonatos know that threw such parties? Was Po close to this person, or was it a meeting of happenstance? Was this some wealthy patron who had read or heard of Po’s work and wanted a fresh face on their guest list, and an inspired poet at that? So often there lies underneath the surface of Po’s notes a hint of an immensely complex life or thought process, a life experience with a multitude of influences and I do not have the genius of Sherlock Holmes. I’m not sure there are enough clues left behind for even he to deconstruct the life of Thonatos.

In any event, Po’s feelings and inner turmoil over the excesses of the wealthy and the manner in which they are expressed clearly are an irritant to Thonatos. There is some indication that he or she barely tolerated such environs and I imagine Po imposing a civil manner on him or herself in all of this company while also planning an acceptable time to escape it. In other notes about this or that event, it is clear to me that Thonatos was not impressed by the superficial and, given the poetic nature, this is not surprising. It is the nature of the poet to express the obvious and the hidden to the best of their ability. It’s an artistic reflex, a creative compulsion and there are times that Po almost seems tortured by this fact. The objectivity needed and the often deeply sensitive nature of the poet drives them into seclusion over and over and this swinging back and forth between a need for solitude and a need for company is not well tolerated by many people. And probably why so many artists succumb to depression or try to escape the severe fluctuations in moods through substance abuse.

But Thonatos despised cliche’s of any kind, especially when they proved to be true, and the drunkard’s or junkie’s tendencies do not surface in Po’s works. Sometimes I sense an immense tension in Thonatos’ poetry and worry that my grandson’s suspicion that Po perhaps snapped somehow under that tension, once and for all, may be true. But if I believed that, I am not sure I could continue this project. Part of me needs to believe Thonatos is alive and will, perhaps, someday read these words.

Although, I sometimes imagine Po sitting on a mountain somewhere, scribbling into a notebook and paying no heed to the world’s agendas.

Thonatos: Some Short Poems

Here are some of Po’s very short, comparitively, writings. Po writes in this journal, on the inside flap: “Sometimes I just like to try to say something in as few sentences as possible. not an attempt to mimic haiku on any level. I don’t particularly like most haiku. The great stuff is great. The rest is just too...I don’t know...it makes me feel as if I’m trying to chase sand blowing in the wind.

Montpellier. June’s coming fast. need pens.”

That last bit my be some travel reminder of Po to him or herself as some references to the French countryside are made in some poems, though Montpellier is a large college town. Again, so much of this is pure speculation on my part. Thonatos leaves scant personal details and I cannot emphasize that enough.

************************************** here’s the sale of ultrahip slam some smack and bite your lip pierce the skin you’re flawed and ultrahip (* Po has a scribble in another journal that says,”god damned junkies ripped me off. again! kept some money in my sock and good thing i did.”. Maybe this tiny poem is a jab back at them. )

************************************* timeless spineless sinister testaments hot death stale breath skeletal government beat down fallow ground iron taste wealth and waste hard shove good love in spite of timeless spineless sinister testaments...

(* This is actually written in a circular pattern, as if Po meant for it to loop back around infinently or as into a whirlpool. There is no way for me to duplicate this on a keyboard, so at a later date I may use my scanner to import the poem’s physical image. It’s really quite unique among Po’s other works and not repeated again. * )

**************************************** finally snapped in love with life see you under the waves tonite.

(*This is what my grandson feels is an indication of a potentially suicidal Thonatos. I do not think so. It could be about a surfing or diving accident for all we know. *)

***************************************** he opens the door beckons me through his passion and fire split me in two; one wants to go one wants to stay and both are willing to die today.

***************************** primate behavior would they still care if they knew your disease or would they scatter and climb the trees?

*********************** Thonatos, you wound me It’s ok if you don’t believe or think my plans are ill concieved i may not win the prize and perhaps for my trying i’m a fool in your eyes but if i take the gold ( and win ) i’ll give it to you to show i forgive.

(*Po’s note: "A freind told over coffee today he’s going to compete in the olympics. I laughed because he’s never finished anything since i’ve known him. This poem reflects the look in his eyes when I laughed. I can't believe it, but I guess he expected a more empathetic response from me.*)

******************************* you see the samaruai in my eye the lover in my heart so shift yourself out of neutral and push it in to start.

(* Some of Thonatos’ romantic works do teeter on the line between subtle expressions of passion and direct eroticism. However, I have found no apparant attempt on Po’s part to be vulgar or gross for its own sake. * )

I will probably post these on the bubblingbrain blog as well. By the way, the title of that blog comes from the title of the first poem of Thonatos' on that site.

Thonatos, reflecting on childhood

Following is a rare glimpse into Thonatos' life as a child. Po seems to be merely trying to recall the first poem he/she wrote, but I believe something much deeper is at work. Notice how the writer makes no attempt to capitalize, but does make an attempt to maintain some grammatical correctness. This is a curious habit of Thonatos', and I am still debating with myself what it might mean or reflect about the writer.

Thonatos ends these notations in what is clearly an example of self-effacing humor.

“at the park. all the kids made me wonder to myself, which of them is a poet, a writer, an artist? then i wondered if i wrote as a child. of course i had. but who goes about thinking of childhood accomplishments every day, especialy as an adult? we don’t think of kids every accomplishing anything more than survival.

First poem: six years old. ‘The Magic Bubble’. I lost it, or it was lost for me by someone else, probably a relative of some sort. but i don’t mean to indite anyone.

a child’s mind then and a child’s mind now, to a degree. writing poetry, even the stark stuff, even the hard realities of some people’s lives or difficult circumstances, still reads better somehow if the writer retains some degree of innocence. Romantic poets always did. love is painful but we keep reaching our hands out searching for it, like children smiling at strangers or laughing at squirrels.

the magic bubble, i think, was an indicator that my nieve stance as a child had left me though the innocence remained. the myth making and make believe.

i wrote of a little king, who on a walk through his gardens - and kings always have big gardens - was absorbed into a large magic bubble. he became king early in his life, and for his protection and stability of the country, he had not been allowed to see into all cornors of the land he ruled.

inside the magic bubble, he was carried over this land and the poem was by and large a description of his delight in all of it. in other words, inside the bubble the grown king reconnected with the child he once was while also reinforcing his adult responsibilites and position.

that’s the best I can recall it.

i think my next significant poem was at the age of 12. i often went to the beach and instead of building sand castles would stare out into the horizon. i was worried i might miss something strange or epic happening if i didn’t. i would watch the sailboats and wonder who the people were, why were they sailing, what did they look like. this spurred me to write ‘the crystal ship’ and it was about an old style of sailboat that could sail through the skies and, of course, was made of a light blue crystal. i can’t really remember the rest of that.

i wrote furiously from the moment i knew i could. i carried a notebook with me in my back pocket where other children carried bubble gum or baseball cards. i think it was then that i realized that conformity made sense. no one wants to be disliked and even less so when they are children. conforming nearly guarantees the chance you can sail through all of the socializing under the radar of the untalented, who are always bullies working out their jealousies.

but i had no one to explain the wisdom of conformity to me, so i suffered much. eventually, i learned to fight back but not for a long time.

i know this is why i have such a soft spot for the underdogs of any society, for the accused, for the heartbroken and disenfranchised. the majority do not need a voice in the wilderness. they have each other.

wish i had bothered to keep track of my childhood writings better, just to see where i've come from and hopefully to see if i've gotten any better.”

Unless the word is spelled so miscorrectly the meaning of the context would be more difficult for readers here, I go against my own instincts and refrain from spell checking Thonatos' original words in any way.

Once there was a Red Frog

Initially, a few years back, I used the interntet to attempt to dig up any info on Po Thonatos that I could. Sadly, there was very little. But, very briefly and once upon a time, there existed an online poetry database of sorts called RedFrog. An immense amount of work must've had to occur for this website to be everything it seemed to be, though I did only scan it. The webmaster had an alphabetical link listing of nearly every poet ever published, both well known and not. In that list, was Po Thonatos. Unfortunantly, almost as soon as I had discovered this site, it disappeared without a trace or further reference. Stupidly, I had thought I would be able to return to it at any time and very unfortunantly, was not able to read nor copy the works of Thonatos that the site listed. I kick myself over my assumption and apathy to this day. I did, however, and still do use the power of search engines to help analyze some of Thonatos' references in the writings. For instance, Po uses the word 'Tonoa' in one work. 'Tonoa' as it happens, is a small district on an island in the South Pacific. I will expand on this further another time. It is spring break and while my students are undoubtedly having quite a good time, and they should, I am catching up on some of my work at school and must return to it for now.

Formatting Problems

My sincerest apologies for the abysmal sentence formatting that occurs in my posts. It is deeply frustrating to me and as I am in no way a computer 'geek' nor master of HTML, I simply do not know what to do about it at this point. Once I figure it out, if I ever do, you can be sure I will correct it. I find its appearance terribly ugly and distracting, so for those reading along, you have my sincerest apologies and I hope only that you will bear with me.

Example of Po Thonatos on 'Rhyming'

Pasted below is part of Po's thoughts on this subject. I have not included all of it as their are several pages regarding this topic and they are scattered in between journals. This is an excerpt in its entirety from just one of them: On rhyming: "It is absurd to me that some of my peers today go about insisting and head nodding to each other that the use of ryhme is some sign of a poet’s creative weakness. Some example of infirmity. The written structure of rhyme, however it is used, is almost always as immediately effective as music. The reader is capable, at a very primal level, to pick up ‘the beat’ as it were, to percieve a cadence of thought. This can be as complex or as simple as one wishes to use it, if only the objectives of self-expression and clear communication of that expression, can be achieved. Ryhming, and sucessful use of it, is not in any way a simple task. you must still illuminate to a degree, your vision. Weak ryhming will often bury this if the writer allows ryhme to make them too lazy to make full use of their current vocabularly. And an expansion of one’s vocabulary should be a pursuit for any poet or writer who ever hopes to convey to their readers the images or feelings in their minds. What good does it do someone, who is perhaps naturally talented ( though few are - most of this is actual work ), but who is not capable through the use of their language and the full exploitation of it to express this talent? Very,very rarely can it be. Ryhming is not a simple matter of picking ‘hat’ to ryhme with ‘cat’ unless of course ‘cat’ and ‘hat’ have some purpose together in the context of the poem. And the use of rhyme can be as creatively used as one can devise a way to use it. Ryhming does not come easily to me. in trying to tie a story or idea together, those things can in fact be led astray by it. So i actually do work and actualy do consciously think of and pay attention to my use of it. there have been times when it has proven disasterous, and i will abandon the work altogether or if the idea is such a compulsion i will use some other way to express it. I do think it is important to a degree that creative writers do not bog themselves down in to many academic rules, nor write to the literati or critic’s tastes. If there is a weakness one may have, that last one is it."

The opening statement gives some indication that Po must have occasionally drifted into or by some poetic community. Which one and where, I cannot tell at this point. Although Thonatos speaks with conviction on the matter, there is some obvious concession happening. He or she seems particularly averse, if the other annotations are any indication, to being corralled into any kind of standard or accepted rules. This may be a reflection of the type of life Po lived, rather than a sincere disrespect or disdain for the 'literati' or creative history. If Po lived a Bohemian or unconventional style of life, which certainly tends to be most attractive to those with a nonconformist nature, then any attempt to impose structured thinking on the subject of art would almost always be met with contempt. Or perhaps Po was simply not impressed enough nor felt enough need to adhere to classical styles of writing. It is not insignificant that Po's use of grammatical precepts such as capitalization are unique to him or herself. In some peices, Po writes in structured ways and in others, any kind of structure is difficult to find. There is some indication by Po in other thoughts on writing that this may have served no other purpose than to entertain the writer alone.