The Panoptikon: An Adventure of Poetic Thought Upon the Myriad Realms of Observable Space, of Walls, and of Human Perspective.

By Steven P. Pody

The fool on the hill, the prison-keeper in the central spindle, and other iterations of cosmocentrism... Each of us is a universe, and each distinct set of id perception rules and abides within the very center. Daily and lifetime events swirl about us. Sometimes we dispassionately observe, sometimes we interact, and sometimes we are acted upon, whether we are willing participants or not. Billions of universes come into existence and wink out of the random void like some great humanistic exercise in quantum physics. Within these pages lie the occasionally offbeat threads of perception and musing of one, single, universe. Sitting within the observation booth of my body (which itself is not always sitting, thank goodness, but lately tends towards rust and entropy), and trapped within its limits: I think, therefore I write poetry. ...More or less. We live within boundaries (not sold in stores; sizes may vary). There exist the often inconvenient limits of governing physical law and, further, a total lack of freedom within the 4th dimension. Many other boundaries are carefully crafted and self-imposed to enclose the known and the safe. Any universe is a holistic and limited construct. "Limitlessness" exists as potential, but we can't process the information: Super-agoraphobia, implanted in the primal psyche. So the walls come up. All of these facets, in sum, amount to prison aplenty to occupy a lifetime of thought and emotion. However, what truly makes a universe distinctly ours when so many others inhabit it, and so many immutable laws govern it, is that it is seen through our perceptions, and evaluated on a basis of perpetual personal appraisal. And thus, as an issue of perspective, are we each a warden of The Panoptikon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 17, 2008
• ISBN: 9781452072036

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2008 Steven P. Pody. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    07/17/2020

ISBN: 978-1-4389-3300-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-3299-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7203-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover illustration by Steven P. Pody.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Biography

Reprint And Contact Information

Poetry Section

Huh? Just Me.

Nocturne

Words of Crystal

Mom’s Little Target

Adorning The Tree Of Remembrance

Mountain Harbinger

Crusader Girl

La Soupe de Fraternité

Circe Mourn

One Shot

The High Fires

Not From The Ceiling, But From Heaven Hangeth Thee

Laureled Lives

Consider the Cloud

Leonidas

The Mongers

Heed Your Sister

Reality is Worth a Thousand Pictures

Kiss Off, Death

A Classical Grecian Day

The Beast in the Mirror

Cosmos On My Mind

To Anne Frank

Da Beekeeper

Never Beat Your Kid With His Own Future

Whither ?

Chez Plato

Hunter on the Ice Sea

Opaque Glass

The Toad On the Road

Attila Was Fun

The Flip-Side of Glory

You Good Morning

Eyes of the Falcon

Life Got

The Lock With Six Billion Keys

Clementine Cat

Dual Ventures To Ennui (The Physical Sum/The Timeless

Sea Cleanseth)

Invitation to Dance

Evo-lutin’ Language

This Very Day

Progress, B.C.E.

Untrodden Domain

Soil and Blood

Cowboy Pete’s Lament

(Napoleon In) Exile

Summer Birds

A Cask of So-So Wine

A Twice-Given Gift

Whatever Shall We Say to Nell?

Impassioned, Glows The Void

Birthing Season

Teachers Of The Stuff Of Men

Keats On Feets

Panopticon

Early Medley Of Thoughts (1969-1971)

Wrap-Up, And Into The Sunset

Department of Obtuse Elucidation (Notes, Explanations &

Enlightenment)

Chronology of Poetry Origins

Aging In A Frustrated Silence

Dedication

I’d like to thank my planet and all of its inhabitants for sharing the world with me, often being kind, and having the good taste not to have killed me off yet.

Further, I’d like to dedicate my work to a few deeply worthy people.

My mother, Lillian, has never wavered in her faith in me that I wouldn’t soil myself in public, eventually move to a reasonably close proximity of her (120 miles), and produce grandchildren. What a gal! A lifetime of support for the baby of the family, she was always there for me, even though I was the cultural black sheep of the family, in which my sister was an artist and my brother was an actor and playwright. (Now, wife, brother and sister are all teachers, and I’m even more left out.)

My loverly wife, Beate (Bea), second off the starting line for boundless faith, was well worth searching the world for. Archaeologist, real estate wheeler/dealer of note, high school teacher, bestest friend ever, and superb mother, I would have been just another ordinary pebble on the beach without her (instead of author of a terrific and widely unread book of poetry). Thanks, wifey-doodles.

My father laid down the basics for which I’ve been suffering all of my life. Be honest. Have integrity. Respect others. Care. We lost him to cancer when I was 11, but he is always in my thoughts.

For some people in listening mode, public school really can be a growth experience. Two high school teachers (of more than a third of a century ago) were particularly influential in their introductions to the literary world and to the literary potential of certain students not wholly hung up on cars, hormones and beer. For what it may be worth, my creative hat is off to Jeanne Toombs and Nora Wirtschafter, teachers extraordinaire, at a once-upon-a-time-era of Brandywine High School, in Wilmington, Delaware. Thanks ever so much, ladies.

Acknowledgements

Since this is a life-time compilation, there has been a life-time of experiences, influences and companions along the way.

There have been four ladies in my life who pretty much always had faith in me to do the right thing, and not let them down. One was my mother Lillian, one was my friend and mentor, the late Rina Yarche, one was my third fiancé/second wife Beate, and one was my boss for a few long-ago years, Sonja McCombs. Trust and faith of character are not things given or taken lightly, and I have flown on their wings to carry out worthy deeds. Some people just need to be believed in, and at their respective and various levels, they believed. My mom and wife patiently read decades of poetic effort, and still thought I was worthy of their love. Thanks, all.

Gestures of appreciation to my daughter Miriam, and son Micah for their technical help with photos and illustrations for this book. Youngest child, David, can pitch in for later family literary efforts… All talented in their unique own right, I’ll, no doubt, be buying their works someday, as opposed to now when I dock their allowances to buy mine. I’ll give them a discount…

Joanne Wiertella, friend, author (The Jewel Box Book, 1900-1925), and relative to Dr. Seuss, helped to talk me over the waffling edge of actually committing to publish my works. Thanks Joanne, I hope the result justifies your well-meaning and persistent arguments on behalf of my family posterity.

Dee Wittenberg! All of these years of writing poetry and she was the only one to actually offer a paid commission (1985, $5) for a poem. Thanks for the encouragement. I never forgot.

My playwright brother David is not last on this list because he was the least important of influences, but rather because his contribution has been mostly oblique with indirect, though fundamental impact on my creative work. His literary abilities and tastes lie in different directions, and frankly I don’t even know if he is particularly fond of poetry. However, like me, he is as much a straight-shooter honest individual as he can be, and he has patiently tolerated my work for many, many years. He knows that authors come from a special place that needs more understanding than criticism, and sometimes are voices that just need to speak, even if no audience is intended. And if he said nothing critical of my finished works – which was usually the case, there was hardly a poem that I wrote in which I didn’t assess it through his eyes. Does the poem speak to the soul? Does it make sense and progress logically? Does it make the reader care? Essentially, when I wrote, my personal judgment was often: Is it good enough for him? Oh, my brother didn’t have to say a word, because he was already there. And that was a good thing.

Introduction

I understand that low expectations abound in vanity projects like this, when a person wants to leave some kind of relatively-immortal literary monument to themselves. I don’t try to creatively write for a living, I don’t go out of my way to publish individual works, and after many years I am as literarily obscure as when I entered this world. When stating that a body of poetry compiled over a very long time encompasses a lifetime of keen, bemused and/or tragic observation and treasured personal sensitivity, in justice, who really cares? Apparently, a great many people do the same thing; that is, collect their works for a personal lifetime and think the whole more valid and worthy for doubling as a life testament and long-term statement from the depths and heart of a uniquely private universe. Maybe yes. Maybe no.

This is my one and only personal life, and I can’t speak for the others in regards to validity or quality. I can state, however that many people writing poetry for their own edification, myself included, hesitate greatly before the unknown quantity that is published exposure. Such trepidation holds sway because our work is a private thing, and holding up one’s efforts to criticism is not something everyone is fond of doing.

And further…, despite Jonathan Swift’s admonition against every common dullard trying their hand at writing poetry, true creative spark or no (Say, England, could you ever boast, three Poets in an age, at most?), here, two-and-a-half-centuries later, is yet another example of the umpteen-millionth attempt by a human being to express himself/ herself in poetry. And again, possibly regardless of the actual capability to do so with credibility and literary honor. Alas, I like poetry, and like its sparse, concise expressive style. A thousand pardons to Mr. Swift, and to anyone else who might peruse this tiny tome and venture agreement with him in his railings ‘gainst the poetaster. I confess to writing every poem within The Panoptikon, (named after my major work of the same title, but with a slight alteration in book title spelling to avoid conflict with a 1946 poetry book by a Mr. Lawless) and am solely responsible for the qualitative content.

I present here an early note that I don’t believe that every item in this collection is a pristine gem of emotion, thought, logical progression, or model of rhyme and