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{the state of our poetry} jonathan bitz, editor the denver syntax I am a writer of prose. After many years of writing thick, prolix and often arcane manuscripts, essays and stories alike I came to the conclusion that poetry and lyric writing in music is the most difficult, most refined form of writing. It was through poetry that I learned how to write prose. It was through poetry that I learned all the lessons I would ever need to grow into the writer that I am still blossoming into. Poetry is the ultimate condensation of words. It strives to take thousands of words and package them in tiny bursts. One liners. And more than what is being said, it is about how those words are being said, or written. Poetry is about eloquence. Poetry is the final refinement, the definitive test of language and the human mind. Within the last couple of months I have been thinking about this because a childhood friend of mine has returned into my life. And I, into his. The original syntax Poetry Editor, Luc Simonic – was the reason I ever began writing in the first place. And it was through him that I ever began learning the lessons about writing that I have so valued in my life. I first met Luc in high school. We played basketball together. Listened to rap. We loved it heavy, hard and dirty – our music that is. We ran around and created as much trouble as we could. We were great partners in our collared, adolescent crimes of passion. But quickly, our relationship grew another landform, another mountain: writing. Still to this day I have never seen anybody fill-up a notebook quicker than Luc. Even his bedroom was littered with remnants of dot matrix poems stacked and folded in yards and miles of perforated computer paper. In the beginning, I was confounded about where Luc found all his time to write – we were busy with school and sports and family and work. But as we became closer and as I set-out on the journey of writing and trying to find my voice, in struggle and redemption, just like Luc – we spent our evenings writing and talking, together. It was through Luc that I began to learn about the complexities and therein – the virtue – of the written word. Of writing words. Of striving toward the heavens. Of aiming at something greater than you – and trying to describe it. Taste it. Touch it. This period of my life, I will never forget. There were so many deviant adventures. So many beautiful moments. So much to be thankful for. So many friends that were won and experiences shared with Bird, with those still living and those tragically taken from us. Luc went to college in the cornfields of Indiana. For four years he was intermittently gone. For a lot of that time, however, and we would talk all night on the phone. Email collaborative poems back and forth. Record Luc’s latest pieces. And then Luc did the unthinkable: he set fire to all of his notebooks. In part, I was devastated. Those notebooks represented so much to me. In part, they were holy. They were the symbol of what I was aiming for. They were the figurehead for how and when and why I ever began writing at all. When I inquired about why he had executed such an awful act, Luc responded by telling me that most of that work was juvenile. That there were only a handful of good pieces. And more than that, I believe that he wanted to reach forward into his future. Those notebooks were a nod to the past – and there wasn’t anything in those books that I don’t think he didn’t take with him. Because this is what you do with lessons: you learn them. You internalize them. You don’t need to keep the pieces of paper that you wrote them down on – with you. It was here where I began to conceptualize this idea, that poetry is about ultimate refinement and the condensation of words. Sure, Luc did need the million words of his past to create the works of his future. They were the foundation of his growth. But like me, most of what was written – was done in exercise and was done with an elementary mind. And in the end, what Luc’s fiery execution illustrated for me was that, in production, you are only looking for a small percentage. Only a small quantity will resound with the color that you are aiming for. What this showed me was that poetry is about struggle. With life and heart and mind – but mostly, with perception and words. Words are the final illustration of perception. And as such, they are sticky and difficult to pull apart and win for your self. However, it is possible. Poetry is about struggle. Poetry is about refinement and a life well-lived. It is about aiming even higher than you once thought possible. I believe that the quality of poetry in this issue touches all of these premises. The poetry in this issue reverberates with a standard set by the history of the world, but taken into the care of my friend, Luc Simonic, alone. While the poetry of previous issues was nothing to dismiss (I’m very proud of the work that Suzi Q. Smith and I have done over the last year and a half; and I owe her great gratitude for her brilliant eye and ear and mind) – the poetry in this issue was almost entirely solicited by Luc, through his extensive poetry connections. And more than that, it was hand-selected therein, with passion and verve and a genuine love for the written word. An absolute love that is, that in any other part of my life, remains unparalleled. It is because of Luc Simonic and my brother, Alex Bitz, why syntax even began in the first place. With their tremendous help, insight and skills syntax is where it's at now as I am writing - with thousands of people reading us everyday. For this team, we are all grateful. I have missed my friend. And I am counting every lucky star in Orion’s belt that he is back in my life, and now: yours. Enjoy this collection of poetry. I am very proud of the work that went into it and the final result. |
