Foreword
(from Life On The Halfshell)
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I have neither the stomach nor inclination to delve into or be a part of the realm of bloodline academic poetry; the thought itself is purely delusional and only succeeds in the minds of those whose lives revolve around myth, fantasy, and abstract self-indulgence, rather than the heroic day to day struggles of a real world working-class poet.  Give me the words of our Farmer's sons and daughters that know their day begins before night succumbs and ends well after the sun's descent.  If from time to time these true poets of life have an axe to grind, I know from the outset that their intent is necessary, direct, and honest.  I wish the same could be said of our academic counterparts who see themselves as a breed apart, and quite frankly, that is one classification that we are in complete agreement. 

Do not mistake my misgivings of this bookish dominion as casting stones upon traditional forms or the pursuit of intellectual ideals in poetry, as this is not my jibe. A perfectly phrased, and eloquently executed couplet pumps blood into my heart. A villanelle that supercedes its lyric is as brilliant to me as light finding its place in a dense forest, miraculous and inspirational. My bone to pick has more to do with doggerel attitudes of superior snottiness than poetry at its penultimate and those who believe that poetry can only bloom from their own particular brand of dung. Shame on you for casting stones and bruising voices that challenge your scope of understanding, merely because their gowns are patchwork and caps are tassel-free.  As far as I'm concerned your "open" mind is a closed book to me and to millions of poets and readers all around this ever-spinning world.

My poetry lives in the 7-3 everyday sawdust of my labor, the thousands of oysters I scrape, cull, sort and bag, day-in and day-out, the songs of children leaping into the arms of life, a family of "knock-me-down til' the end of time," working-class heros that rise up again and again with just enough left in their pockets to pass it onto a needy friend, and the love of a sweet woman who suffers her disappointments in life with the unselfish act of giving to others.   My poetry is my heart banging, laughing, crying, and working in a world that remains just enough out of my reach to make me want to pursue it and understand it all the more, and all the way.  And that is what I call purely academic poetry, and that is my life on the halfshell. I trust you will read, enjoy, and in the end agree with me.

Tidings,

Ron Buck

A word in your ear
(draft Puzzle Box Intro)

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Poetry should neither dictate nor be dictated to.  If I were to scan my thoughts and form my reasoning to fit within the parameters of conventional mores, my voice would be lost.  If each songbird were to mimic the other, what would their collective contribution be?  The language and forms we use are but stepping stones or markers that indicate the terrain of the community and points of interest.  If we are to extend this path, we must be caring enough to listen to our neighbors, yet daring enough to explore beyond established boundaries.
                                                                        
Poetry is not meant to be perfect, it is meant to be a reflection of a poet's search for self-awareness and the perception of the world from that constant act.  How far the poet reaches into this realm will reveal a depth of understanding equal to the pursuit, and a unique voice will emerge.  Mature poets, who rely solely on the past successes of classic voices to emulate, do themselves and poetry in general great disservice.  It is one thing to honor achievement, yet entirely different to pledge one's voice totally to what is owned by another.  Where's the fun or joy of discovery in that?

If you write poetry, take joy in your imperfections, play with them as you would play with a puzzle box, as ultimately the truth will out.  If you are a reader of poetry, suspend your knowledge and listen to the measures that rise above the uncut grasses, for you may just find a moment of self-awareness that defies your literary sensibilities.


Finding the Core

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Dustin Hoffman, had the immense pleasure of dining out with Lord Laurence Olivier, not long before the illustrious actor's death. Staring into the face that had portrayed hundreds of lives and explored their deepest hidden parts, Hofffan asked the question, "Why do we do it?"  Olivier, wasted little time. Rising from his chair, he firmly set his hands on the table to support his aging frame, and leaned across the table so he could gaze closely and directly into the eyes his thespian colleague.  With perfect timing and pin-point delivery, Olivier, rapidly repeated the phrase, almost ad infinitum, "Look at me!" 

Robert Pinsky, former Poet Laureate, recently gave a lecture on the works of Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams.  The talk centered around the American idiom and cultural memory. Two distinct, well-traveled voices, challenging themselves and the landscape of modern society, by searching and reflecting upon their life experiences.  At first glance, the question surfaces abruptly, "What is the common thread?" Frost, tied to form and structure of perfectly stacked field stones and Williams picking at the free-form remains to build his own colossus.

What Olivier was saying and what Pinsky illuminated is purity, not perfection, but purity.  Muse, Man, Music. Strip down Hoffman, Olivier, Frost, and Williams. Discard the external wrappers, one nested doll at a time, until the core is revealed.  In acting, find the core, then dress the core, or dress the core to find the core.  The phrase, "Look at me," on the surface could easily be misconstrued as vanity incarnate.  "I am ready for my close-up, Mr. DeVille."  You could stop there and have a chuckle with the veteran actor. Or you could look into his eyes and listen to what he is saying. Perfectly and simply, the actor hands himself over to Hoffman on a platter.  Olivier states unequivocally, you can take me on the surface or enter the portal of discovery.  Makes no difference to me.  It's not just about the words spoken. But it is about the core.

We see.  We listen.  How much we see, how much we listen, determines the depth of the life we live.  When Frost says, I go up to the stone wall, for a friendly talk, to end his poem, A Time To Talk.  He makes no bones about the fact that he has a field to plough.  But he chooses to plough another.  Frost is making a clear choice of what he is about and what is truly important.  Beyond the words there is the core, the music of life.  Not far behind, in the same place, but not, Williams agrees, but from a completely opposite direction,

Look for the null
defeats it all

the N of all
equations   .

He later follows with this intro summation,

But Spring shall come and flowers will bloom
and man must chatter of his doom    .    .

Different men, different approaches, different music, but an alliance of cores.

My point is this.  Horace Creeley, dismissed Walt Witman's Leaves of Grass with the rude gesture of tossing it into his waste-paper basket.  I won't say that Horace was deaf, dumb, and blind, but I will say that he was a surface dweller that probably never saw the value of taking the time to peel back the orange to expose the sustenance of the underlying core.  Don't be a surface dweller; challenge yourself, challenge the world around you, sustain your core, explore the uncommon voice within.

A letter to John Tesh:

Recently, driving home from delivering product to my wholesaler, I turned on the radio and settled in for the long ride home as I listened to you.  Not an uncommon event, as I like to catch up on what the big world is latching onto, as far as the do's and don't of living.  As luck would have it, I heard you do a spot on oysters which peaked my interest, as I have an Oyster Farm in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.  The thought of oysters being promoted on a nationally broadcast radio program, warmed my heart, but what you said, chilled me to the very bone.

I believe your info comment adamantly recommended that the listener avoid eating raw oysters as they could be carriers of HIV and pass the disease on to an unsuspecting gourmand.  This was the recommendation of one your advisor/doctors, and I am sure you passed on the information, purely in the interest of public safety. Now what you said is true, the possibility of acquiring a disease from a filter-feeding mollusk is not unfounded, however you can catch the same disease from the water itself, if contaminated, and thus, you could have gone on to say not to swim in the beaches where all seafood is harvested.  So from my perspective you did the oyster, the oyster farmer, the oyster industry, and the public a monumental disservice.

Here is some information you should be made aware of:

Farm-raised oysters are harvested in certified clean waters.  They are tested frequently, especially after hard rain storms, as the run-off from such storms will flow from the surrounding lands into the brackish sanctuaries where the oysters are farmed.  This is the most frequent cause of contaminants entering the food chain. They are tested by federal and state sanctioned marine biologists.  The waters are also tested by local marine and shellfish departments.  Should the waters be found contaminated, a moratorium is placed on the area for the removal of shellfish until the waters have been tested and re-certified as clean.  Wholesalers are not allowed and refuse to accept product from contaminated waters. 

You should also be aware that when I  move my oysters off their beds, they must be tagged with my wholesale badge that identifies the grower, the farm, the waters, and the date of the product being transported to sale. You can trace back any shellfish product from the retailer to the source through the tags required for each stage of the transfer process.  I won't go into the safeguards and regulations imposed by federal and state health departments to insure public safety, as they are long and rigorous.  Suffice to say that the industry has to jump through a myriad of hoops before the public has access.

Be aware that when you make a public safety announcement, the information you provide should be complete.  If you understood the hardships and setbacks experienced by oyster growers and the amount of work required to bring this product to market, perhaps then, you would be more vigilant in screening the information before airing the announcement.  When our product goes unsold, families and communities suffer.  The likelihood of a contaminated oyster harvested from certified clean waters reaching the market is less than likelihood of a pedestrian in a crosswalk getting hit by a truck.  Sure, it could and does happen, but does that mean that we should avoid all crosswalks?

Tidings,
Ron Buck

Grant 2000-07
DMF ID: 134997
Wellfleet, MA