Orfeo (Jack Spicer)

I don't know what the title to this poem means or refers to, so normally I would veer away from talking about this type of poem - one where I am at a loss right from the first syllable. But, ya know, I'm feeling reckless and what can I say, I like the poet's name.

The poem is about hell. The "music" that N keeps referring to might as well be poetry since both are arts. So, poetry, music, art heals nothing, but it is the only home, or bed N (or any artist) has to sleep in. It's worthless, but N returns to it again and again.

Is that hell? It must be something akin to it, else this poem would never have been written. But I don't know. I like the message of Emerson's "The Rhodora" better - that beauty (art) is it's own excuse for being. Bosh with these weighty questions of culpability, purpose, and decadence.

Favorite line: "The expansiveness of salt"