My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a  
private school in  
Camarillo California.  
  
Mom sent us  
to live with him after  
we traded our  
education, back in  
Des Moines, for **** and  
sitting around  
listening to Led   
Zeppelin records in the  
basement.  
We had it all figured out.  
  
Before we started
a day of class, we  
went on a week-long   
skiing trip to  
Sequoia National Park.  
I loved that school.  
A passion grew in  
me for literature,   
Melville and Dickens,  
Dylan Thomas and the  
rest of the greats visited  
me in my dreams.  
They were good, gentle  
nights back then. 
 
I wrote a paper on  
Billy Budd, and received a C  
for my weak effort.  
Dad explained aspects of  
the story:  
plot  
theme  
antagonist  
protagonist  
and tragic character flaws.  
I didn’t get a C again on  
anything to do with  
literature.  
I was still inept  
with the numbers game.  
Math didn’t hold my  
Interest.  
It dog-paddled, then drowned in  
my budding poet brain.  
  
I had a gorgeous Dutch  
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or  
Van something or other.  
I acted in the play,  
and started at small   
forward on the   
basketball team.  
I even got into a  
fight with a kid for  
telling the principal that  
he sold me a little ****.  
I was suspended for a week,  
but Dad didn’t seem to  
mind that much.  

He gave me a copy of   
Don Quixote, and told   
me to write an essay a day.  
Back then, I was  
the prince of the private school.  
 I started to care about  
learning.   
The teachers taught with  
zeal and zest.  
The lust for literature was  
born in me  
beneath that smiling  
West Coast sunshine, and  
melancholy California fog.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

I gave up my intellectual mind at least 40 years ago as I recognised that it would  not guarantee or contribute to my happiness, success or fulfilment-- this mode of thinking would tend to impede my spontaneity, joie de vivre, sense of adventure, wonder and curiosity which I deem to be my raison d'être for living.

I've found from my experience that, in many cases, intellectuals have fixed and rigid mindsets and, as such, become inflexible and even intolerant and arrogant.  Being insular and inward-looking,  they find it hard to accept the views of others, even their colleagues' or peers'.
Their thinking tends to be along this line:  I'm an authority on this subject....'.

Such people don't make good company and might not attract others to become their friends.

They can also be awfully boring.  I attended a social dinner many years ago and happened to be sitting next to an academic whose field was chemistry.  He went on non-stop for a hour telling me and those around that he had written over 50 research papers and had received various awards.  His  wife seemed ravished by his outpouring.

The hallmark of a mature person ( Confucius in 600 BCE used the terms ' superior person' and 'the gentlemen' ) lies in their humility, grace, broadmindedness, tolerance, kindness, generosity, respect for others , sense of humour, willingness to share and co-operate, and, last but not least,  their altruism as manifested in their charity and contribution to society and the nation. Confucianism regarded people as part of society and that they were measured by the good they contributed.

Tolstoy in his later years suffered from a deep spiritual crisis. In his Confessions, he wrote that intellectualism stifled his life. He looked at the common people and was amazed that they were able to bear sorrow with such courage and equanimity which he would be unable to.  He said that as soon as he cast away his intellectual life, he was cured of his existential angst.  What a revelation!

I conclude:  happiness and fulfilment is found in understanding ourselves and our place and station in life, in living in simplicity and in harmony with our fellow-men, in kindness, humility and humaneness.  All this has nothing to do with being 'intellectual'.

Since my cat died I've been feeding the birds
The small birds, the robins, wagtails, sparrows, blue ****
I've even been feeding the crows
But I kind of drew the line with the magpies
They always had a bad rep for stealing things
One day though it was very cold and frosty out
And there was this poor magpie in the garden
And he looked so sad and forlorn
I felt sorry for the poor divil so threw him out a piece of bread
Well the very next day he lands on my windowsill (now I assume it's the same bird)
And he has something shiny in his beak
And he drops it on the windowsill
It's a ring! A Fancy Ring!!!
It's like he's saying "Thank You" for the bread.

So now... now I'm training up a whole squadron of magpies.