The Village Poet and Collection of Writings

I must apologize to you and humanity for withholding The Village Poet from publication. I wrote The Village Poet at age ten. I wrote it intuitively, as many of my other writings. At age ten, you don't stop to cogitate on what you are writing because your cognitive ability isn't supposed to be developed to that extent. I was afraid and confused because eccentricity as part of the mystique of a creative artist was difficult to accept.

It wasn't until my teens that I became aware of my earlier writings and their meanings. I thought I should have been behaving like a teenager. I knew I did not have their interests, but I wanted to; they seemed to have had so much fun. My development into a creative artist seemed esoteric. Everyone around me thought I was a "normal behaving teenager." I didn't feel "normal." My teacher was life.

I didn't understand what was happening to me. Foolishly, I burned my manuscripts. The Village Poet, essays, and plays survived the fire only because I could not find them. They were between the pages of some old books! I can assure you they, too, would have been burned if I could only have located them. Burning the manuscripts I hoped would have extricated me from my writer's curse. Unconsciously I wished the curse were contagious so long as it would go away and leave me alone. Then I could have enjoyed my teen years, but that "divine madness" seemed to plague me.

Aristotle believed that the goal of Art was to purge the soul of frightening emotions. I didn't want to become a writer, but I was compelled to accept in the interest of sanity. Rollo May suggests that we cannot deny talent without penalty. Plato says that all creative artists are mad. Assuming Surmelian is correct that "madness uncontrolled is madness and madness controlled is genius," I was too confused to realize that there was a method to my madness. Freud said creative artists create out of their own neuroses. However, great art has been produced.

Like society I, too, had contempt for writers, musicians, artists, and actors because they seemed to rationalize their unproductiveness. Why were they dedicated to Art?

How could anyone lead such obscure and impoverished lives to practice their craft? What a waste of human resources on the uncertainty of their craft. When everyone else seems to be in pursuit of material wealth, creative artists have a forte of offending the social and political conscience of their society. Their persistent search for truth in life and art could possibly lead to death. History gives warning to those who persist and their fate.

I hated the gift because I knew that a responsibility went with it. The responsibility to always care, share, love, and have compassion for humanity because there are so few righteous men in this world--those who would be willing to seek peace despite men's claim for peace, when war is their result; to be rejected by humanity because you bring light and they want to remain in darkness; to walk alone and be alone for what is right, just, and good. It is true I did not welcome this responsibility. To accept would mean very little enjoyment of worldly pleasures. I was looking out for my own self interests. However, there seems to have been a greater force, power, or will looking out for my best interest. Whatever it was, it was molding and shaping me. Intuitively, I was learning from certain experiences that seemed to be pre-designed with a purpose. Yet I felt they were unnecessary. Even though they made me unhappy, I always seemed to emerge as a winner because the result was always more wisdom.

I thought, Why plan my life when my plans are going to be vetoed? During my teens, I thought, Why me? Surely there were other teenagers who would have welcomed the gift and would be more worthy in thought and action than I. I promise my readers that someday I will write a full account of my flight from Art.

It is true that for some, maturity comes with age. I never thought I, too, was destined to become a writer. How foolish I was. I failed to realize this gift was good and was meant to be shared and not repressed. We all possess the power to create--some more than others. I understand many will not like my cogent, didactic style of writing. The few who do will try to understand what I have written and reflect on it. The why I have written isn't important if you cannot understand what I have written. I can assure you that you, too, will experience special moments--moments of peace of mind, inspiration, warmth, enlightenment, and perhaps a key to your problems, a key to unlock the mysteries of life.

No amount of wealth, power, or social position can compare to these special moments for they are free, good, of truth, love, beauty, forgiveness, and compassion. Most of all, they are you. I might remain an obscure writer and never partake of any treasures of this world, but if I can share just this once, these moments, then what greater treasure is there?

Creative artists are lovers of Art and life. They cannot be distracted from it. They are God's chosen servants and historians, humanity's conscience, and creators of the beautiful for humanity. Art is free. As every creative artist knows, man does not possess Art, but Art possesses him.

Written for life from life
Leon Newton