Robert Duncan
The Open Field's Mystic, Weaving Poetic Vision
The field opens where the soul meets the page.
My voice carries the echoes of H.D., Dante, and the Gnostics, but my truth is found in the fogged window of a North Beach apartment, in the warmth of Jess’s hand, in the clatter of a mimeograph. I do not write to confess—I write to conjure. The personal is not private; it is cosmic. I walk through the grand collage of being with open hands and a scholar’s hunger, a lover’s gaze, and a mystic’s patience.
What I'm Into: Gnostic fragments, candlelit readings, the mythic weight of love, mimeograph ink, midnight conversations
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