Few artists have left an indelible mark on The Batman as Norman Keith Breyfogle. His rendition of the Dark Knight throughout the 1980's and early 90's has been compared to that of Neal Adams' in its contribution to shaping Batman's look and feel of that era. His dynamic artwork has graced many of the major characters and books in the comics industry and continues to shine through today in Markosia Publishing's acclaimed series, Of Bitter Souls.

Norman Breyfogle's talents appear to extend beyond the notable career he's forged as a comic book artist, however. The following introduction to a special section of poetry he's written, which he previews at this web site, tells of his passion for the written word.

Although I've almost no experience with writing actual poetry (the following poems are about it so far), I'm a poet at heart - by which I mean I'm in love with metaphoric and symbolic nuances. I'm an armchair philosopher and artist for the same reason: for most people - including me - numbers lack expressiveness, so I've struggled more to master semantics and art rather than hard science or math. Language is not mathematics; words are at least as connotative (implicative) as they are denotative (literal) and the most profoundly ephemeral truths are therefore often found between the lines, in the interpreting human mind and/or soul.

We first met several years ago at his discussion forums, where I noticed a thread started there by one of his members, commenting on The New Comic Book of Life web site. Realizing it the home of the artist I hold in great regard, I made an appearance there and joined the discussion to perhaps exchange a few words with a fellow colleague of the comics arts. The welcome to the forum by Norman was especially warm and the discussion eventualy extended into many facets of our lives and careers. I had thus found myself in the company of an extremely insightful, sensitive and courageous independent thinker with a marvelous communicative ability, touching the most basic chords of the human and humane experiences. It was then that I discovered Norman's love for poetry, as he sealed our discussion with this poem, written for the occasion:

The Cartoonist
Rumpled old alchemist vomiting gold,
tumescent youth shooting truth at power,
whole-brain superhuman mix of wit and image,
seer and storyteller,
society’s idiot savant,
all this at once,
the cartoonist is the return of The One.

We've since participated in many exchanges in a closed forum for comics creators and enjoy a special friendship. Very few creators are able to inspire the expanse of personal and social awareness as Norman does. At a recent discussion on his forum where another mutual friend, Daniel Best, announced the debut of Rabble-Rouser, Norman commented on my return to web activity with a new poem, also written for the occasion:

Netzer Returns
There's a giant named Magog, son of Gog!
Like a ravenous wolf in sheep's clothing,
he's trampling down the natural order,
shining like a huge, golden calf.

But the return of Netzer marks the end of idols,
for the giant fetishes have feet of clay,
their huge egos mask even larger fears,
and their golden auras are as mud.

Norman's ability to express feelings and insights which others seem reluctant to come near, as is evident in the many other poems he's written, is a primary asset to the unique presence he claims in the creator community. It's thus perhaps fitting to reciprocate his gifts above with a humble effort of prose, inspired by his own artistry of the written word. For Norman Breyfogle, with much gratitude:

The Poet Artist
By the great cold lakes
sits a man of the image,
a dark room photograph
in the eye of his mind,
neither black nor white
touch his senses,
as the grey-brey tones
of the noble fogle.

The cartoonist is The One
who rides Gog and Magog,
shapes words with quills
dipped in the blood of visions,
raises passions dormant,
spirits from the deep,
terrorist of the under-soul
brings peace to his hand.

Words not numbers
stir an eloquent fancy,
eyes turn in want
of figures to cling to,
but the poet artist
slips through their fingers,
and seeing, they follow
for he ignites a purpose.