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Saturday, November 27, 2010

Poetry, both Ways, Manners all ways.

Pūtanā, with infant Krishna

I've had my coffee, Both Kali, and coffee, cultivate opposites, madness and logic, divinity and profanity, theory and poetry, sanity, and the insane.

The 'Muse Poems' are works in progress. If you read them, over time you will notice they change, even minute to minute, or day to day. Much of this is in your own mind.

How do I make these changes and stay true to the original?

Poets here may soon understand what I am doing. I hope so.

In the case of the 'Muse Poems' the poem is the sound. Not the meaning.

Poems, like myths, aspire to be crystals, providing visions from any viewpoint. All language is this. Poetry is the root. Anything non-poetic, perishes, and the last line to break, is poetry.

What criteria do I use? Stay true the sound. I hear a sound, then I say it again and again so I don't lose the thread. So it changes.

Go to where it is wild and listen!

     She will not speak if you don't listen.
     She will not share if you are not open.
     She will not give advice if you are not willing to take it.
     If you do not bring a gift, she will destroy a piece of you.
     She will be mute if you are noisy,
     The only sounds you will hear,
     Are the sounds of your own Death.

What is Death? All our bodies die, wear out. But that is not the death I speak of.

The death I speak of in these poems is the death of light.

Kali absorbs the photons of all those who don't share light.

She passes the photons on of those who do. This is basic physics.

When we do not return light to darkness, we allow it to become dark again, as a flashlight beamed into damp conifers at night. When we become hoarders of light, we ourselves become dark matter. If we don't give off light, or pass light that we are given, we become dark. We rush to her. She takes us.

I was speaking with Niki about this yesterday. She's glowing these days. Giving off so much light. What should she do do with it?

Give it away. Never hoard light! Give it to those that need it. This is a universal principle. Modern Homo sapiens has forgotten this.

My rhyming works are a way of carrying song back to her as a gift. Sometimes she giggles, but most of the time she shouts! She derides. She hits me hard, with huge pieces of wood. I have been at work and been slugged by her. It is devastating. Three weeks ago she slugged me. Sent me reeling down the stairs, headfirst into a brick wall. I thought I had died. 

Not yet.

No bump, even on the head. No collapsed vertebrae. She must still have work for me to do.

She makes poetry, loves poetry, wants offerings of poetry.

We are all little Red Riding Hoods picnic baskets to the WOLF!

She loves beauty. She loves honesty.

     Her rough talk, flushed a lie
     Hawked a thrush, in winter rye.

She is ruthless. Have you ever noticed that those with the most trouble in their lives, lack manners?

Manners are ritual! Why does she enjoy rhyme? Why does she enjoy free verse?

She hears the rhyme in both free verse and rhymed verse. She is a-Mused by our rhymes, but looks for logic and then breaks it. Hide your logic well! She'll break it anyway, but loves finding it first.

Rhyme is linguistic metaphor, that is her language. Logos is a place for discovering this. In this way the poetic facility is itself starved to hear poetry.

So while I may explain all I want here about these principals, it is all Logos. She would burn it in a flash. Tackle shop to a fisherman. Equipment to a seeker of beauty.

Bring Her a poem! In it, disguise a wish for something. Try that. You'll be amazed! Share with me your results!

So we may become a nation of poets, if we are wise.

I compose poems so that I might approach her. When she speaks back to me, I write down what she says, vowing that I'll try to understand it later.

The Sun doesn't ask for its light back! Share what you have!

If you go empty-handed you die. Your people die.

Our society is cut off from ancestors, from parents. So it is cut off from nature, our parent's parent, our ancestor's ancestor. Who is the mother of Nature? This is the one I'm writing about.

Children speak to their parents do they not? Why then as children of this universe, have we forgotten how to talk to them? Parents listen to everything we say to them as little pearls. If we are rude, they correct us. Yet they treasure what we say in innocence.

How much effort has this civilization expended to insulate itself from what is wild? Rubber gloves, little vials of antiseptic everywhere, weapons, security procedures, global terror.

What is apparent most of all is fear. Are we are a race of children afraid of vengeful parents? Arrogant adolescents possessing terrible technologies. We fly airplanes into the night sky terrified as we do it!?

Does our technology frighten Her?

Not for a nanosecond. We could exploit every doomsday device on this planet simultaneously, and make it glow like a spark from a blacksmith's hammer, and our nearest stellar neighbors would carry on.

The night would remain calm.

Our spark's light would engrave a text as a footnote.
But all would be calm at night, as it always has been.

The earth and sky created us and look how we've shown our gratitude! We ought to be afraid!

But not afraid of wildness! We're afraid of the dark! At one time as a race, we almost didn't survive. The human population narrowed to a few hundred individuals. In the wild world, survival is not guaranteed. Now almost in draconian compensation, we've paved the earth and eliminated most of our living competitors.

     Tigers roam our imagination,
     Whales bellow in our dreams.
     Birds flit about our nation,
     Yet we long for what she means.

And we are just now learning, that survival is even less certain. Perhaps this will make us open to the concept that wildness is always there, always around us, and never can be defeated or civilized.

We are all, wild creatures. The structure of our minds is wild, but with a fresh coat of progress paint. That is all. Scrape off the paint, we're wild. And will always be.

How can wildness be understood?

There's a language for speaking to the wild, and listening to it. That is poetry. Poetry is the mother of all languages, not just poetic English, or poetic human language.

It is the mother of the language of birds.

At root, poetry is really the rules of language, or the rules of existence. It's there, in everything. In atoms, photons. Those last two words are just language.

     Poetry as sweet as a black photon cloud,
     Words that flee to her electrons wild.

No matter where we start our fire, it will go out one day, but ignite somewhere else.

The fire, any fire, any light is not our fire! Not our light. Not our doing.

Understand your wildness, and know how to get along with it. Float with its wavelength, see its light, feel its vibration.

Kali likes poetry. Poetry goes both ways, a shared language, for speaking with wildness. Make poetry for Kali, about anything, and she will like it.

How much can you put into poetry for her? There is nothing that she (and again I say she because my choices are only, he, she or it, and if I want to be polite I use a name!

Be polite!

There are rules, grammar, for dealing with those that are more powerful than you.
Consider what you live inside!

I prefer the personification she because I want to live and die in a woman's arms not a man's! If you want to die in a man's arms by all means use he! She'll love it!

So love is the basis of all manners.

My uncle, only once, told my father about his experiences in World War II, during the Battle of the Bulge. He spent long nights listening to the men around him dying. They called for their mothers, wives, and girlfriends before they went. Howling moaning, calling for them. He said they all did.

I haven't been able to think of a she bigger than Kali, and less concerned with our individual survival than Kali.

I use her name to describe the feminine principle that recycles life. She takes you and me and makes food out of us for this divine illusion that is life. We all eat, and we are all eaten.

I will often refer to Artemis, or Her ( Hera ), or Aphrodite, Maggie, or Mary. I'll call her the names of my Muses, Kate, Niki, Layna, Kayla Jo, Rainbow, Raven, A___, R____, Ami.

The Divine Feminine has many names.

The Yogini Cult (India) celebrated names of the divine feminine, and erected an understanding of her rmany faces that were as much a projection of conscious light as they were an excavation of subconscious dark.

Science cannot find a quiet place. It is so bright and loud in our labs, and hospitals!

So, when men of science and medicine go home after, they are wise to keep the lights down in the house, . . . write poetry, . . . pray, or paint with dark colors.

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