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Thursday, November 26, 2015

Song of 81 Poems - XXXVI



Once we sighed to ourselves . . .
what heals time with wine?
Improve a black-headed silhouette,
   about the need of which sweet dish
   you are dazzled.

Understand she hardens,
   about cunning trouble.
Let's walk, it's better.
She knows our morning glory
   was a feeling.

A society that forms observations
  will model.
We can lick a grand River!
I'm proof, see my sanity,
Tell your bird why men
   gripped my other canvas.
It almost always
   makes my smoke investigate . . .
Humidity.

I like representing your calm body as a sculpture
   though, your surface was almost concrete.
So share a new young street.
Run be angry beneath more empty music.

Are we agreeing that we should know?
a cruising metaphoric opinion
   licked clean of her bearing?

Throw her torpid form through
Clean sex and fast romance
   feels clever.
God rest in peace,
   would it be tearful if I made a man
   take my milky soft and faithful passion.

Unless astonished by my work and power
   your wasted selves appear many though positive.
I've chosen a straight water ritual.

I can't stick around. She erred,
    picked an aggressive act too enormous to enjoy.
Asking if Guilt is abuse.
   she sells, in all ways fed up.
She sincerely said something,
   Thanksgiving affects head competition.
For absurd as it sounds,
   see in front, the edge of observation.
Enervate delight.
My sculpture won't mind glitter,
   If so, I'd grip it.

Trust that we'd join in clever strength
   about the yard.
Man you can hide perfume, the glory owes you money.
An ancient babbling sound
Vapors . . . a palpable past . . . infinite idols . . .
   reach for aesthetic cleanliness.

In all ways she spun a faithful breath instrument.

My happy angel's broken past was the life she formed.
I never said you are dead,
   droll-natured neighbor.
Leave blunt creativity there
    if surreal courage glitters incarnate,
Sucker, celebrate your dirty vulture breath or puke,
    a lying solution's better than money.

Try a good society girl, all drunk.
Don't jealous boy, destroy absurdity.
   I'm Death, I imagine sodden, trotting cuddles.
I manipulate, empower, then delight.

Sculpt Angel under observation,
   play then work.
Let's share a dance - I am a symbol of space,
   make some other calm, united.
   Use emotion on lost energy.

‘Till, I questioned,
I tried to play mellifluously.
My daughter thought, "Write, dazzle, cook . ."

At most I will suffer peace at dusk.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35
 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Call




this piece
gifted
was the one lost
on your tour of the galaxies
stolen by that woman
who envied you
you're a bit of jelly in the sea
you glow but have stopped growing
yet you learn
your body will be devoured
or you will be in Orion
before I ring the bell


Will we make Progress?



Will we progress?
Raised by fire
since we were tiny beings.
We relax torn muscles,
then limp into darkness
to be eaten.
Why can't three lifetimes
as mountain neighbors
call back our youth?
Do something!
How could foolishness
reincarnate beauty?
Incarcerate everything.
You'll understand,
that love is just delivery from time.
Join me there, at least.


Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Stuart Little





It jabs my heart, how
the milky swirl of the cosmos
put love where starlight cannot reach
where we were young.
Believe it all, trust, don't question.

Student, of perfection
immaculate hair,
feather fans, fluttering curls,
Taking time your sport,
your car, scented envelopes
with surprises,
Letters you said
flew from across the stars.

Who drove all night?
The lightweight suit
and pinstripe blouse.
put on for the special guest . . .
So you whispered
when you crossed the table
to introduce yourself.

You rained into my eyes
drops, I felt no pain,
But sat at the edge of my saucer,
and drank tea.
I told you I'd return,
lifted you into my hands.
I lied, carried on.
You pressed a wafer
into the creases of my palm
I left it at your feet
alongside my pain.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Dionysus and the Muse




-=({O})=-

The Muse hears inspirations mouthed, vocalized, words insisted on by the Goddesses of language. Drama begins as her language, uttered to you.

Language forms this way . . . we listen to masks!

Voices erupt, echoes layered from a chorus. The rituals, payment, prayer, blessing, are uniform, effects close and personal.

Was it mysterious because it was new? Are we to believe Johnson, and subsequently Borges who implies that every word at one time was a metaphor?

From drug-induced congresses with Demeter at Eleusis in Greece, to temple burnings of the Agnicayana, the intrusions of a Coryphaeus in productions by Dionysus, drunken orgies with maenads, all appeals to numinous demiurges, appeals for the boon of genius. He verbalizes what we think. We move and act, he utters a summation.

Character emerges, weather from masses of air.

Dionysus, a Spartan born of heroic Greece, and wine-god on Olympus, populated millenniums of myth. He was hunted by Spartan patriarchs, his sin: teaching viticulture to women. Some say he was captured and torn to pieces, others say escaped to India. Beheaded perhaps, Dionysus lives on a herm, on a column, or a dramatic mask. His terror, humorous, or violent, ever present.

He interfaced with the Goddess, his wild procession or thiasus of maenads, crazed women and satyrs with erect penises maintain him as the drug-induced bad-dream rock star we all know. Outside his vehicle, he is a purveyor of horror, grotesque acts, crimes, and confusion.

He is Charles Manson, or Puck. He is also Charlie Rose. Agreeing with everyone, disagreeing with everyone. Kali and Shiva display aspects of a Hindu Dionysus who ritualizes terror to devout worshippers. No wonder Kali worship is highest in geographic regions destroyed by floods or earthquake. Maintenance and regulation during the bronze age are assigned to to the male Gods of Olympus. Vishnu and Krishna play similar parts. Kali, an aspect of Shiva, was sent to the forests. North of the subcontinent she is Baba Yaga, the forest witch.

One imagines the subcontinent prior to acculturation by modern Hinduism. The Muse, acknowledged by Homer as the creator of Gods themselves was their mother, and was said also to have raised 9 daughters. Arts, history and culture were divided amongst them. When Apollo's priesthood took over the Oracle at Delphi, the tradition remained firmly rooted in the tradition of the Muse, entirely feminine. The sole difference, fees were collected and sent back to Athens.

So with all the Mediterranean Oracular sites. It is comforting that debate, history, intellect, and language of all forms were deeded along with all their treasures, after the ascension of male gods, to the female side of the psyche.

Since that division of territories, communication with the Goddess is a complicated ritual for navigating through densities of male myth. It involves drunken mediums like Dionysus, rituals like that at Delphi, layers of inquiry crafted by chorus and speakers on the Greek stage. One might trace elements from these theatrical rituals into the heart of Catholic mass, or to the cult of psychics who aid police in locating criminals.

Metaphor returns the call.

The sullen God of wine resents the Muse's carping presence - he is happier with woman who are nonsensical, screaming or mute. One wonders whether antics by Dionysus pleased or insulted the Goddesses of poetry and history. Dionysus is a foil for talent, Pancho Sanza, Robert Frost's neighbor, Shakespeare's Puck, Coleridge's wedding guest, he's at the meeting where finer things are made, the life of the party, yet also the one who breaks it up.

Might we engineer a metaphor, similar to the way a doctor provokes an involuntary response with his hammer, and dispense with all this ritual? Mightn't words disturb patterns of the collective and produce statements from its center, poems structured about a narrative live with a heavy burden? If the thread appears organized, the Muse scrambles that semblance. Dionysus performs what fragments survive, makes sure no shreds escapes without destruction. The vanity of wholeness is abandoned to the complication of storytelling.

This thought leads a poet to temptation, the one offered by modernism. Perhaps no greater experiment was ever conducted as the abandonment of story, Mystery was incorporated into the metaphor itself which lived naked and alone, man-made not God-made, and in so doing, stripped numinous content from any larger meaning.

Joyce, Klee, American abstract expressionists, Wallace Stevens, all produced works unburdened by the requirements of ritual and narrative.  Tired myth flows past us, blossoms on the water that must have been tossed in upstream. The numinous mystery is lost. A rose was no longer needed. Neither were creatures in the wild.

So we wander a corpus, rotting, but of human creation. Are we writers also in the degenerate stages of language, when poems arise from composting earlier poets?. Is there no new metaphor to come from the source?

We seek stories from the other side, but behind the curtain the question always floats forward, what story is ours? What tales come home?

So who scares the hell out of everyone?

-=:[()]:=-


Glossy Black



The mad engineer steps aside,
He baits a hook with one of her pearls.
Take note, a photonic illusion
perfect as a lake in fog.

Missives from dark water
fishes, serpents, eels
dance across the floor of our house,
pivot and twist when they are cut.
Each deserves the right, somewhat, to decide its own death.

At some point much will be divulged.
All will be shown.
Only what has been shared
may be saved.

Miriam Dactyls met Sondre Destre,
I read her a rich psalm, thrice to remove
every troll and trill.

If Logos has gone, then Madness shall write its own record.
"The Liberty of Fools."

I doubt we'll see it,
September came and passed and then made time
for the beginning of a new reign. So be it.
Tigers are in the bush,
So are cobras, glossy black.





A Call to the Numinous



-=:[()]:=-

Down the dark arm of a lake in the Adirondacks, I listened in rapture as my father yodeled into the shadowy hulk of a mountain. The forest and still water of the lake rang with his notes. Birds, owls, coyotes took up the call. For me it was magical, I did not reason it was my father's voice I heard.

The poem is the key, the yodel into the blackness of night. It brings back with it a chorus of the unexpected.

To the pre-classical ancients, poetry and metaphor were one, married by a dramatic ritual.

The approach to metaphor was dangerous, propitiously made with offerings. The Muse is capricious, gifted, but treacherous. Dionysus the otherworldly assistant to dramatic performances in a modern world, recruited the sane into his callings and made them mad like him.

Religion institutionalizes the ways and means of madness, integrates a bit of healthy madness for all of us, with our dreams, with what we can't understand.

Approaches to the Gods are fraught with danger, summoning Kali or visiting Baba Yaga in the forest, potentially deadly.  Dionysus's maenads tore the living apart in orgiastic frenzies of horror. Baba Yaga and Kali both drank blood. Vampires all, just as authors are vampires of language.

A writer allows himself to be eaten, but drinks the blood of poetic ancestors. For sound, like light, is vibration and in vibration exists the passage of all that passes from one place to another.

Borrow the ritual from someone else? How long did the source of the Nile evade Western explorers?

A murky understanding may be felt more than understood. It doesn't razor past our pupils in bright light. Darkness covets. The abyss holds secrets.

Sometimes meanings seem clear. For instance with Farsi court poetry, there is so much, too much even. All is there, all readable, all logical. Why do some poems, not others, stir the imagination memory, awaken old DNA? Have Heraclitus and the I Ching become poetry?

I'm not really conscious of what forces me to finish my project on the vampire. At best he may be a metaphor, male logos that has stripped language of numinous content. The vampire has lived rather long don't you think? He's a tired trope. He drains language of meaning. I know things will have to change. Yes, my vampire must die but it hasn't happened yet. Perhaps his death is a shift in subject, perhaps the poem is no longer about him at all.

When speaking of metaphor, think source, as in the sources of rivers. Every salmon in the sea knows where that is. It may be easy to grasp, or nigh impossible. But it is sensed. It may be a riddle, has never solved, but left to confound readers with mystery for centuries to come.

-:)/\(:-


Thursday, November 5, 2015

Ode



Some quantity was exceeded,
that mathematicians may make sense of
after a long time has passed.
We took too much to ease our fears,
still rattling within us,
when we sailed to our foreign land.

Some illness took root,
in a group of us
now so powerful.
So they will make the mistakes
that bring a new demise.

Walt Whitman did you cry?
I'm lost now.
Thomas Jefferson wrote
by light of oil from heads of whales
yet a slave brought him tea.
That which is self-evident, may outlast tyranny
yes, even if those that see it are dead.

No warriors, only terror
the new world, then as now
belongs to a few.

All those papers?
Dust in a mausoleum.

Our peace was illusory,
our monster worse than George
who had a head, two hands, two feet
and a wooden navy.

This black slug
mimics a branch.
A tiny head of bright red
makes you reach for it.
It watches everything you do
and makes you a slave.

Fall will come,
maybe not this life, maybe not the next.
Such orders falter more quickly than most.
they lash out, vulnerable.
Peaceful kingdoms have no history.
no architecture
marble palaces or concrete bunkers

The peaceful heart beats
in a home of mud and sticks.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Encounter




In your many names I see . . .
frank sense . . . demure . . . poetry
where did you go,
I miss your dreams.
 . . . to heaven sent . . .
our grapes . . . our tea . . . our sacrament.

My voice is hoarse . . . feathers black . . .
In my coffin . . . on my back . . . I'm spent.

Come open up, let me out . . .
Release me from this awful drought.

You met me with fields of waving grain . . .
Yet fed me dreaming again
for your brother and lover,
Osiris who came
is it possible . . .
To put him together again.
 . . . You will find each other. . .
 . . . You're his sister, wife and mother.

I saw your dance today two ears of corn . . .
 . . . Isis instead of a microphone . . .
I saw your dance . . .  heard your voice . . .
Felt your trance . . . amidst glances
 . . . of a dozen admiring boys.

I wanted to talk to you . . .
Of wishes and dreams. .
to meditate upon your clues
And compose your light in beams.

Two rivers . . . fresh and blue . . .
joined . . . and talked . . . a mournful tune.
The river road floated north,
No need to drive . . . or walk . . . this you know . . .

Dark? . . . this isn't true. .
light inside . . . the rest just isn't you . . .
You light my back . . .
to prove . . .
take any dimension . . .
 . . . up to you.
Alas you would . . .
come through resurrection . . .
And once risen . . .
would see me differently.

the hurt heart . . .
wanting . . .
the world do its part
If there were no fear else . . .
Fear rolls the wheel
 . . . Kali's terrible cart.
my body no time to heal
 . . . away in sixteen parts.

I await again . . .
 . . . where it is dark . . .
you calling my name.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Offer



I’m the girl you called Sire.
You’ve been around me buzzing, so drop that air.
I see through you always, I see higher
I take you from here to there.

The swan said to the water,
And the butcher to the ham
"I hurt all over,
 I’m swimming behind the dam."

A lake wraps a lakeshore
A flag furled around the world-end
Every galaxy spells a perimeter
Each illness brings a mend.

With pleasure comes some pain
A game with rules for playing more
Every footman takes his dame,
From two PM, 'till four.

Put down that pile,
Make poetry awhile.
I’ll amuse you . . . you amuse me . . .
To the end of time you will see.


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