(1954-2012)

 

 

 

 

Someone – By Dennis O’Driscoll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

someone is dressing up for death today, a change of skirt or tie
eating a final feast of buttered sliced pan, tea
scarcely having noticed the erection that was his last
shaving his face to marble for the icy laying out
spraying with deodorant her coarse armpit grass
someone today is leaving home on business
saluting, terminally, the neighbours who will join in the cortège
someone is paring his nails for the last time, a precious moment
someone’s waist will not be marked with elastic in the future
someone is putting out milk bottles for a day that will not come
someone’s fresh breath is about to be taken clean away
someone is writing a cheque that will be rejected as ‘drawer deceased’
someone is circling posthumous dates on a calendar
someone is listening to an irrelevant weather forecast
someone is making rash promises to friends
someone’s coffin is being sanded, laminated, shined
who feels this morning quite as well as ever
someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date
perfume and goodbyes her final will and testament
someone today is seeing the world for the last time
as innocently as he had seen it first

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

song by leonard cohen e buffy st. marie

God is alive; Magic is afoot
God is alive; Magic is afoot
God is afoot; Magic is alive
Alive is afoot
Magic never died
God never sickened
many poor men lied
many sick men lied
Magic never weakened
Magic never hid
Magic always ruled
God is afoot
God never died.
God was ruler
though his funeral lengthened
Though his mourners thickened
Magic never fled
Though his shrouds were hoisted
the naked God did live
Though his words were twisted
the naked Magic thrived
Though his death was published
round and round the world
the heart did not believe
Many hurt men wondered
many struck men bled
Magic never faltered
Magic always led.
Many stones were rolled
but God would not lie down
Many wild men lied
many fat men listened
Though they offered stones
Magic still was fed
Though they locked their coffers
God was always served.
Magic is afoot. God rules.
Alive is afoot. Alive is in command.
Many weak men hungered
Many strong men thrived
Though they boasted solitude
God was at their side
Nor the dreamer in his cell
nor the captain on the hill
Magic is alive
Though his death was pardoned
round and round the world
the heart did not believe.
Though laws were carved in marble
they could not shelter men
Though altars built in parliaments
they could not order men
Police arrested Magic
and Magic went with them,
for Magic loves the hungry.
But Magic would not tarry
it moves from arm to arm
it would not stay with them
Magic is afoot
it cannot come to harm
it rests in an empty palm
it spawns in an empty mind
but Magic is no instrument
Magic is the end.
Many men drove Magic
but Magic stayed behind
Many strong men lied
they only passed through Magic
and out the other side
Many weak men lied
they came to God in secret
and though they left him nourished
they would not say who healed
Though mountains danced before them
they said that God was dead
Though his shrouds were hoisted
the naked God did live
This I mean to whisper to my mind
This I mean to laugh with in my mind
This I mean my mind to serve 'til
service is but Magic
moving through the world
and mind itself is Magic
coursing through the flesh
and flesh itself is Magic
dancing on a clock
and time itself the magic length of God.

'tis the season

 

 

 

 

             The Gentiles Bless Zion

 

 

 Arise, shine;

For your light has come!

      And the glory of the Lord is risen upon you.

² For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth,
     And deep darkness the people;
       But the Lord will arise over you,
        And His glory will be seen upon you.
³ The Gentiles shall come to your light,
   And kings to the brightness of your rising.

⁴ “Lift up your eyes all around, and see:
     They all gather together, they come to you;
      Your sons shall come from afar,
      And your daughters shall be nursed at your side.
⁵ Then you shall see and become radiant,
    And your heart shall swell with joy;
     Because the abundance of the sea shall be turned to you,
      The wealth of the Gentiles shall come to you.
⁶ The multitude of camels shall cover your land,
   The dromedaries of Midian and Ephah;
    All those from Sheba shall come;
     They shall bring gold and incense,
      And they shall proclaim the praises of the Lord.
⁷ All the flocks of Kedar shall be gathered together to you,
   The rams of Nebaioth shall minister to you;
    They shall ascend with acceptance on My altar,
     And I will glorify the house of My glory.

⁸ “Who are these who fly like a cloud,
      And like doves to their roosts?
⁹ Surely the coastlands shall wait for Me;
    And the ships of Tarshish will come first,
     To bring your sons from afar,
       Their silver and their gold with them,
         To the name of the Lord your God,
          And to the Holy One of Israel,
           Because He has glorified you.

¹⁰ “The sons of foreigners shall build up your walls,
       And their kings shall minister to you;
         For in My wrath I struck you,
          But in My favor I have had mercy on you.
¹¹ Therefore your gates shall be open continually;
     They shall not be shut day or night,
       That men may bring to you the wealth of the Gentiles,
         And their kings in procession.
¹² For the nation and kingdom which will not serve you shall perish,
     And those nations shall be utterly ruined.

¹³ “The glory of Lebanon shall come to you,
       The cypress, the pine, and the box tree together,
         To beautify the place of My sanctuary;
          And I will make the place of My feet glorious.
¹⁴ Also the sons of those who afflicted you
     Shall come bowing to you,
     And all those who despised you shall fall prostrate at the soles of your feet;
      And they shall call you The City of the Lord,
       Zion of the Holy One of Israel.

¹⁵ “Whereas you have been forsaken and hated,
       So that no one went through you,
         I will make you an eternal excellence,
          A joy of many generations.
¹⁶ You shall drink the milk of the Gentiles,
     And milk the breast of kings;
       You shall know that I, the Lord, am your Savior
        And your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.

¹⁷ “Instead of bronze I will bring gold,
       Instead of iron I will bring silver,
         Instead of wood, bronze,
          And instead of stones, iron.
            I will also make your officers peace,
             And your magistrates righteousness.
¹⁸ Violence shall no longer be heard in your land,
      Neither wasting nor destruction within your borders;
        But you shall call your walls Salvation,
          And your gates Praise.

¹⁹ “The sun shall no longer be your light by day,
       Nor for brightness shall the moon give light to you;
        But the Lord will be to you an everlasting light,
          And your God your glory.
²⁰ Your sun shall no longer go down,
      Nor shall your moon withdraw itself;
       For the Lord will be your everlasting light,
        And the days of your mourning shall be ended.
²¹ Also your people shall all be righteous;
      They shall inherit the land forever,
         The branch of My planting,
           The work of My hands,
             That I may be glorified.
²² A little one shall become a thousand,
        And a small one a strong nation.
          I,     the Lord,    will hasten it in its time.”

 

 

                        ....thus singeth the prophet Isaiah - Ch.60

 

 

 

 

 

.

SPORT ARTICLES

Courageous like a stamp
he went his way
tapping softly in his hands
to count his steps
his heart red as a boar
beat beat
like a pink green butterfly
Now and then
he planted a little satin flag
When he had walked a lot
he sat down to rest
and fell asleep
But since that day there have been many clouds in the sky
many birds in the trees
and there's been a lot of salt in the sea
There also have been lots of other things

Philippe Soupault,

     

         translated by Johannes Beilharz
 

        i should hope no one minds if i published this poem i declare
             "who cares"  ? 





.

literature for the future

      







           Outside Of A Bar



Two languages met in combative air.
Two temperaments on a parking lot,
 
hot and moist: two myths, thrown to the
ages. Poet against novelist: embittered
 
by form and the murkiness of reefs,
which hover behind cantankerous blows.

Booze, blues and its emptiness narrows
the gap between two stunning avenues

of thought. Two drives: ego to ego,
and only the moon can be critical,

as lunar urgings grow in lunacy
the template of an image, fixated

by stand-offs; by the air and anger,

by elite curses quieted by sunset.
It was a long way from the Canoe Room

or any patrician New England place,
to this backcountry, this seaside connection,

like muscular sentences, taut and hard.
Florida: figuring hotly into two lives;

basking within notions of each one,
each one a tall and solid volcano,

driven by ashfall of meaning, of feeling,
but never like this, errant impulses

from depths which collide: stanza and phrase.
So the fight buoyed the machine of thought.

Fists of the boxer, fists of the aesthete:
Wallace, Ernest  (Jake and Crispin too)  speaking

to us,  then perhaps, to themselves,
about myriad forms of wounds;  the wounds

of life, of sailing, of erstwhile wars,
now stand like men who are mere inventions,

yet stand anyway – an odd gigantism.
Where the rain gathers,  it’s a dirty

shiny home for a massive head,
and for a large red man who likes to read.

Two thinkers: drunken by scotch and snark, 
Dismissing, out of hand, protective jambeaux

for the active legs of one, sluggish legs of another,

have ended at the point it all began,
icons at podiums of each other’s eyes.


Lamont Palmer












.

Mining Camp Blues

 

 

 

  

Once I had a daddy and he went down in a hole —
Once I had a daddy and he went down in a hole —
Digging and a-hauling, hauling that Birmingham coal.

 

Many times I wondered when they took my daddy down —
Many times I wondered when they took my daddy down —
Will he come back to me? Will they leave him in the ground?

 

Something like pitcher that they sent down in the well —
Something like pitcher that they sent down in the well —
Wondering will they break it, Lordy, Lordy who can tell?

 

It was late one evening, I was standing at that mine —
It was late one evening, I was standing at that mine —
Foreman said my daddy had gone down for his last, last time.

 

He was a coal miner from his hat down to his shoes —
He was a coal miner from his hat down to his shoes —
And I'm nearly dying with these mining camp blues.

Trixie Smith
1925

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

my very rough translation of the poem

the corpse mount


large stones,  boulders on high
over the little corpse so vexed;
reduced to powder,  like unto my love,
so very sad,  so exquisite,  so grand

songs of vexation, vexed songs
where held in such a state
of impossible suffering
of the fury of these times

sleep not the ripping winds
the terrible queries of other seas
sleep not the furious birds
as seem these frequent tempests

by one small movement one time
the boulders immoveable
by one small movement one time
this forum of daily capacities

as powder,  these high boulders
and the vexed little corpse
not so different than my love
sweet,  sad,  unspeakably exquisite and grand

      -Gonzales Lopez Abente






.

via negativa poetica

     
 

Faith

 

 

There is no faith; the mountain stands within
Still unrebuked, its summit reaches heaven;
And every action adds its load of sin,
For every action wants the little leaven;
There is no prayer; it is but empty sound,
That stirs with frequent breath the yielding air,
With every pulse they are more strongly bound,
Who make the blood of goats the voice of prayer;
Oh heal them, heal them, Father, with thy word,—
Their sins cry out to thee from every side;
From son and sire, from slave and master heard,
Their voices fill the desert country wide;
And bid thee hasten to relieve and save,
By him who rose triumphant o'er the grave





       -Jones Very (transcendentalist american poet,  friend of RW Emerson)

if breath were not enough

 

 

 

I LOVE YOU

 

I Love you

 like dipping bread into salt and eating

    Like waking up at night with  high fever

  and drinking water,  with the tap in my mouth

Like unwrapping the heavy box from the postman

      with no clue what it is

                fluttering ,  happy,  doubtful

I love you

     like flying over the sea in a plane for the first time

Like something moves inside me

      when it gets dark softly in Istanbul

I love you

Like thanking God that we live

 

        -Nazim Hikmet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

...

          

        
           Christmas in the Stable

The toilet on the cruise ship was closed
      For cleaning.
Toilets flushed,
      A mop banged against the door.

Waiting in the hall, I could hear the maid singing,
      "Silent night, holy night,
      All is calm...."

She cleaned my heart, renewed my spirit.



                 Jon Fagerson





.

a love poem

the first time
your eyes caressed mine
to say
it was like magic
is to tame
the gentle passion
and moments
shared
in the seeing of a glance
you took
my hand and opened my heart
to
the beauty of what I did not see
I
try to understand
why and how
these things happen
but
you explain so much
with your laughing eyes
to make me
not waste my time
worrying or wondering
is this meant to be

the first time
your eyes caressed mine
the winds sang their songs
the sunshine shivered with joy
warming the life within me

I've been living alone so long
running alone is easy
running through a fantasy
chasing myself into reality
looking for what is clear to see

holding on to little
more than I can carry
freedom kissed me in the wind
the rain smiled at me
when I thought
I needed someone to hold

ancient ones sighed
softly calling through worlds
to be living
means we are not alone
running into life
is not the same
as running away


         by  -   john trudell    (stickman)







.

a note found in a box sent to my father i presume either a crucifix or an image of jesus was the gift in the box

i talk
to this fellow every day

i wonder if he listens-
or even gives a  (damn- scratched out)  darn!

however
i'm staying out of jail

Love

Sis




.

ancient distillations

NAKED IN THE BEE-HOUSE




Being humble is right for you now.
Don't thrash around showing your strength.

You're naked in the bee-house!
It doesn't matter how powerful
your arms and legs are.

To God, that is more of a lie
than your weakness is.

In his doorway your prestige
and your physical energy are just dust
on your face. Be helpless
and completely poor.

And don't try to meet his eye!
That's like signing a paper
that honors yourself.

If you can take care of things, do so!
But when you're living at home with God,
you neither sew the world together
with desires nor tear it apart
with disappointments.

In that place existence itself
is illusion. All that is, is one.

Lost in that, your personal form
becomes a vast, empty mosque.

When you hold on to yourself,
you're a fire-worshipping temple.
Dissolve, and let everything get done.
When you don't, you're an untrained colt,
full of erratic loving and biting.
Loyal sometimes, then treacherous.

Be more like the servant who owns nothing
and is neither hungry nor satisfied,
who has no hopes for anything,
and no fear of anyone.

An owl living near the king's palace
is considered a bird of misfortune,
ragged and ominous. But off in the woods,
sitting alone, its feathers grow splendid
and sleek like the Phoenix restored.

Musk should not be kept near water or heat.
The dampness and the dryness spoil
its fragrance. But when the musk is at home
in the musk bladder, fire and wetness
mean nothing. In God's doorway your guilt
and your virtue don't count.

Whether you're Muslim, or Christian, or
fire-worshipper, the categories disappear.

You're seeking, and God is what is
sought, the essence beyond any cause.

External theological learning moves like a moon
and fades when the sun of experience rises.

We are here for a week, or less.
We arrive and leave almost simultaneously.

To be is not to be.

The Qur'an says, "They go hastening,
with the Light running on before them."

Clear the way! Muhammed says, "How fine!"
A sigh goes out, and there is union.

Forget how you came to this gate, your history.
Let that be as if it had not been.

Do you think the day plans its course
by what the rooster says?

God does not depend on any of his creatures.
Your existence or non-existence is insignificant.
Many like you have come here before.

When the fountain of light is pouring,
there's no need to urge it on!
That's like a handful of straw
trying to help the sun. "This way!
Please, let this light through!"

The sun doesn't need an announcer.
The lamp you carry is your self-reliance.
The sun is something else!

Half a sneeze might extinguish your lantern,
whereas all a winter's windiness
cannot put That out.

The road you must take has no particular name.
It's the one composed of your own sighing
and giving up. What you've been doing
is not devotion. Your hoping and worrying
are like donkeys wandering loose,
sometimes docile, or suddenly mean.

Your face looks wise at times,
and ashamed at others.

There is another way, a pure blankness
where those are one expression.

Omar once saw a group of boys on the road
challenging each other to wrestle.
They were all claiming to be champions,
but when Omar, the fierce and accomplished
warrior, came near, they scattered.

All but one, Abdullah Zubair.
Omar asked, "Why didn't you run?"

"Why should I? You are not a tyrant,
and I am not guilty."

When someone knows his own inner value,
he doesn't care about being accepted
or rejected by anyone else.

The prince here is strong and just.
Stand wondering in his presence.
There is nothing but That.

                           -Hakim Sanai  (1044 - 1150)

the anatomy of horror

very small pink clump

few things are sadder than the sight
of a thin gold anklet trapped beneath
a suntan-colored nylon. the people
in the morning clutch their warm cups.
they have water bottles and sensible
shoes, earbuds, catalogs, and weary
faces. the world pulses with violence.
a garbage car slithers into a frightening
maw, a particularly mysterious and
frightening vagina embroidered
on soiled vintage linen. activists
take to the streets, maws gaping.
a garbage car slithers into them.
the absorption rate for the Soul
Eater’s melée attacks is increased
by 5%. I wanted to put the lobster
into a comic, because he’s been
distressingly absent… gaping maw.
many of these links to my poetry
are broken. why are women so angry?
I also clutch a paper cup. the world
pulses with violence. illness waits
as ninja. Nearly half a century old,
I pop a pill. I’ve been a busy little
bandit lately. young gulls. you are
here: foul grin. yes, it swam up his
penis and into his bladder. it is human
nature to have fears and phobias:
mutant wooly worm alpaca.
why are women so angry?
they always throw things like
an angry gorilla when they get mad.
whazzat? critique zombie sex
feels good duh. why are women
so angry? life is harder for chicks,
their all pissed off cause they feel
feelings. how to use slither in a
sentence. example sentences
with the word slither. I wanted
to put the lobster in a comic. why
are women so angry? anyone already
say “sand in Va-J-J?” they cannot
even cook a decent meal anymore so
why bother. venomous email young gulls
foul grin. I tried to hold it and take it out
but the eel was too slippery to be held
and it disappeared up my penis. you’d
be angry too if you bled 1 week a month besides
you should never trust anything that bleeds
that much and doesn’t die. young gulls. trashy
sisters. horrible shiny dresses. furious abandon.
the main goals of feminism were destruction
of the nuclear family unit and emaciation
of the males. paper-cup clutchers: “mama.”
ashen commuter faces. women rely on
emotion and not so much analytical
rationalization, in short they don’t think
as much. a very small pink clump. catalogs.
you just want some female to feel sorry
for you and take care of you and wash
your stinky underwear and your dirty
dishes and cook for you. hello! I am
the virgin mary magdalene! I am carrying
miraculous triplets similar to the virgin
mary. you are here: are you here?
foul grin. why are women so angry? you
want to sit on your lazy asses all day,
and watch tv, drinkin beer and smokin
dope. I tried to hold it and take it out. sex
feels good duh. sometimes it amazes me.
the sensible work shoes. gateways.
a particularly frightening-looking vagina.
the throat, gullet, or jaws especially of
a voracious animal. many of these links
to my poetry are broken. he’s been
distressingly absent: the insatiable lobster
at the end of the course. The insatiable clown
prepared to go shopping, but realized
that he actually forgot his wallet. he actually
forgot his gullet. he actually forgot his
particularly frightening vagina-Cicada;
Clouded Leopard; Clown Anemonefish;
Coelacanth; Common Earthworm;
Common Loon. insatiable unicorns
clutch paper cups. the insatiable clown
at the end of the course just sits there
drooling. Many of these links to my poetry
are broken.


    - some emotionally distressed girl
       with not enough to do,  evidently-
            lady wisdom raped and crying

a heart hymn from the dark shadow

OLD ADAM THE CARRION CROW

Old Adam, the carrion crow,
The old crow of Cairo;
He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Under his tail and over his crest;
And through every feather
Leak'd the wet weather;
And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow,
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,
When we have supped on king's marrow,
Where shall we drink and make merry our life?
Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,
'Tis cloven and crack'd,
And batter'd and hack'd,
But with tears of blue eyes it is full:
Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

                                -Thomas Lovell Beddoes





.

NO MONTE CORPINYO

Penedos, altos penedos
do Corpiño vixiante;
sodes, como o meu amor,
tristes, barudos e grandes.

¡Cantas veces, cantas veces
dende o curuto en que estades
sufríchedes impasibles
o furor dos temporales!

Nin os ventos que arrincaron
doridas queixas aos mares,
nin as furias medoñentas
das frecuentes tempestades,

de movervos unha vez,
penedos imperturbables,
de movervos unha vez
foron ata hoxe capaces;

que sodes, altos penedos
do Corpiño vixiante,
o mesmo que o meu amor,
tristes, barudos e grandes.

         -Gonzalo Lopez Abente

 - found on the high mount above Muxi'a Gallicia Spain

vizpo perhaps

"Lady of Philerme," by Mitsui

the pilgrimage eternal

An Improvisation for Angular Momentum

Walking is like
imagination, a
single step
dissolves the circle
into motion; the eye here
and there rests
on a leaf,
gap, or ledge,
everything flowing
except where
sight touches seen:
stop, though, and
reality snaps back
in, locked hard,
forms sharply
themselves, bushbank,
dentree, phoneline,
definite, fixed,
the self, too, then
caught real, clouds
and wind melting
into their directions,
breaking around and
over, down and out,
motions profound,
alive, musical!

Perhaps the death mother like the birth mother
does not desert us but comes to tend
and produce us, to make room for us
and bear us tenderly, considerately,
through the gates, to see us through,
to ease our pains, quell our cries,
to hover over and nestle us, to deliver
us into the greatest, most enduring
peace, all the way past the bother of
recollection,
beyond the finework of frailty,
the mishmash house of the coming & going,
creation's fringes,
the eddies and curlicues



        - A.R. Ammons  (deceased awhile back)

conundrums manifest

 

 

 

The Lords of Maussane

One after the other, they wished to predict a happy future for us,
With an eclipse in their image and all the anguish befitting us!
We disdained this equality,
Answered no to their assiduous words.
We followed the stony way the heart traced for us
Up to the plains of the air and the unique silence.
We made our demanding love bleed,
Our happiness wrestle each pebble.

They say at this moment that, beyond their vision,
The hail terrifies them, more than the snow of the dead!

                     -Rene'  Char




 

prayer

Daylight my darknesses.







     by

   Raymond Souster  (1921-2012)
                -  recently deceased toronto poet

a spiritual journey

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home.

         -Wendell Berry

cybermovement

 

 

 

Feb

1

Tyrone Williams

Tyrone Williams teaches literature and theory at Xavier University in Cincinnati, Ohio. He is the author of three books of poetry, c.c. (Krupskaya Books, 2002), On Spec (Omnidawn Publishing, 2008) and The Hero Project of the Century (The Backwaters Press, 2009). A prose eulogy is forthcoming from Hooke Press in 2010. He has completed a manuscript of poetry commissioned by Atelos Books. His website is at http://home.earthlink.net/~suspend/

Poetics

Like many poets, I imagine, I keep a journal of phrases, images, snatches of conversation, etc. that I go to when I'm in the process of writing. I'm not a procedural or conceptual poet in the sense that I don't begin with an interest in a specific set of formal problems to engage, though I admire poets who appear to work this way. However, once I have a specific idea for a poem I do think about the formal matters most appropriate—or most inappropriate--to the subject matter (and by appropriate and inappropriate I mean, of course, sedimented traditions). And then I write and rewrite but it's very specific: some poems go through twelve, twenty, or more drafts, others, four or five. And I do believe in serendipity as I believe a poet must make his or her luck. My sense is that, for me and many others, the antennae are always up even if we are not always aware that they're in reception mode.

Affinities

Cathy Wagner, Brenda Iijima, Kit Robinson, William R. Howe, Dana Ward.

Poems by Tyrone Williams

Little x Little (from the book ON SPEC, 2008)

for malcolm…

The subdivision of area codes

follows. Housing evolves, as does

cliché. So too the “human,” “nature”—

everything except the abstract:

sediment for ground: ennobled baboons.

But what of these hypostatized lawns?

This back called my mule?

They it it—confounding Lockes:

union-free Negroes + cost-effective

labor =abbreviated angels

(formerly former). Hence the conundrum

coined blur. Dilemmas exchanged for rakes,

rakes for enigmas. Hope?

Acres squeezed into a steeple.

Despair? The fixed rate of interest

appreciates. Gated ghettoes:

know from know-how?

Went west (boyS to boyZ).

Mature::castrati—as reading is to

curiosity's edge

 

 

           To Understand Flight

Wet hands work quickly, cartilage shines into light.
No need to repeat what you’ve seen

Of me, but yes I would anchor this house
To the ground if I could.   One day,

The grass said to the rain,   Do not leave.
Outside this house of memory and bricks,  I plucked

A wing to see the mechanics of flight.  How could
Anyone have moved with skin

Exposed like that and waiting?   Don’t think that the pull
Didn’t hurt or the sound.   I feared the sky

Ready to answer in rain.   To loosen feathers,
first close the eyes to spare them.

That day,  gray light spilled into crevices,
Covered my hands in down.   I was warm.

       

          -Malinda Markham   (RIP)      {1968  -  2012}






.

ah! a bow most genuine

The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poets erased the words before
they wrote to educate each reader's world
and found the beauty trapped in lines of curled
metrical chants, and though they lost the more
pedestrian of people they reached a shore
unknown. In Arks and Alphabets they whirled
our tongues in a Gravitron until we hurled
the ancient dust that nailed us to the floor.
Their greatness is in immoderation,
and though their writing does not speak for me
I would not see the effort needlessly rent,
and if I would not be them yet I see
the weight of pressing against, of obfuscation,
of signs unsignified and language bent.



      G.M.  Palmer






.

well....was it?

Was it light?
Was it light within?
Was it light within light?
Stillness becoming alive,
Yet still?

A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
Be still.
Wait.


      -theodore roethke










.

listen close

http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/search/label/Denise%20Levertov









         !

o ME o MY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaLi4gPEkls&feature=related






-never too late

baseball poem by kirby olson entitled: BASEBALLPARK ESTIMATES

I threw the pitch
Unlike Nietzsche
The will to power
Even the flower
The ball hit the kid
In the head
He dug in deep
I felt the thread
& hit his head
(Anew)
He saw stars
I threw a strike
He belted it good
I heard the wood
Hit the leather
(Saw the)
Ball as it flew
Into the blue.

hope in a measure

A POEM WITHOUT A SINGLE BIRD IN IT


What can I say to you, darling,

When you ask me for help?

I do not even know the future

Or even what poetry

We are going to write.

Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people

Than either of us have tried it.

I loved you once but

I do not know the future.

I only know that I love strength in my friends

And greatness

And hate the way their bodies crack when they die

And are eaten by images.

The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.

Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left

After you die or go mad,

But the calmness of poetry.

        - Jack Spicer

One by Dylan Thomas

   

 

 

      

 

       I See the Boys of Summer

 

I I see the boys of summer in their ruin Lay the gold tithings barren,                 Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils; There in their heat the winter floods Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,                 And drown the cargoed apples in their tides. These boys of light are curdlers in their folly, Sour the boiling honey; The jacks of frost they finger in the hives; There in the sun the frigid threads Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;                 the signal moon is zero in their voids. I see the summer children in their mothers Split up the brawned womb’s weathers, Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs; There in the deep with quartered shades                 Of sun and moon they paint their dams As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads. I see that from these boys shall men of nothing                 Stature by seedy shifting,                 Or lame the air with leaping from its heats; There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse                 Of love and light bursts in their throats. O see the pulse of summer in the ice.                                                       II But seasons must be challenged or they totter Into a chiming quarter Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;                 There in his night, the black-tongued bells                 The sleepy man of winter pulls,                 Nor blows back moon-and midnight as she blows. We are the dark deniers, let us summon Death from a summer woman,                 A muscling life from lovers in their cramp, From the fair dead who flush the sea The bright-eyed worm on Davy’s lamp, And from the planted womb the man of straw. We summer boys in this four-winded spinning, Green of the seaweeds’ iron,                 Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,                 Pick the world’s ball of wave and froth To choke the deserts with her tides, And comb the country gardens for a wreath. In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,                 Heigh ho the blood and berry,                 And nail the merry squires to the trees; Here love’s damp muscle dries and dies,                 Here break a kiss in no love’s quarry.                 O see the poles of promise in the boys.                                  III I see you boys of summer in your ruin.                 Man in his maggot’s barren. And boys are full and foreign in the pouch.                 I am the man your father was. We are the sons of flint and pitch. O see the poles are kissing as they cross. .

147

 





  My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please:
My reason the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


            -the bard of stratford on avon








...

for crying out loud

http://hcl.harvard.edu/poetryroom/listeningbooth/poets/bronk.cfm


william bronk reading in 1956 the year i was born

of things we must hear

The White Buffalo Prophecy


In the words of Chief Arvol Looking Horse:

"So
we carry
these messages
up to this day

& the belief
[Lakota words]
that some day
there's going to be some signs.

And so the elderly people
have been praying
for the return
of the white

buffalo calf.
And but so
these signs
that we see,

they said there's gonna be like
four
white buffalo calves
to be born

during this time,
& today
there's three of them
that were born. [& now,
in the spring of 1998,
the fourth white buffalo calf
was born in Michigan]


2

Back in 1890
a way of life
they say
the sacred hoop was broken

at Wounded Knee
&
for a hundred years
we could not practice this way.

And once again,
in 1990,
the seventh generation,
that's when

our way of life,
the sacred hoop
would be mending
the mending

of the sacred hoop
we have to
complete ourself
spiritually.

The last one hundred years
we re not sharing,
there's so many things that
we do not tell,

so we have this
because we are not sharing
everything
is so closed in

& in the seventh generation
once again
people would start
to feel this.

So we live in that time when
the seventh generation
since 1890
the mending of the sacred hoop

is once again
start sharing
& start understanding
this way of life, because

when we do this
in our way, we say that
when somebody is not sharing
& when they carry that pain

then it turns to violence,
anger,
hatred,
& jealousy,

& all the things that
because
we are not teaching it,
we are not sharing them.

But
when we start
doing
the ceremonies,

we let go of that pain,
& we feel good
inside,
spiritually.

So these spiritual
connections
that we have
today,

we have to really
think about
not only ourselves, but
all things

the two-legged,
the four-legged,
the winged ones,
the ones that crawl.

We say
Mitakuye Oyasin
To All
My Relations

So I m really thankful
that there's a lot of good things
that's happening,
& I m very thankful to be here


3

This is an historical moment
for First Nations. For our people,
the birth
of the female white buffalo calf

signifies
that many changes
are coming
to the world.

In 1890,
when the 7th Cavalry
massacred my relatives
at Wounded Knee,

the sacred hoop
of our Nation
was broken. The prophecies
also tell us

that seven generations would pass
before we would be strong enough
to begin mending
the sacred hoop.

We are in the 7th generation
today. In this generation,
healing will begin
not only for ourselves,

our families,
our nations,
but also
for the whole world. We pray

to never see
another Wounded Knee happen
to any peoples
anywhere.


4

The birth
of the white buffalo calf
tells us the time
to begin this mending
of the sacred hoop
is now. Elders
have declared June 21st
to be World Peace

& Prayer Day. On this day,
people around the world
will gather
at their sacred sites

whether it be a church,
a temple,
a mosque,
or a mountain, they will pray

for world peace. If we do not do this,
much hardship is ahead
for all peoples
of all races. We have a short time

to return
to our spiritual roots
& begin respecting our Mother
who we depend on

for the sustenance
of life. Our Mother Earth
is needing to cleanse herself
& it is our duty

to also pray for her
so that we may see life
for our grandchildren
in the 7th generation."

      John Sinclair  (b.  1941)

'frogs sat around a puddle'

Frogs sat around a puddle
And gazed at heavens high
Frog teacher pounding into skulls
The science of the sky.

He spoke about the heavens
Bright dots we see there burning
And men watch them, 'astronomers'
Like moles they dig for learning.

When these moles start to map the stars
The large becomes quite small
What's twenty million miles to us
They call one foot, that's all.

So, as those moles did figure out
(If you believe their plan)
Neptune is thirty feet away
Venus, less than one.

If we chopped up the Sun, he said
(Awed frogs could only stare)
We'd get three hundred thousand Earth's
With still a few to spare

The Sun helps us make use of time,
It rolls round heaven's sphere
And cuts a workday into shifts
'Forever' to a year

What comets are is hard to say
A strange manifestation
Though this is not a reason for
Some idle speculation

They are no evil sign, we hope
No reason for great fright
As in a story we got from
Lubyenyetsky, great knight

A comet there appeared, and when
It rays were seen by all
The cobblers in a tavern
Began a shameful brawl

He told them how the stars we see
So many, overhead
Are actually only suns
Some green, some blue, some red

And if we use the spectroscope
Their light tells, in addition
Those distant stars and our Earth
Have the same composition

He stopped. The frogs were overwhelmed.
Their froggy eyeballs rolled.
'What more about this universe
Would you like to be told?'

'Just one more thing, please tell us sir'
A frog asked, 'Is it true?
Do creatures live there just like us
Do frogs exist there too?'


          Jan Neruda  (Czech poet of the May group)

            trans.   D P  Stern

Draft 37: Praedelle

Hard. The dure of tradurre.
wide low arcdeep fields,
houses dotted, ho detto,
with shadow. And sun stark.

Stone and flesh, worry wort
no subtle word, true St. John’s Wort.
Grab a bite at their Fat Lamb Inn.
Unstatable. The what?

Crumbling. “White plenitude”
Red boots, sea frets, wool smell
blanket wet with interior dew.
Close eyes. To See well.

Bring this from there,
this from here, that d’étrangère,
and something else, ormer,
gives long hoots from elsewhere.

One place cool and wide, second
hot and dry, third a salty isle.
With simple travelling steps–praedelle–
mix, shift and cambiare sides.

Assembling stagione
stations and stages
shades of unspeakable iotas
seasons and ages.

Steep fell end becks
and calls to pasta–macaronic–
the “speech” of the sites,
in places tectonic.

Brough, pronounced Bruff
in the hard hills, on the scarp bares
Apt in two sites. Bones’ slough.
Lark adds arc to aires.

Paglia e fieno
green and yellow tawdry
twine nests of edible color
hay listeth towards straw.

“High high high” : name fits
phonemes diversi, threaded lects,
words org. in threes. Solve Riddles?
“Well, it’s a fookin ‘ill, ain’t it”

Farfalle scamper and rise.
Kiting float. Stonewater jars
long peach lines of orrery
sunset orbitic law.

Bean of the sea-wall
chicken of the tree-well
lattice stripe language
high wind vowels

Chiaroscuro, and know why;
footnooted data, hypnic jerk
on the other side of verso
wads of salt grass lurk

Dream in the dream
of unspeakable Italian
cactus melon, due lingue
mixup round the homonym

Seameadow seagrass
pradera de Thalassia
She first thought watermelon
translated to acqua melone

Mite speaking.
Mote spoken.
Babble out the syllables
Présilly Hoboken.

Still-life with dishware
cooked earth meister-mixed
elbow on it, triple L.
attachments to fancy, nixed.

Dried lavender smells like tea.
Earl Grey and boxed milk
hot in a greenclad bowl.
Something definite so to speak.

Syntax built up
clarification matte;
mutes–cardboard, copper
black rubber and tin hat.

Dream sounds: was there somebody?
Dream thought: sentence about,
uh, language. Dream– damn.
No memory gets the sentence out.

Living alongside borders
A house called “Two Ways”
Rachel and Leah, why the choice?
in whose eyes?

Stand on the porch
between words and the speechless
as two female triangles
hug by pinkish arches.

Folds fall in laban-notation
from one to the other
striping the absolute
excitabilities of their billow.

They embrace and warm
shutters ope, windows wide
hearts terremoto pitter pat
pulse gold-white light.

In stucco corner where
four tonalities meet
they scatter origami foldits,
dream-awake or dream-asleep.

Wing-steep pitches folden valleys
ortolan quindi–
vantageless voice
of the brown feathery.

Postmemory l’altro ieri
or are there two or more
alongside that very where
darkened statue niches roar.

If one is saying yes, well then
t’other must say no.
Orphery, porphery.
There’s just one way to go?

Win them; neither’s a wrong one.
I love them both, even unseen
who’d eaten out of campo
the wild serrated green.

Dewy shadows of one caught
transfixed on the path
envelopments of instantaneous
black pitch, blank patch.

Name of the one for whom I named her
crepuscular twists of page
in éclairissage before a storm,
O range or rage.

Cooling down in grigio silence
Rime figures parlay soon.
The path (pith) coated with-white
by today-full moon.

Panned-in praedella, another quad
where moon and volcano
silver flames and gold. The ore, ecco,
that rifts claim.

Load eerie rift
with or, yes, what was he saying;
Keatskill to pack in smeltings
back to where they came from.

Rock gold into the open.
Stuff it into roll and rift
Impossible geology
of the gift.

Mined stuff into open earth.
Scrissi orto
verso ringaleaveo
recto on the straightaway, no dearth.

So I loaded the riffs
with terrific zaum
Itched thru the night
wandered the Raum.

Loaded them with either
then with or and both (“both both”)
over the gravel rutted road
where “I”–they–walked.

Ciao Rachel, ciao Leah,
who brought to each the other.
Under keystone bridges found
Long-once dream of a double river.

The or of every rift is ore
the eithers also ores
There are twin rivers rushing wide
that flow apart to lodestar shores.

       - Rachel Blau DuPlessis

Links Blues

There are worse things than being in a bunker
I think to myself as I walk across the fairway
to that familiar tan valley.

On getting a bit closer, I correct myself:
There are worse things than being in a bunker
with a downhill lie.

One hundred and ten yards to the pin
and with equal parts hope and fear
I select the seven iron.

In an explosion of sand,
a low line drive hits the lip of the trap,
and bounces back to my feet.

There are worse things
there are...
worse things

than being in a bunker
with a downhill lie,
in soft sand.

But right now,
I can't think of even one.

      prof. Stu Kurtz - phd.

Joachim du Bellay (16th century)

Now that her starry chariot plies,
She who brings silence and sleep again,

I’ll loose the bridle, to relieve my pain

And welcome tears, and cries, and sighs,

O Earth! O liquid Element! O Skies!

O winds! O woods! Rock, plain, and mountain,

All desert land, each riverbank and fountain,

All that is full and all that empty lies,

O demigods! O nymphs of the trees!

O water-nymphs, and every creature,

If ever you have felt true sympathy,

Deign sorrowfully to hear my sad pleas,

Since my faith, my verse, and my amour,

Can in my Lady find no trace of pity.

       A. S. Kline  -  trans.

Tagore says

Listen, can you hear it?
His bamboo flute speaks
the pure language of love.
The moon enlightens the trees,
the path, the sinuous Yamuna.

Oblivious of the jasmine's scent
I stagger around,
disheveled heart bereft of modesty,
eyes wet with nerves and delight.
Tell me, dear friend, say it aloud:
is he not my own Dark Lord Syama?
Is it not my name his flute pours
into the empty evening?

For eons I longed for God,
I yearned to know him.
That's why he has come to me now,
deep emerald Lord of my breath.
O Syama, whenever your faraway flute thrills
through the dark, I say your name,
only your name, and will my body to dissolve
in the luminous Yamuna.

Go to her, Lord, go now.
What's stopping you?
The earth drowns in sleep.
Let's go. I'll walk with you.







            -what to call the urgings of the heart?