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Moon Phase




POETRY

Monday, June 4

Respekt Metaphysik


Psychedelik respekt metaphysik
cyberg
     ratio
          dancing
     in those
        androidballmasques
     or the chessgame birthday fantasy -
cherry pits
between your baby teeth
ohmogosh
   ohmigosh
       ohmigosh

Saturday, June 2

harmonograph

curled within that one-dimensional leaf,
that creation
harmonograph realised
and slipped feet into that slipper,
that shell is your shell
and worlds are tucked
into these plains and whorls -
i dream thus a citadel in my fingerprint
that becomes a labyrinth
walled by conjecture.

Alice


There's always a reason
but never an excuse
for there is no
such
thing,
Alice,
as better-than.
You stood there
with your great spotted mushroom
fantasy
telling me
of vodka-soaked expeditions
with the white rabbit.

Defendant


His frown directed sweats
from hairline to temple and neck,
his eyes held fright
like a cup holds black coffee
in some overlit complicit petrol-station roadstop restaurant
intimating something
distasteful but untried;
bought out of habit
like an afterthought
insinuating itself into second nature.
The styrofoam of his collared shirt
stiff and mundane,
destined to be disposed of
with dregs gritting the white and
staining the armpits,
now lies crushed,
abandoned on his laundry floor.

Absconding Angels

When heaven's clouds' temperences,
in spring storm whimsy,
most magnificently bank and rear
great walls of white appear and
arpetures fracture,
break, create arbours.
Into these
absconding angels peer
at mossy-trunked tree - their tusk-branches veined
with fruited vine,
meadow-bank and
green shade,
inviting sylvan recline.

Absinthe: A Satire


Without directly mentioning the perpetrator,
or the victim,
this thrumming summer tide -
an adrenal ocean froment
somewhere,
(and unforgettably near to the bowels),
is at times mentioned as a reason for living.

Paradoxically
people would die for feelings like this,
and it does give us something to drown in, though
this would be an admission of defeat
to the seasoned modern warrior.

Tempered in such heat
things may develop
at their own pace and
within their own contexts,
but is that any excuse for this??

Dreams become complex,
expectations and desires press them,
make heady wine
dissociative in its effect,
somewhat like absinthe in fact.

It is easy to see why they say
that the great poets and artists
got drunk on absinthe,
it is the closest thing
to an amniotic fluid of doubt
in which sensitives of the world swim about.
Not to say that this is immature,
(well maybe),
but life is nothing without its kiss,
but derided dust without its kiss.

To say that true feelings
can be accurately separated here from delusions
would not be true,
and one can perhaps 'protest too much'
of what is, at best,
a tremulous conviction.

This belies a predilection
for rhapsodic fantasies and
delusionist nighttime luxuries of
simultaneous solitude and company.

Perhaps it is only an
ambiguous schism
that is delightful, also
torturous in its many small and
perpetual betrayals,
breathing is sweetly rendered nonetheless.

Daring is encouragd by shouting blood,
and there is a delicious horror can be felt when
even minute transgressions rear their head.

It pleasantly confuses as weighed,
upon divine and delicately tared scales
are each subsequent action,
whether expression profound
or imbecilic absolute,
(at best a point-mute),
and subtleties of entropy
become the greatest boon,
the fiercest, most inimitable of enemies.

The Columbine Bloodletting


i can never seem to find you when i need you,
you grow, in part, inside of me and
i let your blood constantly.
i let your blood constantly
by taking other lovers
for they masquerade as you,
i can never tell the difference until
....

You still wear your masque
it is still you, Harlequin,
who can see me only
and i spin around
and around and
my long golden hair
becomes loosed and flies -
what matter?
no-one else can see me.
no-one else
can ever see me but you.

i let your blood constantly
as you grow inside of me,
in a way, like a poem
so that i don't get you wrong.

oh how i like dancing with you for
you are quite invisible, yet
every nerve
feels every sinew
as we prance through
this harrowing tango.

i am a cobra spitting
when those masques
are unmasked,
unmanned,
unwomanned.
Those kisses fade
and dryly smack
upon arbitrary contours, and
all that is left
is that feeling of need
for something else.

Harlequin, can you see me?
Columbine, where are you?
Harlequin!!
Columbine!!

These veils only part
at the behest
of some fateful breeze,
passionate wind,
or tempestuous storm.

i spin like whirlwind
i gather the dusts up
of anthill,
of civilization, and
my soul
will leave no rock unturned,
no tree unclimbed.

i am pursued
i pursue,
is it always to be so,
is it always invisible you?

Upon Mr Pope's Interpretation of Ovid's 'Metamorphosis'


I'll toast to one
who, methinks, did well,
to hold his silver tongue.
For to utter such opine
is most considerately done,
within silences of the pen.

Dying Refrain


There is a forgotten place
Music reaches for it for it is there...
in some faery realm
down paths known only to folk
as live  deep in velvet green
amongst timeless mossed forests,
highland slopes,
and deep down in rarely discovered valleys.

It is there in intermittent
tinkling of tin-cans, bottle tops,
(hanging for mysterious
superstitious purpose
on fence wire),
for the wind plays these things
and it knows...

It teases at our senses, touches
the lost and displaced part of our souls
with a hint of gorse-flower
with a dying refrain
tangled myths
vague powerful dreams, and
lovers hopes
of wild irish midnight
and selkies.

The rocks and the stones know.
They are still, silent, and holy
the carved sacred remains,
bones
of a civilisation,
bones of some kind of hindsight heaven,
bones of a Brigadoon
or a Summerland
all but lost to us now.

It is like a whispered secret,
its ghosts sit on logs in furs,
around welcoming blazes and
drink honeymead,
  they walk everywhere.

It exists as a spirit
in the lilt and the laughter
twinkling eyes
accents of fast-spoken gaelic -
language in which every word
sounds like an ancient spell,
every word
evokes heather, dragons, and peat flame.

It is to blame
when the wind whistles hard in the eaves
when frost reddens your nose
when a hearth-fire sings in the silence, and
when the moon says "run away with me,
i will show you",
yes the moon knows.

My Thoughts Return to You.


                             


I can at last write to you without guilt
I’ve left him and you are back in town
I can feel it before I know it

Your smile was death’s shadow stomping around in my heart.
I creep in the fields
Of your distaste and I learnt to hate.
In my young life I’ve learnt to hate
And this is a love poem.

Well the fields are lit by moonlight
And my creeping obsessions have been here
For so long they are furtive
They have learnt to survive under the guise of dreams
I’m surprised to see them here at all
It must be a trick of the moonlight.

We live in interesting times my friend
These indeed are interesting times.

I and he
No longer have to practice the subtle art of self-deception
Or self-denial.
We had, and still have, true love: it was born here
Right here in my bed
Right here in the kitchen
Our son
But now he is our only true love and there are to be no more of our children.

Now the heart again begins palpably to beat. A strong calm beat.
I was startled at first that it was not pounding
And feared a loss of passion swallowed up by this sadness
But its life it wants now, not a heart attack.

We stare with limpid lights blinking, a morning’s misted rain on lashes
Fur milky white and blue
Tremble souls in the face of beauty
Travel souls in a secret place
A pale face in an upstairs window sees through for a moment
The palpitating air
And then we are gone
Mist spirits that make your dogs growl
And you call us obsessions because you fear to follow us.
We return when the dogs are sleeping or dead
When your eyes are open right to the soul
To the pith of you
Then you can see
And feel, and know why we hid.
Know the secret of us, why we exist at all.
Our spontaneous form flies then into a curl
Of a swirl
Of a morning’s mist.

I dreamt my friend that I picked up my own skull’s tooth and held it in the air.
I dreamt of the morning that I held my son and our shadows formed as one upon the wall
as we looked at each other
.
I dreamt of the world after everyone had flown for a day: the resultant art, architecture,
Their dreams after that one day.

Sometimes I have nothing to do but watch a candle melt
Life and wax-morality quick, then slow down a pillar.

Around Winter Soltice


i was on the lip of sleep breathing a vapour of dreams
there rising from some pit of consciousness;
some song of self,
the notes of which were ascending images and impressions:
i must be screaming, i must be dreaming.

For if we climb one upon the other,
be a ladder of hope and help,
we perhaps would crawl out of this pit
we stepped into.

i saw your nose last night and
the worlds i remember poised upon its shape.
Those memories keep themselves warm in my chest
and make me hungry:
hungry for the kind of love that makes you shiver,
and bunch your knees up
and turns your toes inward and curls them.
i saw your smile at this communication
and obscure jokes passed between
and so too the thrill of recognition.

i hope you eat an apple today
and have a delicious bath
or hot, hot shower
and a conversation that brings to light
a bit more of our immortal soul
our everlasting inner life.

i hope i heard you say "i hope you sing a song."
        i dreamt that we were talking

i dreamt that you were telling me some intrinsic truth.

i dreamt that if we had made love
that we would’ve released the hounds of hell.

i walked home from the longest night of ninety-eight,
the moon and its star this morning were as some decoration
upon some goddess or other,
her cheek.

i sat upon a grassy uprooted tree stump
and watched its tree burn
and I fell into myself,
into my foolish self,
and knew that it was alright.
The dawn was an abalone's inner shell,
the sun was a jewel.
i saw the land,
valleys with lakes of mist -
mist fjords, solid enough perhaps to walk across.
i drank mulled wine and spoke of fairytales.
i can see the sun now from its reflection upon the leaves
warming the tops of things as it begins its southward curl.
Spring is heralded through the sap of a budding peach tree
and a growing pumpkin.

This bed faces the dawn
This dew hides or drowns.

Sirens of the Deep/ The Final Recompence.


Ministering,
otherworldly, beings -
perhaps they are sirens,
naiads,
called up from the depths
of every flyer's Thanitos:
these sepia nymphs
with caring hands,
rounded arms,
and gentle breasts upon a fallen cheek.

Would that i were laid,
in the end,
in such arms.
Divinities
crowding, in sympathy,
some creature dashed and wasted upon the rocks.

The Widow the Cat and the CarpetBagger.


  (Summer Sydney  1942.)

I was talkin’ to this joker and she walked by...
A small look, a laugh and chat to her friend...
My companion speaks again,
Belonging to the world before her:
“Will we be seeing yer out on Saturdee?”
“The races? Sure”
“Too fat to race anyway, me backs not what it used to be-
visit some when I’m passing through though”

and I stood there thinking that I was trapped by my own society.
There’s a whole world out there mate,
the sun that we see here burning your fat face
is the same one that rises over the pyramids
and touches the face of the Sphinx.
Bet life don’t ask you any riddles,
Lucky bastard
But yer carn't say that to 'em


“anyway tar mate I’ll seeya  next month”

the secret knowledge of stars


they whisper sweet nothings
to the lonely
to the dreamers who stare
for wont of anything else
singing silently
unknowingly
to them
they swing us in sweet circular exstacies
to sleep at night,
every night
sharing
lonely skies with
such dreamers who
must stare
with longing
at stars...

stars are...

they are the voices that chirrup constantly
when dark is quietest

the stars are every latent wish
waiting to fall
every undared kiss
limpid and exalted
dewing lips
of flowers
who still must grow at the wall.

Ripe


i am most absorbent today
soaking up my company
i am a sponge for dialect
reflected gesture
slips of the tongue
and awkward moments
have kept with me all day.
i feel people stare,
just for a moment,
at something dubious
something i cannot quite
put my finger on....
this causes
vague feelings of doubt
which plague happiness
yet
i have this momentum
a prow
which bursts over them
like i am cresting waves

fate may be fleeing with me
despite
and time burgeoning ripe.

Monday, March 26

opacity

I am
secreted in the fold of nature
swallowed by its green throat
a silence that cannot be broken
a being in the realm of thought
the fact of the matter
the only one
n-1
a vulnerability
merely a fleshed idea
a paradox of representation
this perfect implacement
aware of disparity
a tension in the room
truly a figment of my own imagination
a bad temper
pure chemistry
bewildered
(for I feel
that there was a time
when each point of contact
once was medicine)
a vivid shadow
implying substance
an absolute within my skin
a crack at the fray
a decipherable reality.
… and I want solitude
as deep as the loneliness I feel ...
In light of all events
Templum could be configured thus
the sensation of an esprite de corps
this was destined to be monumental
it caused the stirring of spirits
and inert humanity
able to recognise the power of truth
great truth proclaimed
the subtlety of these things
turned its inner eye
in a healthy reflexive
refreshing contemplation
this side of justification
this side of a lie
awakened by true curiosity
opening the eye
calling the truth
with an open category
like the centre of the hourglass
filtering time.

I find myself here navigating between the apogee and the nadir of this, my subsequent life …

the leaf of the tree, the growing green, the restful airs, the utopia that is not another place … its humus,
the cave ...
would that I could
i'd survey a herd of deer
from the mouth of it,
stoop awhile in the afternoon sun
while their thunderous run
inspires thoughts
of how to present such movement
and the best wall inside for it,
grinding the ochre.



Erik Satie - Once Upon A Time In Paris

Sunday, December 3

Thalia


http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SKp3Z1ZC9VU/VGXItjawViI/AAAAAAAABZk/wPQYtfsH9cA/s1600/Henryk_Siemiradzki_-_Greczynka_przy_fontannie.jpg
truly you are
a reluctant and skittish muse
thick handed
throwing dysmorphic glances from
out of hooded gazes
shattering amorousglorioussunshine
whiterosesintheskyallday
moods

The longer we do this dance, this
harrowing tango
living for the nights when
we don't get too drunk
to remember the nights
or fight
do we become even more
of a stranger
the longer you know someone?

You will, however,
know by the end of it all,
that i liked to dance.

Sunday, November 19

Parataxical Distortion.



With the subtle involuntary eyes
of vast curiosity
polite though
only but vaguely moral
accidental panopticon
bearing witness
to the better potential
of our all too human song,
rising constantly like
that of cicadas,
rudely interrupted
by a prurience,
and this is a collective noun – a prurience –
of such busy determined creatures,
creatures
that here will be dubbed
peeping Tomasina and peeping Tom.
criminal minds
bent on devising many
a complex and visceral persecution,
truly challenging
infinitely more reasonable
philosophical phlegmatic
thinking.
They are
gignomai nonetheless.
The agonism any iota of their presence,
which is mental torture,
brings about
is their only boon;
wrung from
terse and repeated
isometric gritting
of teeth and
silences contracted from
protracted biting of the tongue,
after compassion has been milked dry,
wrung from the indignant imagination,
from the rebelling mind,
no stranger to trauma,
to the basic aporia,
in the anguished “why, why,why!” –
wrung dry from
all this drips this last drop of
exasperated wish,
a decidedly fanciful desire,
for some kind of solution,
some lightening bolt
epiphany from out of the blue.

Therefore,
about them there
angry memories pa,
these almost phantasmagorical people;
there be placed,
shining like a silver lining,
this most sanguine hope:
that,
by virtue of
the offended milieux,
gathers some sanely arcane
collective force
of utter utter maturity,
culminating in
a wonderful spell,
a spell which facilitates
these hypocritically
counter-intuitive
blindly categorical types
to actually find each other
on their walk,
literally to meet
eye-to-eye.

Imagine
the contraction of
the sudden confronted shyness of
the quality of
the blinking startle of
surprise -
lens to fleshy lens!

Where then will they try to hide,
scuttling from the pull,
the cognitive dissonance,
of their unexpected imminent coalescence, and
the shock of misanthropy,
nurtured for so long it is habitual,
as it dislodges and sloughs.
What blessed hiatus this
for the rest of us
if us there be,
whom I these days
hardly believe in
hope for the existence of
feel the intimations of.

Imagine the sweetness
as Fate's irresistible sweeping rip
draws their mean heat seeking selves
completely out to sea,
latched firmly upon each other:
it
will not stop,
will not
retreat back to shore
like the predictability of tides;
what they have ignored
being of a greater potential than that
twisted semblance of power
which their constant transgressions and
aggressive spiritual-powerful
alter egos perversely project,
then aspire to harness,
and control,
beyond what their manifold lack of respect
could even begin to think to dream of.

It will subsume their
demagoguery
in pure molten irony.

How helpless they
their disbelief landing them
in
that pocket of reality.
How seemingly cruel
in our heady relief,
the knowing watchers-on
I hardly believe in
pained no more,
indulging in
the very great pleasure,
the final luxury,
of the last delighted laugh,
enjoying
a certain quality of bemusement :
many a lip-twitching
sotto voce observation,
antithesis to their obsessively
overzealous manipulations
of the gift of our
joyful sensual moral commonality.

While drowning
in that moral ocean,
after their mutual discovery of
each unfathomable
perplexity of too similar other,
while lost in the wry contingency
of the facts,
suffering such consequences of subjective asymmetry,
as were wrought by their vengeful
abject self pity,
perhaps they will find forgiveness,
humility,
and a particular apex of humanity they,
with their construct of eye,
could have,
ultimately,
been born to see.

For now they
regressively flounder upon
shoals of more reasonable
dynamics of personhood where,
sacred and simple,
respect juts conspicuously,
a snagging rock,
most threatening to
their impunity.

Only, I fear,
in the best of their fetish-based
ideals of what ought to be,
fantasies which could never suit you,
my Love,
or me,
and within moral interiors full of premises
supporting cultures of appropriation,
and in approaches,
justified in their intellectual worlds
constructed from nothing
short of ulterior motive,
excusing the various realities they
convince themselves of
in order to dominate
so as to perpetually compensate.
Realities in which they 'allow'
no agency but
a voodoo-doll idea of other,
and whatever the resentment is
that comprises this image of
'the other' that we represent
it thrives on pernicious
and dedicated sabotage,
burning needles of jealous intent
leaving but a shriven smidgen
of our own innocuous pleasures,
whereupon they 'grace' us
with their intrusions,
accuse our self's quick,
the intimacy of our very sensations
of being but a thief's touch,
and so seek to practice their especial
self appointed 'veto'
upon our every decision.
You know the type,
you feel uncomfortable
with the very idea,
not to mention the strong impression,
that they might be thinking about you
at any one moment in time.
In actuality
the result of all this
is that they merely
manifest as a
rat-tat regular event of ideological profanity,
chinese water torture brand of insanity;
but nonetheless
it is only in these places
that they inhabit
can any site can be found
ground be cleared
reasonably expected to yield
the latent fruit of their humanity.

Though pretending to help,
their narcissistic righteousness
sticks them fast
in patterns of derogatory methodology,
it creates a parasitical loop,
Möbius strip treadmill.

Caught up thus for the while
in this poisonous hypocrisy,
their brand of love,
its pundit-flavoured cooing
celebrating the dullest kind of clever,
their greed surely would resign itself,
eventually,
to stronger redemptive forces
pertaining to the traceries
remaining,
of their ultimately unavoidable innocence.

They are jaded now,
but perhaps the poignant best in them
will be reawakened
by this hoped for meeting -
for what it is worth
it must be remembered
that we wish them to meet
eye-to-eye -
and for each of their belated
realisations to spill free,
to make for a fertile ferment,
compost of mistaken,
misguided ideas and grotesque ironies,
ending up blessedly breaking down
around hungry new growth:
the solitary composing eye.

But these themselves are ideas of ideals,
platitudes implying desperate appeals
against the implacable folly,
layers of delusion,
the visceral eyes,
signalling their obtrusion.
This is but my ire
boring
but real
this turmoil of psychic energy
where shock
unravels itself
in bewildered introversion
and these at their most mistaken
are but transient beliefs
at best
becoming in their own right
art
from out of agonism.


Sunday, April 17

Home on the Range

http://americanpublicmedia.publicradio.org/podcasts/xml/prairie_home_companion/news_from_lake_wobegon.xml

Thursday, March 31

Tender Narcissisms



Dreaming, in solitude, tender Narcissisms;
these silent songs are running
through this body
 as blood in the night
the stars are in there and
still memory is but a  simulcrum -
all that remains of event -
dreams dreams dreams

consider reality as so small and
light so intricate in its
relationship with matter,
 so structured such that
 all which is not 'now'
 truly becomes dream.

Goethe thought so.

it is a thought has become my solace

It is almost so
that our frail fears of
 impermanence have created these
 delusions of solidity which
haunt us with the
complicity we attach
to events in this world

this world drifting in dream

madly swirling in
convection around event
stretched between its
 singularities:
the stirrings of the universe

intricate slumbers these -
thinking of the self as an eddy

Friday, February 5

Ode to a Nightingale


My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Tuesday, April 14

the white room




all night i lay
a shadow in the white room
moveable parts
changed
every hour
on the hour

and
depending on the spectators
down to the half hour
then
to the
fifteen minute
reification of Miss Prim
what started
the process
felt like a spider
and so
a life sized mannequin
was required
for the purposes
of rest
oh yes
sleep would've been
most welcome
yet rest
within a vigil
ensued

the body was moved
all around the floor
the plaque
was placed
the door sealed
such that the light

was evenly diffused
along the walls
the absence of colour
achieved
to emphasize
the figure
it's primary coloured contrasts

in repose
intermittently
a pile of limbs
a faceless creature
eyes

of fine hatched silver
always open
balls and sockets
ropes through the torso
to join
knotted
then carefully cut
sourced in a timeless responsibility

Sunday, March 8

The Canonization - John Donne


For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
         Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
         With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
                Take you a course, get you a place,
                Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
         Contemplate; what you will, approve,
         So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
         What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
         When did my colds a forward spring remove?
                When did the heats which my veins fill
                Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
         Litigious men, which quarrels move,
         Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
         Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
         And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
                The phœnix riddle hath more wit
                By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
         We die and rise the same, and prove
         Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
         And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
         And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
                We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
                As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
         And by these hymns, all shall approve
         Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
         Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
         Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
                Into the glasses of your eyes
                (So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
         Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
         A pattern of your love!"

Thursday, February 19

love poem

the Vala billows in winds of change
between the seeds of dreams and
dancing chaos
is the midst of rapture
visions hold us there
within the song of rhapsody
flinging forget-me-nots in the void
soul incubant in the matrix
intrinsic in its virtue
extrinsic in its vice
that chasm
which is open
to the grounds of truth
that sunken place where the sense when falling
finds necessary to accept
as a given reality
where the compass needle at any one time is
what the heights address
in order to orient themselves
the parted skies
above the abyss
milk drops down to this point
anything that will do any good
must observe this point
where it lands
at any one time
i am breaking open
my nadirs exposed
to let all gold in,
innocence will blare like
dunchen blasts
over the breadth of horizons
palpable
inviolable
clear.





Monday, October 13

folly II

A distinct but abstract attributive point of nadir
is a faultline,
the crack in the teacup,
the metaphysical wasteland
the point of address
open to the skies
where the water and the gold falls to
where all the holes touch ground
with their silver toes
with their insular woes
this is where
the atrocity is
where the abomination
presently exists
where the truth
has its place
where every intellect must collect
to make its point.

Saturday, September 27

The Minimalist





sometimes i think thou art a flower expanding
sometimes i think thou art a fruit breaking from its bud
- William Blake


a small pile of earth
in the middle of a vast floor space
hovering above it
 a pair of Sphinge
hessian
sacks
used for various purposes
windows
open to the scene
the air
all the elements
of a life
each in its place
dried flowers hanging upside down
along 
walls of stone
alcoves holding
small objects
and mice

the occasional bird visits
the fire burns
on lonely nights
while the vigil
wakes
the dreamer

the suspended Sphinges
glint in the light
made of brass
they are like small deities
asking riddles
and
answering them
in turn

pages turn
incense burns
the cauldron bubbles
bread is broken
baked on stones

charcoal
from willow picked
out of the past
renders
dreams into form

roses grow
at the sill

no
no
no
no
no


cherries in a bowl
upon a small table
which rocks

Thursday, September 25

Burning Silk

dessicated leathern sobbing sighed
from beneath flaring sands
from those entombed
in stone and gold;
shifting cobwebs rippled,
fine dust haze
settled after a storm,
choked a citadel
silenced by its violence;
heat-blasted
burning Sphinx
twisting hieroglyphs
incense;
sun,
scoring and white-hot,
penetrated the perfume,
ran over silk
like molten lava,
found
perfect oiled skin
stretched over
those mummified hides,
empty chests
shuddered as cry after anguished cry
heaved -
an asp curled
around her fingers
and
struck and struck
at her breast.

Friday, August 29

the owl over the pond

limping Theseus wanders into view
searching for a lost
spool
on the ground
near the pond
he is
floridly loitering
skirting his
criminalities -
they are
raging within a bull's head
somewhere in the dungeons
of Minos...

trees sigh
by the pond
the owl
stretches its wing,
contemplates
the starlight
at its tips
grace of airs
arcing dance
forest lace
embedding starlight
upon that water's surface
blue light
dawn sky
before liquid gold drowns
all killers' whispering woes
in predawn indigoes
the cold depths
of this pond
penetrated
by strathing gold
are the magi's
crucible
lilies grow at its edge