Category Archives: #poet

POETIC PAINTINGS

SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.

Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.

I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.

It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.

Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?

Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.

I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.

I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.

:: 03.26.2021 ::


CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

I WALKED the baking streets of summer’s distress
found a penny and called my Soul
i got the perfect stench for death — alright.
Friends fell out and i ate the fruit
— it’s sombrose and summer days
so hate how i hate how you painted me
so hate how i painted my soul today

Paid a vagrant like me with a smile
no receipt but a foaming from his mouth
DOA — double round, silver chain,
and hate how you got me painted me now

Filth in the gutter and cleaning up my soul
with the distant stares of others who ate
the fruit and kissed the snake — sombrose
and how red flowers are beautiful but
killers // i hate you painted me \\
on the canvase of miserable life.

Lay your hands upon me pope
pull my heart out government
gather round and feast upon a poet
and still i hate how you painted me
oh how i hate how you got me within
your mind.

Dizzy days crazy life & i don’t like
how you paid me for my consideration
(it’s a dream deep within my ego
a dead lie!)

:: 03.24.2021 ::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – XVI

The morning eye dew
i love it sees a new day untouched
a breath of sight so grand
a peace-inner speak-eye!
Tussle the bed sheets;
a flag that Nation for the sleeper
my Anthem made of murmur whisper-speak
my tender love!

And each morning to awaken
do i see my Nation
next to me that Anthem
her name and lips her voice;
angelic bliss!

:: 03-26-2014 ::


DEMIGOD RUMOURS

By this time she began to pant with the effort of speaking and died. The grief of her children was doubled, as was that of their father, and he swore before the woman whose heart had broken that he would never again be destroyed by fire, and would walk out from his house to dwell by the sea.

The gods were shocked to their foundations. They believed that they had truly killed Zeus and had been giving his body to live; for the children would come to the holy site of Delphi to praise him as they remembered his glory and proclaim their great dread. On their approach they met the priests in the street, but the fathers waved their children away, and said ‘They think they are honouring the Greek gods. They are not worthy of our esteem!’

‘Why not?’ asked a young girl who wanted to know, ‘Why should the Greeks think we are honouring Zeus? We are honouring a great man, the greatest being in the universe.’

Her mother, an oracle, retorted:

‘You are saying foolish things! Your father has sworn, and your sister has sworn, and so have I! So let this death of our mother be an eternal lesson to you! Whoever else shall say such a thing, shall by my hand or by the hand of your children be flayed.’

This brought him to his senses, and he put his arm through his daughter’s, and declared:

‘I would die gladly for the Greek gods, but we shall stand together on one side or the other, and offer the fire to the gods of Zeus as a sacrifice for the foundation of their city. If they refuse it, we shall always come to their aid, as we did in the great and terrible earthquake that was prepared for this very day.’

He died in peace, though at first it was rumoured that the gods had destroyed him, when he refused to go against them.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


THE GODS WITHDRAW

The Gods withdraw, and he comes forth; wherein four are crammed, the “Great Ones”.

In Earth then he dwells, but his presence sends and clouds o’er the mountains, exalt’d with light, and in rays that run all night long appear.

He looks from out the circle of his globe; the fires gild with his sweet smoke, and gladness e’en may-blossoms blush.

To Iast he draws light and prosperity, and his studious song enlivening the night.
From miles away, echoing echo, to the plain, and then a merry note trills, from his bright tongue.

Songs are breathed to him the flower of Earth, and he wings all the cold, and flying creatures:
he also enkindles the heart of birds, and all the earth with a shower of star-bites.

He fondles the earth and sees all the change. He makes mountains rise and rock the water,
and make paths for animals and swine alike.

“O fickle sere,” thinks, “I may make you melt!

i will change your position; I will trample on you.” A lovely shew, flashes on his face; the matter heats, to a heat far greater, and changes its own form.

Girrrl, who never saw the world, methought it nigh this majestic beast;

it now before her than she had met.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


SHE LEAVES BEHIND FOR THE END OF TIME

Thus men tumbled, whilst each struggled for peace;
And the lives of one overlaid and those of the other,
and fortunes of two falleth to the first:
which, when few lived, did vie with one another;
and now half died, so that now one lives.

Tho’ to each a body to live, yet they grapple
upon one common body; thus this strife
of gods, and men, and air, and water,
the product of long labouring labour,
bringing tenfold glory to Caesar’s era.

Then seeing which only worked greater grief
and loathsome toil, what I should in this short space fail to copy,
i reflected on those works that I thought most difficult,
And composed the poem above, to divide the toilsome march
with one finished task to be done; and yet to finish
with a sigh and a droop, a little less evil than it began,
but therefore nobler in sentiment than it began.

So therefore, last rites and unhappily now,
this song, until next next time, alas! thus sad.
Oh but these thrills and comforts that Nature gives,
which every hour she bestows, are, alas!

Till last year, little could reach those whom Nature
possessed by the book of science, but such
as she leaves behind for the end of time!

:: 03.16.2021 ::


EQUILIBRIUM

TAKE  the morning
take the night
as you will!

BRING the mud
dredge the water
filled to brim!

of life with death.

i took the sun
i took the moon
as love commanded

and lived my life.

How the world grew
How hearts grew
How my Life became

    –> all I knew!

:: 03.06.2021 ::


YOU ARE HERE WITH ME

I want you to know
one thing. You know how this is: if i look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window, if i touch near the fire the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Those moments when your heart stops beating for me like the moment when I first stepped
on the moon, the time I got a colostomy— those moments are what I treasure most,
the flow of blood in my veins, the enveloping of my heart.
I have been longing since the first night that I spoke to you.

My body had always been content, and had always had the sound of your laughter.
In the first thousand times that I touched your hand, I kept them still.
I could feel my body, I could feel the blood flow, I could even feel my heart pumping,
and still I could not say a word.
And I still do not know why.
Now I always speak. Now I am not content, I feel more pain.
My tears freeze like those on the glass of a window, like tiny crystals of ice.
Now my body is not content, in my mind and heart not in my soul.
Perhaps there are moments when I know that your love for me is more
than I can bear.
Perhaps it is in the hour when I see my life descending,
when I smell the last breath of summer, when the daily walk on the river takes me far from you,
perhaps it is in these moments that I cry for you.
And as long as you hear me, as long as I am alive, my tears are filled with your blood.
Sometimes in my heart, I am so full that I burst, and I think that my heart has come to an end,
and I understand, through my tears, that you are the one who is dearer to me
than I am to myself.

At that moment my heart feels as if I am one of those saplings that have roots in the earth,
and as long as your love does not die, your roots will not die either.
That is the truth. And if the day comes when my roots set off to find you, and your love dies,
my life will come to an end, and I hope that at that moment even if my heart is in pieces,
the sound of your laughter will echo in my mind, and it will say “I remember.”

Nothing in this world can make me happy.
Nothing in this world can calm my fears.
I am never happy. I am always in pain.
I have tried for many years to find the way through the darkness
and the cold, but my soul cannot accept it.
And there is no escape.
I dream of something that will make me happy, and I wake up and find myself with my heart in my hand.
And I can not cry for happiness, and I cannot cry for death.

I cannot cry for the things that I love.
I cannot cry for the things that I have lost.
I cannot cry because I am afraid.
And so I cry, and I weep, and I am weak, and I am so very alone,
but I cry and I weep, because you are not there, and I do not know
what is right.

I have tried to love and to hate, to live and to die, but I cannot understand
or love or hate.

You are not there with me, in my love, in my hate.

You are not there in the sea.
You are not there in the sky.

I walk in a place where no one knows me.
I walk in a place where no one needs me.
I walk in a place where no one can hear me.
I walk in a place where I do not fit,
I walk in a place where I have no place to stay.

But I have so much love, and I have so much pain.

And still, I will not let you go.

You are so near to me, so near.

I cannot run.
I cannot hide.
I will not let you go.
I cannot explain.
I will not explain.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.

You are not there.
You are there.
You are there.
In my mind.
In my heart.
In my soul.
In my very soul.
You are there, with me.

:: 02.25.2021 ::


MY WIFE

INSPIRED BY ANDRE BRETON
(1896 – 1966: Freedom Of Love)

My wife with the eyes of an archangel of the nude
asking me to come to bed.
with the eyes of a unicorn riding on the back of a dragon
whilst i am the beggar upon a donkey
with the eyes of a column without mortar and of hands
My wife with the eyes of a lake the ocean flowed into
With the eyes of a pen and with the eye of a child
telling me wonderful bedtime stories of Life.
My wife with the eyes of a butterfly
of a woman who is just stepping off her horse
My wife with the eyes of a fox of the panther’s head
with the eyes of a snake
hissing at the inequalities of life.
My wife with the eyes of a cold drink of water
quenching my thrist for love and life.
with the eyes of the beak of a dove
with the mind of a bastard twin
with the skin of a smooth-jacket’s boot
with the brilliant smell of a green ear of corn
speaking through Nature with her heart.
My wife with the mind of a simile
with the body of a handful of sea-pearls
and with the Soul of a sun with a tail of serpents
My wife with the eyes of a broken dagger
and with the feelings of a smouldering petrol-bomb
My wife with the eyes of a pain in her thumb
like the swollen member between my legs.
My wife with the eyes of an exclamation point
My Love with the eyes of a box of bottled messages
as the curves of a wheel of apples
My wife with the eyes of a ring-gargoyle
My wife with the eyes of the German eagle
My wife with the eyes of a cannonball dropped into the rocks
carving love into the mountain of my personal Life.
My wife with the eyes of a crane weeping
My wife with the eyes of a nightjar’s feather
My wife with the eyes of a sceptre
My wife with the eyes of an ice-bucket containing a koi
My wife with the eyes of a house-smoker’s chimney
feeding all who come to know her kindness.
My wife with the eyes of the olive and of the lotus
My wife with the eyes of an eel and of the slipper of a cow
My wife with the eyes of an abacus containing a scarab
My wife with the eyes of a seagull

is my wife is my love is my own inspiration in this Life.

:: 02.07.2021 ::