ha! ha! ha! ha! laughter--
not laughing. fickle, this joy.
an insult, even, to the Real:
better than weeping, perhaps? or
cheaply appearing such.
ha! ha! a joke, not for humor but
irony.
ha! ha! a joke, not for humor but
cheaply appearing such.
better than weeping, perhaps? or
an insult, even, to the Real:
not laughing. fickle, this joy.
ha! ha! ha! ha! laughter--
2/27/09
Friday, February 27
poetry history & the sea iv
i lingered by the fog-damped rocks pulling on sweet thick Spring. oh, content & numb; little seeing, little feeling, sleep-thinking but aware! paused, blinking: of whom? not the Sea far off laughing to Shore with such momentum! he echoes thinly through the thickening wood. nor History in his dusty libraries and war-sodden battlefields (how they strain now to bloom!--most splendid of the Aches). no, not them.
but Poetry? not she that died! this, too: there was no Muse, no wordish stem blossoming in so much Spring--dead, was gentle Poetry. yet as i languid lay, dazed, intervening between such forested cathedral sunlight and moistened cool of living stone, some ghost-apparent beauty swept her frigid vacant hair under my breath. no words had she! who was death's finest charge--but i can no more mistake than Hellenistic warriors miss Athene; shape-shifting goddesses both, sweet Poetry in mute spirit-skin i knew.
2/27/09
i lingered by the fog-damped rocks pulling on sweet thick Spring. oh, content & numb; little seeing, little feeling, sleep-thinking, who is this? not the Sea far off laughing to Shore with such momentum, echoing thinly through the thickening wood (how it strains now to bloom!--most splendid of the Aches); nor History in his dusty libraries and war-sodden battlefields (they were similar fields and forests before, as they shall be ever more: only days, weeks of blight excepted). not them.
but Poetry? not she that died! this, too: there was no Muse, no wordish stem blossoming in so much Spring--dead, was gentle Poetry. yet as i languid lay, dazed, intervening between such forested cathedral sunlight and moistened cool of living stone, some ghost-apparent beauty swept her frigid vacant hair under my breath. no words had she! who was death's finest charge--but i can no more mistake than Hellenistic warriors miss Athene; shape-shifting goddesses both, sweet Poetry in mute spirit-skin i knew.
2/9/09
but Poetry? not she that died! this, too: there was no Muse, no wordish stem blossoming in so much Spring--dead, was gentle Poetry. yet as i languid lay, dazed, intervening between such forested cathedral sunlight and moistened cool of living stone, some ghost-apparent beauty swept her frigid vacant hair under my breath. no words had she! who was death's finest charge--but i can no more mistake than Hellenistic warriors miss Athene; shape-shifting goddesses both, sweet Poetry in mute spirit-skin i knew.
2/27/09
i lingered by the fog-damped rocks pulling on sweet thick Spring. oh, content & numb; little seeing, little feeling, sleep-thinking, who is this? not the Sea far off laughing to Shore with such momentum, echoing thinly through the thickening wood (how it strains now to bloom!--most splendid of the Aches); nor History in his dusty libraries and war-sodden battlefields (they were similar fields and forests before, as they shall be ever more: only days, weeks of blight excepted). not them.
but Poetry? not she that died! this, too: there was no Muse, no wordish stem blossoming in so much Spring--dead, was gentle Poetry. yet as i languid lay, dazed, intervening between such forested cathedral sunlight and moistened cool of living stone, some ghost-apparent beauty swept her frigid vacant hair under my breath. no words had she! who was death's finest charge--but i can no more mistake than Hellenistic warriors miss Athene; shape-shifting goddesses both, sweet Poetry in mute spirit-skin i knew.
2/9/09
Monday, February 23
the reporter
it started out so--
just so.
by a rainy muse, by sharp lightning
outside those hotel bay windows;
i sat and stared, friend.
lights down while others slept,
from eight floors up i looked down:
scattered cars on a patchwork lot, the tram
every four minutes, looming cranes
pulling grandeur from the asphalt.
the night slipped on around me,
so still, content, so at--
peace, was it?
such careless peace!--love! o love!
where are we, what have we done?
i left all that behind! left the lunches with scarlet eyes
and flirting sexuality: she called me pet names,
though like gay Joey, not for affection
but for skill, for trade, for business.
and o! oh love, i ran the other way,
from the highstory hotel muse,
i traded that hard soulful rain for snow,
and love: maybe i was wrong,
but there's more to life--
something deep and rooted, a putting
of shoulders to the wheel.
but with me still, in memory-laced eyes
that sodden muse still watches trams,
every four minutes:
rushing here from somewhere,
and off again so--
just so.
2/23/09
just so.
by a rainy muse, by sharp lightning
outside those hotel bay windows;
i sat and stared, friend.
lights down while others slept,
from eight floors up i looked down:
scattered cars on a patchwork lot, the tram
every four minutes, looming cranes
pulling grandeur from the asphalt.
the night slipped on around me,
so still, content, so at--
peace, was it?
such careless peace!--love! o love!
where are we, what have we done?
i left all that behind! left the lunches with scarlet eyes
and flirting sexuality: she called me pet names,
though like gay Joey, not for affection
but for skill, for trade, for business.
and o! oh love, i ran the other way,
from the highstory hotel muse,
i traded that hard soulful rain for snow,
and love: maybe i was wrong,
but there's more to life--
something deep and rooted, a putting
of shoulders to the wheel.
but with me still, in memory-laced eyes
that sodden muse still watches trams,
every four minutes:
rushing here from somewhere,
and off again so--
just so.
2/23/09
second hand
deep, deep down
some subterranean sundial chimes
for beauty, grace, the balanced step
in well-matched sandals.
2/23/09
some subterranean sundial chimes
for beauty, grace, the balanced step
in well-matched sandals.
2/23/09
Tuesday, February 17
youth!
there's much to be said for you:
naivete is foolish but so pleasant! hope's fresh as spring.
i kicked the sapling, pocketed hands relaxed
just to see the leaves shiver. don't we all?
but grotesque, grotesque! is the mighty oak, kneeling down
to curl its hoary frame back to acorn.
so then. i wandered on, watching the guttered grit
sputter underneath the traffic's surge.
age--relentless, grinding oily momentum onward:
invisible, except upon inspection
or black defilement of newly-driven snow.
unstoppable is age's traffic. yet, never so revolting
as when pursuing youth's departed frame.
meandering, my journey pulls slow steps from me
as every day demands less youthful youth.
2/17/09
naivete is foolish but so pleasant! hope's fresh as spring.
i kicked the sapling, pocketed hands relaxed
just to see the leaves shiver. don't we all?
but grotesque, grotesque! is the mighty oak, kneeling down
to curl its hoary frame back to acorn.
so then. i wandered on, watching the guttered grit
sputter underneath the traffic's surge.
age--relentless, grinding oily momentum onward:
invisible, except upon inspection
or black defilement of newly-driven snow.
unstoppable is age's traffic. yet, never so revolting
as when pursuing youth's departed frame.
meandering, my journey pulls slow steps from me
as every day demands less youthful youth.
2/17/09
Thursday, February 5
specialist
in general--useless.
the Renaissance man shivers in the gutters,
jobless. homeless. loveless. but not
pastless!, nor futureless!--misery too is forward history.
he knows too much, not too little
who cannot shuffle papers without mourning cartography.
walking mends his sidewalk-chilled bones,
down Forbes to an annoyed corner and left, into slums.
here's the problem: They claw for new thoughts
leaving older better images behind;
no money in remembering. cigarette clusters
outside lecture halls jockeying for mental primacy
never admit they dislike Homer. here's the problem.
i'll teach them to smell the Grecian sea--
but even such thoughts anticipate! solve!
attempting a New approach even to the ancients;
for who escapes modernity's crippling touch?
libraries carry the internet today, mostly.
how many there are, never self-doubting success
or failure; is that itself not both?
2/5/09
the Renaissance man shivers in the gutters,
jobless. homeless. loveless. but not
pastless!, nor futureless!--misery too is forward history.
he knows too much, not too little
who cannot shuffle papers without mourning cartography.
walking mends his sidewalk-chilled bones,
down Forbes to an annoyed corner and left, into slums.
here's the problem: They claw for new thoughts
leaving older better images behind;
no money in remembering. cigarette clusters
outside lecture halls jockeying for mental primacy
never admit they dislike Homer. here's the problem.
i'll teach them to smell the Grecian sea--
but even such thoughts anticipate! solve!
attempting a New approach even to the ancients;
for who escapes modernity's crippling touch?
libraries carry the internet today, mostly.
how many there are, never self-doubting success
or failure; is that itself not both?
2/5/09
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