truth and you
it doesn't matter what you felt
little miseries
small regrets
minute desires
insignificant griefs
and harmless melancholy
the big picture looms menacing above
a zeppelin of untold rules
a symbol of the rule of
some truth
which though you may admire
you honestly can't grasp
such intimidating craft
it substitutes for you
a distant but
transparent
you
Sunday, 29 January 2012
29.1.2012 • the fraction of a nod
As a counter-reply to the rather gracious comment, whereof the malfunctioning javascript, disallowing my nod, enabled this somewhat longer and more creative reply. (Thank you.)
the fraction of a nod
dedicated most wholeheartedly to that sympathetic fellow
sometimes I can only manage the fraction of a nod
it’s not much, but hard as it may be try to fathom
my forehead’s forming wrinkles through that almost
spastically minute movement
are digging through the arachnid acres of folded time
into my hidden truths and lies
and stop so short of the expressive gesture of the head only
because the shovel has with muffled glintching
hit something soft
like when an eerily discreet scalpel touches with its frosty bite
a nerve
and all the world convulses with the pang of concentrated agony
such focused anguish is the decideful stopper of my affirm
so when I can only manage the mere beginning of a nod
you will excuse me (or perhaps
if you are such a sympathetic fellow
feel but a candlelight’s weight for me)
the fraction of a nod
dedicated most wholeheartedly to that sympathetic fellow
sometimes I can only manage the fraction of a nod
it’s not much, but hard as it may be try to fathom
my forehead’s forming wrinkles through that almost
spastically minute movement
are digging through the arachnid acres of folded time
into my hidden truths and lies
and stop so short of the expressive gesture of the head only
because the shovel has with muffled glintching
hit something soft
like when an eerily discreet scalpel touches with its frosty bite
a nerve
and all the world convulses with the pang of concentrated agony
such focused anguish is the decideful stopper of my affirm
so when I can only manage the mere beginning of a nod
you will excuse me (or perhaps
if you are such a sympathetic fellow
feel but a candlelight’s weight for me)
29.1.2012 • when I turn on the light
Out of nothing, in the dim electric light, came the words, as out of nothing, but do words (does anything) ever come out of nothing?
when I turn on the light
today when I turned on the light
everything seemed an ugly uncharacteristic desaturated hue
all colour remindfull of a dreary utopian past gone wrong
and the shapes and forms of every little piece of garbage
every untended niche
all too evidently brought out
today when I turned on the light
my dreams were a washed-out tone of grey
the colours latently forgotten
(no, not forgotten;
memory and hope are different functions
but both may equally
falter for a moment
during the course of so productive a Sunday)
when I turn on the light
today when I turned on the light
everything seemed an ugly uncharacteristic desaturated hue
all colour remindfull of a dreary utopian past gone wrong
and the shapes and forms of every little piece of garbage
every untended niche
all too evidently brought out
today when I turned on the light
my dreams were a washed-out tone of grey
the colours latently forgotten
(no, not forgotten;
memory and hope are different functions
but both may equally
falter for a moment
during the course of so productive a Sunday)
Saturday, 28 January 2012
28.1.2012 • bitter blind ecstasy (or, just your pretty face)
And the third poem inspired by Un coeur en hiver.
bitter blind ecstasy
or just your pretty face
no, no,
it's not just your pretty face
it's just those eyes
who tell a tale of woe
and such sweet restoration
as a thousand deaths' relief
would fain acquire had she the might
of those, it's just those perfect lips
the bud of lusty seasons which words cannot name
and which to spring are as she to the winter of the haunted moon,
and just the neck through which such fire flows as fuels the burning curse that is your tongue
to those who tasted it and will no more, devoured by the twisting passion of their memory,
it's just that back which like a sea of troubles and of strength can calm and rouse and give sweet rest and such violent spasms of frenzied pleasure
and just the soft and tender breast which mildly balms the fear and rage and passion and through calming turns them all in ecstasy to you,
that waist which in proportion and in shape and firm support founds and sustains your power and wrecks all resolve
or any resistant hopes, and that her selfsame other part the thighs that break rebellious strength
to sweet submission and contain the unutterable fire of sweet begetting, the limbs
which in perfection mix their grace and power and softness and induce
such substances as mixed themselves in blood will turn the mind
from any other thought
than you
not just your pretty face
bitter blind ecstasy
or just your pretty face
no, no,
it's not just your pretty face
it's just those eyes
who tell a tale of woe
and such sweet restoration
as a thousand deaths' relief
would fain acquire had she the might
of those, it's just those perfect lips
the bud of lusty seasons which words cannot name
and which to spring are as she to the winter of the haunted moon,
and just the neck through which such fire flows as fuels the burning curse that is your tongue
to those who tasted it and will no more, devoured by the twisting passion of their memory,
it's just that back which like a sea of troubles and of strength can calm and rouse and give sweet rest and such violent spasms of frenzied pleasure
and just the soft and tender breast which mildly balms the fear and rage and passion and through calming turns them all in ecstasy to you,
that waist which in proportion and in shape and firm support founds and sustains your power and wrecks all resolve
or any resistant hopes, and that her selfsame other part the thighs that break rebellious strength
to sweet submission and contain the unutterable fire of sweet begetting, the limbs
which in perfection mix their grace and power and softness and induce
such substances as mixed themselves in blood will turn the mind
from any other thought
than you
not just your pretty face
28.1.2012 • tears these days
The second poem inspired, partly, by Un coeur en hiver.
tears these days
it's always tears these days
tears
hiding
waiting
for the opportune moment
for the dam to crack
the brittle and the damp
to meet in a discreet
sad ecstasy of soft decay
break down
and let them flow
and oh! good lad
what fancies have you clad
in weeds of madness weeds of sad
departure and arrival at a stranger port
than ever your imaginings could this distort
into, and oh!
oh how fragile
and horrible are
those lies where no abundance
but only pity lies
in weight
a ragged feather of plenty
and rough black gold of heaviness
dragging the bloody culprit
to the bottom
through countless mouthfuls
of mud
tears these days
it's always tears these days
tears
hiding
waiting
for the opportune moment
for the dam to crack
the brittle and the damp
to meet in a discreet
sad ecstasy of soft decay
break down
and let them flow
and oh! good lad
what fancies have you clad
in weeds of madness weeds of sad
departure and arrival at a stranger port
than ever your imaginings could this distort
into, and oh!
oh how fragile
and horrible are
those lies where no abundance
but only pity lies
in weight
a ragged feather of plenty
and rough black gold of heaviness
dragging the bloody culprit
to the bottom
through countless mouthfuls
of mud
28.1.2012 • là-bas
The first of three poems inspired in some part by the movie Un coeur en hiver.
là-bas
so strange a pinch
like a shrill
metal string
plucked with a hardened fingertip
a muffled sob
run down the alley of the sea of torn desire
when you say you're fine
là-
bas
là-bas
so strange a pinch
like a shrill
metal string
plucked with a hardened fingertip
a muffled sob
run down the alley of the sea of torn desire
when you say you're fine
là-
bas
28.1.2012 • Walk to the Lake
Walk to the Lake
Today I took my old brown coat
and walked all the way to the lake,
faking prose into poetry all the while.
It was a good day, charming
weather though greystained and soaking wet:
it felt as though the rain was making its way through a familiar crowd,
big droplets among miniscule ones, all water
and no air to breathe, not really.
(I breathed in the water in lusty lungfuls.)
As the ground softened and sank into the crevices of my boots’ soles
I made my way over Little Hill (the name kids have
for the mound-before-the-lake, or at least which they had when
I was one of them) and into the pearly lakeshore.
All the pebbles there are round, completely spherical, as if
by some enchantment, and shine like huge ocean ornaments each of which could buy
the whole wide world (oh well).
I wrote no foot-notes nor end-notes to-day, but when I reached the lake
I felt I knew why, the droplets falling through the drops dropping
into the calm waters and disturbing the peace with quiet:
no footnote, no endnote especially
can ever explain why a drop makes its way
through the water and into the lake,
through the lake’s infinitely complex
minutely distorted mirror
and into its vast belly of a world,
or chooses to stay in the dryness of the moisty clouds
in such unsure security as those platonic heights can offer.
(The foot is basely rooted to the ground;
the end of ends can speak and of beginnings murmur,
but of these endless risings of the tide, and fallings,
it can never make excuse, nor explanation give.)
I thought of crying there, and then my fancy flew
to a tear’s shape in stasis–tear-shaped is meaningful only if tears are
seen as constant-flowing, always moving along the softness of the face or
through the harshness of the air, dry and moist ever at play; but if a tear were
still, made of gelid calm and hazy ice, only dimly translucent and obscured by Time,
then it would be the same shape as these pebbles here...
I didn’t cry. As I walked on, the river made a shushing sound as if to beckon
from afar and say:
then as if a far-off wolf’s-cry sent a chilly start through the lake’s spine,
the water slowed
and its white foam caressed my beard
softly,
with sweet merciless affection
and soaked it wet all in its meek surrender.
One would think the labyrinth of each ear and the tunnels of the nose would be
the biggest challenge,
navigating in the dark
such closed
and dry places, but
the cunning element invaded all in quick succession
and conquered them with stunning ease,
but my eyes!
As they faced the dull and misty vastness of the sky
whereon the lake’s countenance was in perfect mirror depicted
and her cruelty plain to see,
Again the foamy hands stopped
cold
froze
still
as if to wait
for a tear-shaped tear
breath held
in motu contrario
and scratchingly
screetchingly
crunching like
breaking glass
devoured the blushing of my cheeks
and broke the eyelids and eyelashes
into submission.
the white orbs
clear and veinless
in that terrible moment
offered good game
the shattering fluid searched them
sought their source
they gushed bright hot blood in response
burning the icy water off
but as a band of heroes fighting off a host
it cooled in weariness and froze to dissolution in fatigue
and gave way to the waters
the iris
scorched green and radiant
by the acts of bloodshot fear
played her due part
admirably
her magic powers all unleashed
her shield a maze of infinite space
woodland and plains
rolling grass and gnarling trees
a world’s width
of creatures secret and horrible
and the forces of unnature in their swift command
but the waters saw the trick
and gave painful birth to their imaginable infiniteness as well
filled all the greenworld to the skies and beyond
and overflowed the emerald spectral crown
yet
the pupil
the most tiny innumerable part
like the centre of a vicious vortex stood aloof
of conquering,
its microscopic rim
voracious
gulping down gallon after gallon after gallon
a dent in the space of time
the earth’s surface bent as if the plates
had made way
and the icy lake was sinking to its boiling doom
the horrid whirlpool gorging on water, fish, and twig alike–
and then the pebbles,
when their turn came,
came gently crushing on the frigid limbs,
gently crushing muscles, arteries, and bones in sweet concord, (like hot sensual tears begot of a hyperrealist’s temperatureless reasoning,) and all the organs, stomach, spleen, kidneys and liver, lungs, brain; but not my heart:
Today I took my old brown coat
and walked all the way to the lake,
faking prose into poetry all the while.
It was a good day, charming
weather though greystained and soaking wet:
it felt as though the rain was making its way through a familiar crowd,
big droplets among miniscule ones, all water
and no air to breathe, not really.
(I breathed in the water in lusty lungfuls.)
As the ground softened and sank into the crevices of my boots’ soles
I made my way over Little Hill (the name kids have
for the mound-before-the-lake, or at least which they had when
I was one of them) and into the pearly lakeshore.
All the pebbles there are round, completely spherical, as if
by some enchantment, and shine like huge ocean ornaments each of which could buy
the whole wide world (oh well).
I wrote no foot-notes nor end-notes to-day, but when I reached the lake
I felt I knew why, the droplets falling through the drops dropping
into the calm waters and disturbing the peace with quiet:
no footnote, no endnote especially
can ever explain why a drop makes its way
through the water and into the lake,
through the lake’s infinitely complex
minutely distorted mirror
and into its vast belly of a world,
or chooses to stay in the dryness of the moisty clouds
in such unsure security as those platonic heights can offer.
(The foot is basely rooted to the ground;
the end of ends can speak and of beginnings murmur,
but of these endless risings of the tide, and fallings,
it can never make excuse, nor explanation give.)
I thought of crying there, and then my fancy flew
to a tear’s shape in stasis–tear-shaped is meaningful only if tears are
seen as constant-flowing, always moving along the softness of the face or
through the harshness of the air, dry and moist ever at play; but if a tear were
still, made of gelid calm and hazy ice, only dimly translucent and obscured by Time,
then it would be the same shape as these pebbles here...
I didn’t cry. As I walked on, the river made a shushing sound as if to beckon
from afar and say:
“Though the Lake be there and I here far away,
yet I flow through it to your feet and feel them,
intimately, and when you lift them feel
the wayward canals winding under your boots,”
and I knew it could feel my toes also, the warmth of my socks slowly overtaken by by the vast, mild, welcoming cold. The water scaled my trousers with eager thirst, paralyzing for a moment every muscle in my knees and thighs and waist, climbing my vest and corduroy shirt all greed and anticipation, hungering for my tears–yet I flow through it to your feet and feel them,
intimately, and when you lift them feel
the wayward canals winding under your boots,”
then as if a far-off wolf’s-cry sent a chilly start through the lake’s spine,
the water slowed
and its white foam caressed my beard
softly,
with sweet merciless affection
and soaked it wet all in its meek surrender.
One would think the labyrinth of each ear and the tunnels of the nose would be
the biggest challenge,
navigating in the dark
such closed
and dry places, but
the cunning element invaded all in quick succession
and conquered them with stunning ease,
but my eyes!
As they faced the dull and misty vastness of the sky
whereon the lake’s countenance was in perfect mirror depicted
and her cruelty plain to see,
Again the foamy hands stopped
cold
froze
still
as if to wait
for a tear-shaped tear
breath held
in motu contrario
and scratchingly
screetchingly
crunching like
breaking glass
devoured the blushing of my cheeks
and broke the eyelids and eyelashes
into submission.
the white orbs
clear and veinless
in that terrible moment
offered good game
the shattering fluid searched them
sought their source
they gushed bright hot blood in response
burning the icy water off
but as a band of heroes fighting off a host
it cooled in weariness and froze to dissolution in fatigue
and gave way to the waters
the iris
scorched green and radiant
by the acts of bloodshot fear
played her due part
admirably
her magic powers all unleashed
her shield a maze of infinite space
woodland and plains
rolling grass and gnarling trees
a world’s width
of creatures secret and horrible
and the forces of unnature in their swift command
but the waters saw the trick
and gave painful birth to their imaginable infiniteness as well
filled all the greenworld to the skies and beyond
and overflowed the emerald spectral crown
yet
the pupil
the most tiny innumerable part
like the centre of a vicious vortex stood aloof
of conquering,
its microscopic rim
voracious
gulping down gallon after gallon after gallon
a dent in the space of time
the earth’s surface bent as if the plates
had made way
and the icy lake was sinking to its boiling doom
the horrid whirlpool gorging on water, fish, and twig alike–
and then the pebbles,
when their turn came,
came gently crushing on the frigid limbs,
gently crushing muscles, arteries, and bones in sweet concord, (like hot sensual tears begot of a hyperrealist’s temperatureless reasoning,) and all the organs, stomach, spleen, kidneys and liver, lungs, brain; but not my heart:
Therein they made friends and entered freely,
able (all senses lost to the fight)
to take the guise and pretense of real tears.
able (all senses lost to the fight)
to take the guise and pretense of real tears.
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