for Starlight Dances

We met by chance, our wires were crossed
in some freak Internet exchange;
but in the years that came before
we'd laid the groundwork separately
for karma, destiny or fate
to bind the ends of ropes thought lost.

With words we reached across the space
from separate isolated worlds.
Our stray electron tangents met,
propelled by some silent desire;
loose strands connected line by line
that led us to meet face-to-face.

We spoke, at first so hesitant
to trust, to think of possibles;
both hearts so tender from past wounds
that time seemed slow and out of pace,
but from the first, our voices' blend
made the outcome self-evident.

And then, first sight; how odd it seems
that like a storybook romance
the instant of your presence left
no doubt that this was meant to be.
An act of will, and conscious choice
to weave a life from wish and dreams.

Six years. Has it been that long past?
So much has come and gone,
and yet the spark between us glows
as brightly as it ever did.
Each day feeds new fuel to that fire;
it's no surprise that it would last.

We met by odd chance, some would say,
but neither you or I believe
coincidence, or luck, is real;
and sometimes, you get what you need
if you ask for it, or just act
according to your passion's play.

29 May 2005

In seventeen and forty one,
my family reached these shores;
each generation since that time
has fought this country's wars.

Against the French, and then the Britons,
then in Union blue;
the Spanish, Mexican and Natives,
when each call came through.

In Europe, twice, and then, Korea,
Laos, Vietnam;
and last, Kuwait, Iraq,
against the dread Saddam.

Can those brave leaders say the same
who now say we must fight,
not for a principle, but money?
It does not seem right.

How many simple farmers' sons
must fight the rich men's wars?
How many inner city youths
die while prep school kids keep score?

My family ranks with DAR,
and led Marines through Seoul;
with no excuse or privilege card,
we marched, and payed the toll.

With Washington and Jefferson;
with Lincoln, Grant, and Polk;
with Roosevelt and Eisenhower,
marched our simple folk.

With Johnson, Nixon, Reagan, Bush,
our sons went off to war;
but now, I think the marching's done
and we will fight no more.

For battle without honor,
in the name of greed and pride
turns soldiers into mere machines
with no heart left inside.

If you would wage such wars,
keep all your smart bombs and new guns;
and for your cannon fodder,
find some other family's sons.

29 May 2005

The hands that write these words tell lies;
their range of symbols does not jibe
with the instructions they receive
and must translate from eye and ear
through circuits fixed through years of use
to see and hear in certain ways.

When Henry Miller said the thought
that finds the paper is transformed
from its first impulse, pure and strong,
into mere shadow of itself
he was not wrong; and yet, not all
of thought's initial pulse is lost.

Its shape is change and often blurred,
the leading edge may lose its keen;
a rock may evolve to a bird, almost,
or mutate somewhere in between.

The hands that write these words tell lies;
they cannot speak so clear and plain
without a whisper of complaint
against the mind that bids them work.

Perhaps they think to self-preserve,
in fear that should they speak the truth.
The frequencies they might proscribe
could be those suited to destroy
the mechanism's source itself;
what good a printed manual then,
with no mechanic, or machine?

28 May 2005

With what will you refill the well
once there is nothing left to seep
through the rough stones and hardened clay
and they are dry and filmed with dust?

And the great thirst that must be slaked
else inspiration, too, is parched
and turned to brittle bones whose marrow
marks their grave with pale, red powder,

how with your pail, now of no purpose,
will you draw that quenching liquid
when the rope down in the dark hole
has succumbed as well to dry rot?

With what will you refill the well
once the dry clods you've cast into it
have absorbed what little moisture
might remain from dew's departure?

Without strength from this well's water
you cannot dare dig another;
why then waste its precious cargo
in such stiff and cracked canteens?

27 May 2005

Like whirling dervishes they congregate
around the bright lit porches and streetlamps,
their bodies hurling like mad wax-winged clouds
that seek where water meets with tender wood.
Against their onslaught, darkened houses crouch
low to the earth, hoping their bones are dry
enough to seem less tempting to this horde,
and seem to hold their breath 'til it swarms by.
They even chase cars down the wood-lined streets,
as if those headlamps led like piper's notes
to glens and forests filled with hardwood trunks
where they could feast for endless hours in peace.

From block to block they travel, seeking out
a damp and fetid place where food is near;
and then, when night's ink blots the grey of dusk
they fold their wings, crawl off and disappear.

It's said they follow, blind, a rebel queen
who must split from her family or die;
to save the kingdom as it grows in size,
each daughter takes a legion to the skies.
Their soldier's stomachs fill along their trail,
from Pontchartrain uptown to Magazine;
through live oak and great cypress-covered streets
destruction marks the way that they have been.
Where they've encamped, the kindling's turned to dust;
at just a touch great beams and walls collapse,
while parque floors and Quarter ceilings flake
away to skeletons and fire traps.

Tonight the window lamps are left at dim.
The armies of Formosans are astir;
and woe to those whose timber lies beneath
the echo of that hungry cassion's whir.

26 May 2005

Down at the end of river road
the houses show off concrete knees,
with skirts drawn just above the mud
that creeps up through the Augustine
beginning early June.

Some rivers, when they start, seem nothing
like their parent ocean's genes;
they use the drying distance from the shore
while they're still condensation hung
from gray and pregnant clouds
to form their own personalities.

Yet, even these stray souls return,
some from great lengths, and seek their source;
and once the delta's fingers grasp
their children's hands in welcome back,
all rivers lose their separateness.

So slow, they seep back to the sea with saturating steps;
and at the end of river road they meet up, with a roar.

26 May 2005

Jonathan over at Bemsha Swing posted a set of questions related to poetics, aimed at poets, I assume, a few days ago. Although I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer these questions, I'm taking a stab at them. By the way, in case you didn't know, Bemsha Swing is the name of a composition by Thelonius Monk. In Monk's typical style, it is four minutes and twenty seven seconds of iconoclastic wit and playful rhythm that hides a genius big enough to rewrite the entire face of jazz, both when it first was written and performed, and probably even now.

1. What is your sense of the poetic tradition? How far back does your particular historical sense range? What defines your tradition? Nationality, language, aesthetic posture? What aspect of your poetic idiolect or tradition most distinguishes you from your closest poetic collaborators?

My sense of poetic tradition stretches back, let's say, to Amergin. Or Beowulf. In the same sense that as a musician, when I record or write a piece of music, I realize that it can (and probably will) be compared to every piece ever written, and that the music consumer has the option to buy my album, or Madonna, or Sir Georg Solti conducting Mozart, Louis Armstrong, Gregorian chants, Limp Bizkit, Public Enemy, etc. In other words, my poetic tradition is one of transmission --- and that transmission requires a receiver. Fact is, the receiver has a myriad of choices from Chaucer to Gunn, for example, when wanting to read poetry. Certainly, language defines my tradition, in that I write in English and am not fluent in any other language. My perceptions of poetry not originally in English are limited by their translators and translations. As far as aesthetic posture, I feel I am more or less of the Celtic Bardic tradition. My poetry is supposed work, when it works, at multiple levels. Spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, rhythmically, sonically, politically, universally, and personally. I think the aspect of my "poetic idiolect" that distinguishes it from my poetic collaborators is my emphasis, whether in non-metered or metered speech, on the way the poem sounds when you read it. An oral emphasis, with a basis in recitation and communication of an idea, mood, story or image on at least one of the previously identified levels.

2. How would you define contemporary poetic practice? (Say, the typical poem that would be published alonside one of your in a magazine where you are published.) How does this practice relate to the tradition defined above? Does poetry of the "past" (however you define the past for these purposes) occupy a different corner of your mind?

The kind of poets that work in the tradition I have defined above are very rarely "published". To me, if I am true to my tradition in the strictest sense, poetry that is not directly shared is like religion, in that it describes a spiritual path that has ended. The kind of poets who slog along with me in this kind of tradition are not typically well-known outside their small circle of influence. They write poems for a specific purpose, for specific people, for specific occasions. To inspire, instruct, entertain. That doesn't mean I wouldn't like to be published on a much grander scale, and have a resulting larger influence. But that would mean a lot more work for me, in that the poems I would then be required to write would have to involve the issues of a lot more people.

Regarding poetry of the past, I'm not sure whether I don't understand the question, or whether it has no meaning to me. As far as I'm concerned, poetry is one of the few direct means by which culture is transmitted from generation to generation, across time --- and time does not start or stop. I don't consider William Carlos Williams to be a more modern poet than William Shakespeare. Both writers reflected, more or less, the aesthetic nature of their times. However, there is a difference between having your writing reflect your times, and having your writing wallow in those times. Just because education is poor in America right now, and that language skills are on the decline, and that less than 10% of Americans read on a daily basis, doesn't mean that your poetry should be directed at only the majority, and therefore potentially the lowest common denominator. You write for your peers, to a large degree, and depending on who your peers are, that may embrace or reject some or all of either the past, present or future.

3. Whom, among poets you most admire, do you understand least? What is hindering a greater understanding of this poet?

The poets that I most admire are probably, in no particular order, Rainer Maria Rilke, Rumi, Robert Frost, William Shakespeare, e e cummings, William Butler Yeats, Carl Sandburg and Walt Whitman. I don't think I misunderstand any of them in any substantial respect; of course, they each being dead makes direct communication more difficult, and there is nothing more of a hinderance to understanding of a poet than a critical or academic appraisal without the benefit of participation from the subject being criticized or taught. I always have felt that I should admire Ezra Pound, but have found it difficult to do so through his work directly. I am more inspired by his work through others.

4. Are we over-invested in poetic "hero worship"? Is it necessary to have a poetic "pantheon"? How does the poetic pantheon relate to the notion of an academic "canon"? Are they mirror opposites, rivals?

Poets are worshipped? In this day and age? By whom, except by critics and other poets? Don't make me laugh. There are NOT, to my knowledge, any schoolchildren learning elocution by reciting poetry anymore. Kings no longer take a lower seat when compared to a Bard. Certainly, I think the cult of celebrity that so preoccupies American culture has to some degree affected, or infected, literature in general and poetry in specific. The canonization of Sylvia Plath by scores of angst-filled, proto-feminist teenage girls is one example; the worship of Jim Morrison by would-be hedonist, testosterone-driven, deliberately misunderstood, suburban teenage boys is another. An academic canon is another story altogether. Let's face it. The poets you read in a classroom are selected because the instructor feels they are important. Bottom line. If you get an instructor that gets it, whatever you think it is, those poets speak to you, your caste, class, aspirations, politics and aesthetics. If not, you end up hating both the teacher and their canon.

I do think it is important to have a personal poetic pantheon, if only to ask yourself the question, "How would X have said this?" and act accordingly (either by imitation or avoidance).

5. Is "total absorption in poetry" benign? How about "poetry as a way of life"?

I'm not sure what this question means. However, I would tend to argue that living your "way of life as poetry" is more benign than living poetry as a way of life. This boils down to one's own philosophical basis for living. Is there a separation between magic and mundane? Are they connected in any way at all? Is there really a mundane, or is everything magical? Is there really magic, or is everything mundane? How you answer these questions determines whether or not you are totally absorbed in ANYTHING, let alone poetry. I don't think you CAN be totally absorbed in poetry unless you are immersed, absorbed, drenched, and absolutely soaked in Life. Is that benign? Not to the myriad of corporate and fundamentalist line-drawers who want to avoid, fear, conquer and/or eliminate anything outside their safe, predictable boxes.

6. Do you see poetry as a part of a larger "literature," or is poetry itself the more capacious categtory?

Both. But that may be a trick answer.

7. Are humor, irony, and wit (in whatever combination) a sine qua non? Or conversely, is humor a defense mechanism that more often than not protects us from what we really want to say?

Humor, irony and wit depend entirely upon a shared perception between the writer and the audience. For example, a poem about a black man putting on a hood and attending a KKK meeting would probably not be ironic to KKK members reading the poem. So much of humor and wit in our modern culture is based on putting others down to make ourselves feel better. In poetry, once the immediacy of an audience that is on the same wavelength as the writer has dissipated, oftentimes that humor loses its meaning. Humor can be both a shield of protection, and the sword that pierces that insulating armor. Quite often, those whose business it is to write, teach and critique poetry take themselves far too seriously, as if, in contrast to the facts, poetry was an integral part of today's world. Often, the puncturing rapier of a witty rejoinder is enough to "wake up the sleeping consciousness" of another person, a neighborhood, a political party, a nation, a race. Sadly, exchanging humorous barbs with another individual who doesn't see the value of laughing at one's self can often result in anger, violence, bloodshed and war.

8. Is the poem the thing, or the larger poetic project?

Personally, I find that each poem is an end in and of itself. Larger "poetic projects" for me come about as a result of finding commonalities between individual poems and recognizing that they provide different perspectives on a shared goal. It might be different if I were writing a specific "set" of poems with the definite goal of publishing them as a book. But I'm not so sure.

9. What is the single most significant thing anyone has ever said about poetry?

Maybe John Cage, in Thirteen Words: I have nothing to say and I am saying it; that is poetry. Or, and I can't remember the exact source, but I think it was in reference to Wallace Stevens, "Every great poet has had a day job."

10. Which of these questions asks you to define yourself along lines of division not of your own making, in the most irksome way? How close do these questions come to the way in which you habitually think about poetry? What other question would you add to this list?

#3.
I think the only question I might add is "How important is personal contact, or friendship, with other poetic peers to your ability to persist as a poet?"

A tag line on a message from a discussion group included part of a quote from e.e. cummings that I have tacked on my wall to remind me of what I'm supposed to be doing as a poet.

I first encountered it, strangely enough, in the foreward to Critical Path written by R. Buckminster Fuller. He found inspiration in this simple set of instructions, and so do I.

A Poet's Advice

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel --- but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling --- not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people; but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself --- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else --- menas to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time --- and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world --- unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't. It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

-- e.e. cummings

What is required of me, that you will listen
and subsequently think on what I've said?
No matter how inane a task, my mission
will be to fulfill that desire, instead
of simply guessing what you like to read
then stabbing it out with electron pen,
my want to please forgoing style for speed
and coming up still short, time and again.

The problem is, of course, that just your eyes
or ears, in single sense, are not enough;
if we are to peer through the world's disguise
together, where the veils are thick and rough,
the whole of your perception must be used.
I know, it is presumptive that I ask.
After all, you likely did not choose
to simply browse, and then be lain this task.

But think on it, before you make reply;
and just imagine what may come of it.
With not much effort more, man learned to fly ---
to falter now would mark us hypocrites.
The world in song, and words, and rhyme awaits,
its melody unheard for many years;
let not our time be wasted in debates
or pared away by worry, doubt or fears.

What is required of you? Your mind and heart,
a willingness to try, to fail, to laugh.
Just beyond the horizon's where we'll start,
and each day get no closer than by half.
Companions for the journey must decide
before they step one foot upon the trail
if there's a chance their paths won't coincide
five miles anon, lest their quest fail.

So let's be sure we travel the same road:
to find out, if we can, the reasons why,
discovering an underlying code
that fuels the universe. At least, to try
to hear songs long forgotten by mankind,
those melodies connecting us as one.
Such treasures should be worthwhile things to find;
if we agree on that, our quest's begun.

24 May 2005

My daughter graduates from high school tomorrow. This momentous occasion reminds me of the dreadful speeches I had to sit through at my own high school graduation, some 22 years ago. You know the kind of speeches I'm talking about, the ones where the valedictorian or student with perfect attendance or what-not gets up and stammers through some sappy, saccharine set of sentimentalism and invariably ends with some kind of prayer-cum-schoo l fight song-inspirational ditty that's supposed to make this particular nerd somehow respected and/or admired by the rest of the graduating class, if only for a matter of minutes. The speech, and I must say I've heard it in various incarnations both at my own graduation, my younger brothers and sister's graduation, and those of several sets of cousins, goes like this:

But these speeches invariably don't offer any kind of insight into what the real world is like, or what students can really expect once they've left the safety of their parents' nest and tried to find their way in the reality of paying for themselves. So maybe the speech should be more like this.

G is for groveling ... which is something you'll need to learn well, in order to make your way in a society that discourages genius, looks down on free-thinking of all sorts, and uses social and peer pressure as a means for ensuring conformity with a standard you probably will never live up to.

R is for retirement ... which is something you'll be looking forward to for the next 30 or 40 years.

A is for assholes ... who you will encounter not only as employers, but as co-workers, neighbors, roommates, professors, on the commute to work, at the gym and even occasionally in your own home.

D is for debt ... which from this day forward you will be encouraged to live with.

U is for underappreciated ... which reflects the way you'll feel, particularly if you are not a white male, but even then on occasion.

A is for aging ... the process of which you have already begun, but like "no payments due until next fall" will not recognize for the ballooning mortgage on your life it is until you are too far gone to recover.

T is for time ... which you have, until this juncture, taken for granted, thinking in relative terms that in your short lifespan, 10 years is more than half your life, and thus a long time. Ten years from now, you will be wondering where the hell the decade went, and why most of your dreams are yet to be achieved. That, my friends, is relativity.

I is for intimidation ... the method by which most employers, co-workers, neighbors, roommates, professors, and other individuals classified under A above will attempt to coerce your vote, support, volunteer labor, hard-earned cash, and yard maintenance equipment.

O is for overworked ... a state which you have yet to fully experience, having to this juncture most likely not been responsible for producing food, or the wherewithal to purchase food, for yourself or your dependents.

N is for never ... the point in time at which you will be able to sit back, reflect on your laurels, and feel better than you do right now. So enjoy it while it lasts. Once you're old enough to drink legally, there's not much excuse to do so.

23 MAY 2005

All brave words pale to whimpered, mewling sighs;
great structures crumble to their timber's dust;
aged soldiers' shouts turn into babies' cries,
their heroism's bread gnawed to the crust.
Proud governments dissemble into gangs;
philosophers' grand speeches become babbles;
elaborate costumes rot where they hang;
the wise assembly reverts to mere rabble.

And what event precipitates this fall,
what monumental shift in time and space
wreaks havoc on the known, destroying all
to leave in Beauty's stead a gruesome face ---
some wild disruption in the cosmic scheming
that causes misalignment of the spheres?
a moment where the gods cease from their dreaming
and we are left alone when the mist clears?

What then? If our own actions make the future,
with no unseen, omnipotent control,
no divine surgeon to tie off the sutures
and seal the wounds we've rendered on the whole;
if we alone, frail humankind, have wandered
so far beyond our role, through pride and greed,
that any promise due us we have squandered
and have no promised land, no guarantee?

What good religions, if they do not teach us
to doubt our own ability to reign
or don't allow the universe to reach us,
instead instructing to ignore our pain?
All brave words are for naught, if in our bravery
we fail to speak for those whose tongues are dumb;
should our great light cast the whole world in shadow,
what good is knowing whence the morning comes?

23 May 2005

You know, I've just clarified in my own mind my purpose as a poet, who is also a pagan. I was clued into this epiphany by a recent comment from Apocalyptic Blogger, who said that my "poems are the type of poem that contains a sharpened sense of thematic potency and strength; they lead to better understanding of the said poems' topics (such as human nature and the like.)".

And it struck me that the most common underlying thread in most of my work is an exploration of human nature. My own and by extension human nature as a whole. As below, so above. As in the microcosm, so in the macrocosm.

But if I had to clarify this down even further, to produce some kind of ghee from the churned butter that is my mental process, I could reduce my underlying message to a simple sound-byte:

Human Nature. Neither a curse, nor an oxymoron.

And that pretty much sums up my philosophy.

Human beings are part of nature. They are not separate from it, nor are they in any sense the ultimate expression of it. They are not the end of the food chain, nor do they represent the final step in an evolutionary theory that somehow miraculously went on for tens of millions of years and then, poof, stopped when as they say in most scriptures written by man, man appeared. They are subject to, and not exempt from, the laws of nature that govern EVERY other species on this planet. The fact that we deny our share of punity under this law is the reason why we are destroyers, not creators. Our myth of "Power Over" is not only killing off the stage upon which we enact that myth, but it's killing us off as well.

Yet human nature is not something to be overcome, to be denied, to feel is some kind of divine punishment. It is not something to "rise above" or "transcend". It is what it is. Human beings may have bigger brains, opposable thumbs, more complex thought patterns, the ability to empathize, and so on. Well, from whom much is given, much is expected. And who is doing the expecting? The rest of creation, that's who. They don't owe us, either their flesh, their territories, their ores, their energies. WE OWE THEM.

MoveOn.org has got a petition drive going that's worth looking in to. I did, and here's the message I sent to my Congresspeople:

Checks and balances means when one branch of the government is conservative, another is by necessity liberal. When Republicans control the executive and legislative branches of government, by necessity they MUST NOT be allowed free reign to appoint the members of the judicial branch. They should KNOW this, if they are in fact believers in democracy. If they are NOT supporters of democracy, they have no business running this country.

It does not matter whether you agree with the conservative or liberal, Republican or Democratic platforms. That is NOT the issue. It is not about who WINS. It is about maintaining DEMOCRACY, about sustaining bipartisanship, about encouraging dissent, about preserving the checks and balances which are so imperative to safeguarding the Constitution. The Constitution is at stake here, NOT some party line. And without the Constitution to back it up, without people who are willing to go to the mat, to fight to ensure that it is NOT freely interpreted except in the interest of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for ALL Americans, there is not much of a democracy to speak of. And worse off, there are a lot of people drawing paychecks for protecting that democracy that aren't doing their jobs.

The Senate must oppose the "nuclear option" to eliminate the filibuster, and preserve the checks and balances that have kept our courts fair and independent for centuries.

Today at Shoneys I observed
the lemmings at the breakfast bar:
fresh scrubbed from church and
sanctified, their patience thin,
their manner rude.

And that seemed odd;
for were I bound
to meet my maker, in his house,
I'd tread a little softer,
thinking my acts subject
to review.

And if just come from said review
I'd tread my way much softer still,
remembering how far I fell short
compared to those whose sacrifice
kept them from standing
in that line,
dressed up for show,
dressed up to dine.

But I missed services today;
in fact, I have no formal date
each week to meet with the Divine.
So I was quite content to wait
while the waitstaff was crucified
by those whose righteousness
was clear to anyone who looked.

I waited, while my food was cooked,
my coffee poured, my water filled,
by poorly paid and harried staff
who dared not find my eye, and laugh
with me about the peacock crowd
who thought themselves so fine and proud
that their time was worth more than that
of these, their servants, who like me
did not hear from the pulpitry
this morning that they should be shamed
to fill their mouths with holy names
while their hands grasped at mammon's chains.

I waited, ate my food, and paid.
For all the difference it made,
I left a larger tip than those
who came in their best Sunday clothes.

22 May 2005

The spheres of thought that tangents bring
in touch with mine are lessening,
perhaps in spite of my attempts
to cross each bridge, and burn each fence
so that the world seems more to me
a web of connectivity.

It could be that these are not times
for straying beyond party lines;
or worse, more likely, minds are closed,
so wary of thought overdose
that if a single word slips past
their brave defense, the die is cast
and they will be like Robert Service's
fitless man, alone and nervous.

Such things occur to me, and then
I feel the urge to write again ---
despite the fact that precious few
will find my voice worth listening to,
instead preferring rehashed news,
extremist views, and seats in pews
where others preach some party line.
If that's the case, it suits me fine.
I do not write to please the masses,
or think these brief missives classes.

It's a desert; most oases
are mirages not worth chasing.
Each one has a tale to tell:
some only sand, others with wells;
and sadly, when illusion sells
more stock than substance,
these sad hells
are peopled with a hopeless lot
who can't or won't let go, and plot
the quick demise of any who
would posit their heaven untrue.

20 May 2005

From Part I

backward broken pushed against the known,
each awaiting defamation,
two armies fought and fled their thin kings
waiting down among the rushes

forward spoken harsh against the wind,
each a summons hoarse men whispered
plans and expectations lost are we to blame
the thin kings' ponds were stirring

inwards driven quick against the mark,
each an inchlet close to dying
hopis lost and raiders of the damned sing
for the thin kings' fateful pushes

outward spoken quick against the door,
each awaiting degradation
two armies raised and wasted time until
the thin kings planned the battle.

the thin kings of aboutness sought
to subjugate the realm of thought,
and 'gainst the nothing that they fought
the void and emptiness they brought.

of which and who the where becomes
the battle spawned from endless drums:
one great, one small, one burst, one dumb -
the thin kings and their kingdom come.

From Part III

the ink spilled swift and held itself
as nothing kept its silent vow;
letters cowered as the pages dressed
the thin kings in their shining raiment.

wordless crept the secret cause
as something slept in silent death;
whispers shivered as the horses swept
the thin kings through the alleys raining.

the crowd stood murmured and beheld
as nothing stood and spoke parables;
betters glowered as the gates pressed
the thin kings up against their subjects.

worthless wept the one lament
as something passed in hurtful bliss;
lepers wondered as the healers sought
the thin kings in their broken armor.

in winter's cold and bitter debt
the mistress learns her alphabet
to write of sorrows unfelt yet
until the thin kings she'll forget

the answer sought the lonely kings
beyond the gallows where they swing
yet not a one could bear to bring
their focus on the ghastly thing.

1993

That Pound should from the castle walls on high
weight his Cantos with bricks,
and with great gusto and abandon hurl these gems
into the fosse
so that the Philistines encamped and overnight drawn nigh
should fall prey to such childish tricks
and thinking this some halva fit for soldier food, feed it to them,
and they die, 'tis no great loss.

That these dense tomes of senseless stringing symbol chains
should be enshrined as modernism's best,
and critics and professors fawn the same on them as free wine and cheese
is no real surprise,
so that the Philistines, tuitions and subscriptions paid in full,
should sit in vapid classrooms taking tests,
and still end up ensnared in culture's swamps, and s'il vous plaît,
can parrot with enthusiasm, lies.

That Pound should further speak in tongues no longer taught
to weave cryptographers into a funk,
and with a sense of mystery turn A from B to C and back
without tremble or pause
so that the Philistines could say with half a chance of wit, "Fear not!"
and should some gray stranger on a train, sans trunk,
approach quoting the Cantos, place a gun against their back
and shoot them, naming Poetry the cause,

for such things to transpire, would I ...

19 May 2005

bitwing bedbug housefly arcnet
kurt's looseleaf tea rolled convenient
hard times coming four and more
's miles and coleman, hat stove in
screen door strained looking for peaches
can't, recall, died in the poorhouse
out-of-come forsooth and spittle mood
john thomas passed out drooling
somewhere in the last hash chorus
i lost track; the extra change
is all you can spare for poor stella.

great danes dogging swedish meatballs
cremate the meaning and the d.s. al coda
parker's lighthouse dimmed and mist-infested
no more than twice through for the maestro
'twas enough why more than necessary
evil improvisation masturbation
somewhere i lost track of structure
engineering
yardbirds caw give the heave ho
yardarms outstretched
enough of this can't take it:
please take off
that album;
stick a fork in its ass,
it's done.

1993

Now when I say I don't do slam
it doesn't mean
that I don't dig
the meth-euphoric drenal high
that comes when words escape at Mach
and you roll like the Candy Man with those
sweet treats to clear the sleeping ears
of all those deadbeat debutantes
who crowd like mike like it was manna
say they're gonna, makes you wanna
holler damn the poet man
street preacher speaking tongues in rhyme
but that ain't slam, sam.

When I say I don't do slam
it doesn't mean that I can't jellyroll
mainline strings of silken soothings
talk loud without saying nothing
run below the feedback radar
at the edge
of sound distortion
keep it real compared to something
shut down shambles mumble rumbling.

When I say I don't do slam
it ain't because I'm old and gray
and rhymes don't flow don't grow
testosterone and angst OD
some chosen chump to channel
all the crap you couldn't stand to shout
I'm not the one to rock your pulpit
spin your world yourself
my axis
doesn't equate power with volume
strokes its own ego quite nicely
whispers sermons to a choir
that knows just why
I don't do slam.

16 MAY 2005

What good is art if it does not instruct,
or for our "better angels" cast new wings
beyond utilitarian design,
reminding us that beauty without form
is doomed, under the sheer weight of itself
to force its rigid framing to collapse?

Art is like all religions, in that all
are but a generation from extinct;
the evolution of a form requires
that it do more than simply change its clothes,
grow gills and fins to swim in altered seas
or learn to hunt new game to feed its young.

What good are schools if they do not provide
a context beyond simple black and white,
and offer views of different paradigms
where parasites are not the food chain's end?
That corpse is sucked of marrow, and its bones
are far too fragile to host us for long.

The arts are an essential to the whole:
without creative outlet, we are chained
to follow, sullen, on pathways not our own
in search of some elusive, unknown truth
that if found, will be meaningless, or worse,
to our imagination's limits, dead.

What good is any dogma that insists
on praising uniformity's facade
while damning the poor souls behind those bars
whose torment is to see outside the cage,
and fed on lies of common brotherhood
to mutate into monsters, thugs, and whores?

True culture does not denigrate the arts
if it intends to do more than survive;
and Beauty, unappreciated, dies,
its empty shell an ugly, barren waste.
What good then is mere rhetoric that claims
some great prize as its end, by any means?

16 May 2005

About two years ago, I participated in a discussion group that included a number of relatively famous pagan "elders". There was some scuffle regarding some relatively unsavory behavior on the part of one of the members, a leader of a pagan group and the erstwhile protege of one of these "elders". This elder posted (anonymously, of course) a message that encouraged people to close ranks, to support this unscrupulous character because as Pagans, we owed it to ourselves to present a unified front against our "enemies", to recognize and respect our "brothers" and give them more leeway, so to speak, than we would another non-relative. A recent item over at Letters from Hardscrabble Creek on whether or not "pagan community" was a meaningful construct gave me incentive to look up my response to that issue, which touches on the concept of "pagan community":

As far as "Pagan community" is concerned, I am often troubled that some people who claim the name of "Pagan" seem to think that there should be some artificial construct (of course, it does not seem artificial to them) that connects us all at the level of our common beliefs, that there is some kind of "brotherhood" which all pagans should acknowledge and respect.

I have a fundamental question regarding this "brotherhood", however ... is this a "brotherhood" of those who CLAIM to be at one with each other, or of those whose deeds prove it to be the case?

As was said once earlier in the last century (if may have been FDR who said it), if you are a "Harvard Man", you don't need a class ring to prove it - your actions will make it obvious to all that you are of that caliber.

For myself, I know my brethren (that are not tied by blood) by their deeds, and not their words. And if a brother (or sister, for in fact 'brotherhood' implies something that smacks of patriarchy and hierarchy, of closed rooms and inequality) makes what I feel to be an error, it is my obligation to discuss it with them privately, "on the way to the church" so to speak, rather than standing up and impugning them before the entire congregation. For if we are in fact ALL siblings, then any action that affects the well-being of one affects the well-being of all. All of which goes to show that one cannot choose one's "brothers" lightly. Yes, we are all related, we all share this plane in which to find our paths, we are all different shafts of the same light. But our "unity" is quite a different matter. The fact is that we are NOT a pagan community because we call ourselves Pagan, but are only a community if we act as a community

What folly perpetrated in my youth,
before thoughts of mortality began
to permeate my eager thirst for truth
and close the width of my attention span,

has wrought its retribution over time
and haunts me on occasion? What old song
that lingers from that bygone, careless prime,
seems fractured now, its notes awry, gone wrong?

My karmic debt is, doubtless, still unpaid,
compounding interest daily even now.
And no one, not a saint, nor sacred cow,
will pay the bills that at my feet are laid.

There are no luck, no miracles, no chance;
the universe is more or less mirage.
If you would join the party, you must dance,
and pin the universe with your corsage.

And folly? What is that to never try?
What worse regret than acting the wallflower
for so long that the grand ball passes by
and you need not corsage, but funeral bower?

15 May 2005

They grow up fast; in just a short month's span
the smallest seed becomes a tall, wild stalk
grown high enough to look down on a man.
But that time does not fly, despite the talk

philosophers will write in dry, thick books.
It crawls, and through its microscopic lens
each moment, its own kernel, often looks
enormous to the untrained eye, and bends

beyond the simple frame that would encage
its constant search to stand free and alone.
The acts of men and gods, played on this stage,
seem little more than dust on ancient bones.

Yet insignificance belies import;
and often what appears not more than sand,
when magnified in life's uncertain sport
holds more in scope than we can understand.

The weeds that crowd the garden, too, from seeds
the same as precious flowers were conceived.
Who knows what end ideas will breed,
if nurtured like their promise was believed?

14 May 2005

Are you afraid the universe
might some be conspiring,
that the unseen, neglected soul
of the whole world is tiring

of folks whose hands say gimme
while their mouths say much obliged,
all the while with backs too stiff
to bend an inch in thanks? Such pride.

Are you afraid that karma comes
in ways you don't expect,
that punity is due for all those years
spent in neglect

of forces beyond your control
that pulse through this world's veins
despite your bold denial
that such things are, well, insane?

Are you afraid your staunch beliefs
are nothing more than dreams,
put on like a pressed Sunday suit
that's worn out at the seams

and won't hide nature's anger back,
nor give you a free lunch;
be careful now, avoid that crack.
Perhaps it's just a hunch,

but all your superstition shows
how weak and without pluck
so many seem to be these days.
I say, make your own luck,

or rather, listen in again:
the universe still sings,
and bids you join her in a chorus
with all living things.

Are you afraid the world is closing
in on you, in chase?
Stand still, enjoy the moment,
or it will have been a waste.

13 May 2005

The locust choir at midnight ends rehearsal
when the night larks begin to bustle 'round;
and even the great roaches find dispersal
preferable when mockingbirds abound.

And so, at half past twelve, I sit in darkness,
not worried over creeping, crawling things,
smoking a cigarette in peace, just listening
to each new voice, the melody it sings.

Some have their own, unique strain; others chorus,
their piping a fugue's counterpoint. At times,
it seems as though a symphony's before us ---
and then, just silence, or one trill; sublime.

Perhaps they're nightly concerts, not just practice,
but each new hour seems different than before;
and yet, once they begin, the night relaxes
as if it waits to request an encore.

There at the pit's dimmed edge, I sense some maestro,
in silence, draped in black just out of view,
with such command of these winged virtuosos
that they need not a single sign, or cue.

Tonight I sat and listened for just minutes,
for it was late, and I needed my bed;
again, the song was sweet, and buried in it
were echoes of the dreams here in my head.

13 May 2005

A lot of my online friends don't use their real names.

They do this for a number of reasons.

For those of the neopagan persuation, it's a way to keep one foot in the closet, so to speak. We are, after all, not in a country that actually embraces freedom of religion. There is also a kind of authenticity in hosting a site on matters "non-mundane" if your gentle leader is named Willow, or Ratsfoot, or Harmony Broomfinder, or Silver Pom-Pom. Jack (or Susie) Smith's "Book of Shadows" just doesn't have the same punch, does it?

Another reason for adopting a nom de 'net is to embrace a persona, a part of your everyday individuality that for some reason has been forced into second (or further down) place.

Then there's the privacy issue. You don't necessarily want every Internet-based crackpot hunting down your street address in order to "throw down" on you in person just because your worldview happens to disagree with theirs. I can understand that, particularly if you're young, and particularly if you use your online forum as a place to "talk about things that nobody cares..." or that are impractical in your current geographic and cultural wasteland.

A big one is more than privacy. It's anonymity. With a false name, one that is tied in no way to your social security number, work, address, family or school, it's much easier to be a total and complete asshole, flinging electrons into space with relative impunity, safeguarding only your IP address and your right to talk via emoticons in a way that would never dare speak face-to-face.

For me, there's always been the sound of the name issue. Some names, for example, WORK as names of musicians, or poets, or prizefighters. Others are more of a stretch, regardless of what Arnold Swartzenegger once said, that the harder a name is to remember, the more difficult it is to forget. Mick Jagger, for example, sounds like the name of a lead singer. Mick Ralphs, on the other hand, sounds like a guitarist. James Joyce (or James Jones, for that matter) sounds like a novelist name. I think it's a sonic issue. Poets probably have a little more leeway here, but not much.

I have often considered adopting a nom de plume, in addition to my pagan-use name Greybeard Dances (which came about thanks to the combination of a physical feature and my mate's Native American given name, which is "Starlight Dances in the Treetops", or Starlight Dances). I suppose it would be an easy way out to adopt something that just SOUNDED cool, the way Zane Grey rolls off the tongue, or George Sands. Or Marilyn Monroe. But I would like to infuse it with a little of my own history, rather than influences, which is how Elton John came from Reginald Dwight.

So here are a few options:

John Roberts (first and middle names)
J. Robert Grebnezlit (pretty ridiculous, actually)
Sean Baldun (taking the Irish ancestry approach to my first name, John, and my mother's maiden name, Baldwin)
Schrier Baldwin (often considered as a country singer pseudonym, the combination of the last names of my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather)

and of course, my new all-time favorite:

Jack Rattelfinger (which would be John transformed in combination with my paternal great-grandmother's maiden name)

of course, none of these touch upon the issue of my Use-Name versus my True-Name ... and did anyone but me notice that in the made-for-television version of "Earthsea" that the two were switched. The True-Name was supposed to be "Geb" and the Use-Name was "Sparrowhawk". So I'm confused.

Of course, in the world of blogging, where the point is to share YOUR opinion with the rest of the world, and to accumulate a bit of notoriety for actually being yourself, it's more likely that you'll use your own name. Because you're a journalist, so to speak, and your name is your byline. It's unlikely that you'd hear Walter Cronkite (for example), say, "I'm Dancing Firefly (or satanlovesme_666, or green_lily4), and that's the way it was."

From the wonderful book The Maiden King: The Reunion of Masculine and Feminine by Robert Bly and Marion Woodman. This bit from Marion:

...the arts are becoming frills in the eyes not only of the government but of many citizens as well. As budgets are being balanced, the arts suffer because so many tutors [status quo protectors] are so far away from the soul they simply don't care...Their head is separated from their heart. What these pathetic tutors who pass these laws do not realize is that young people do start out with imagination, with enthusiasm. Take away their disciplined outlets and they are birds without wings. Moreover, their frustration at not being able to soar results in rage, which they have no idea how to contain. Any one of the arts can give them a container strong enough to hold their natural frustrations until it distills into paint, or dance, or song. Any teacher knows how much energy is required to teach a student how to hold the container solid enough until the emotion has time to resolve itself into an art form. That is what culture is. Our tutors are passing laws that will destroy what has taken centuries to build --- a civilization that can contain its own vision. Without the arts, the principal is shot in his office instead of Julius Caesar being massacred with yardsticks in the classroom. Raw instinct runs rampant in the streets, imagination is ciphered into primitive behavior, spiritual and moral values cease to exist, and the millions that are saved are spent in building boot camps to try to contain thugs.

We are building a nation of reactionary soldiers, who are so repressed and angry that they are willing to kill, whose emotional maturity and self-awareness is such that they will kill as instructed, as their heart-strings, no longer attached to viable, meaningful relationship with the world, are jerked at the bidding of those who wish the killing done, but at the same time wish to lament such violent acts while washing their own hands clean of the blood.

The fascist right ... the commie left ... the accusations fly,
with neither side, in truth, much worried 'bout the little guy;
they do not represent him, even though that's what they claim,
'cause behind all their rhetoric, they're pretty much the same:

Both sides make heartfelt speeches to a captive audience,
who, face it, have eschewed most logic and good common sense,
in thinking that these politicos, who speak of some gesalt,
have anything in mind but finding someone else at fault.

Just once, I'd like to hear a politician state the truth:
that they'd said anything to get you in their voting booth,
and that the numbers they rely on are in fact just lies,
manipulated to reduce their opponents to size.

And further, I'd like congressmen, and senators, to boot,
instead of claiming justice is their sole end of pursuit,
to simply say they're sorry, but the way that things are now,
free speech, fair play, and honesty they simply can't allow.

At least then I know where I stand, as if I couldn't guess:
a once-great country trying to deny it is a mess;
a people proud of learning less and less each day in schools,
whose main interest is money-making, educated fools;

a flag that isn't fireproof, because it does not wave
for truth, justice and liberty for all, free man and slave;
instead, by some selective wind, it chooses its flagpoles
by special interests, narrow vision, and pretense at soul.

I wonder, as I hear them speak on C-SPAN or the news,
if anyone who is in office really knows my shoes.
They do not know my first name, that I'm sure of. After all,
it's never them in person making their fund-raising calls.

Bipartisan, bischmartisan; blue, red, and purple hues;
Republican or Democrat; evangelist or Jew ---
why don't they get it? Why not look beyond such simple lines,
and think what's best for the whole country, while there is still time?

12 MAY 2005

John
poet fool romantic student soul
who lives in New Orleans (through the summer months, too)
a lover of ancient trees, wise cats and organic music
who notices as the seasons start to change
who feels the slow advance of devouring time
who learns speech from the north wind, transient birds and hard rain
who dreams of hearing, hopes for seeing, wishes to remain
John Robert Litzenberg
a person who might be, at some point, line or plane.

11 May 2005

Based on an exercise by Ellen Edwell from Poetry Sundays

I was born; that's not quite news,
nor is the sequence of events
that followed closely there behind
of much import, or consequence:

like Isaac, most of my short life
falls into sets of seven years,
some uphill climbs, some downhill coasts,
some trouble shifting between gears.

The details need not be disclosed;
suffice to say, I learned
the difference between being hot
enough to cook, melt, fry or burn.

What grave errors in judgment!
What missteps, what great falls!
What joy in fleeting, desperate moments!
Well, to sum it all:

I've done what I've done, good or bad,
and often wasted time;
I've squandered talents given me
and stumbled, laughed and whined.

They say that it's the squeaky gear
who gets the lion's share of grease;
I've been both rusty and well-oiled,
and found in neither full release.

Accomplishments? Not much of note.
It seems like a great nothing
that seemed important at the time,
or might amount to something.

I write, and sing, and listen to
the universe as best I can;
where books and music lead me
often I don't understand

but those who love me see the nothing
that I've been and done
as important; worth recalling
when my race is run.

11 May 2005

The first draft of this song dates from 1975, when I was ten years old. I subsequently revised it in about 1985.

I read in the papers 'bout the war today:
we're going to die from an overdose of moral decay.
Whether you're down and out and hopeless, or you're fueled by sin and greed,
seems you can't join the human race until you've proven you can bleed.

It's an overthrow by apathy, and by hypocrisy;
you don't have to learn to live, just watch it on TV.
Once you've proven you know nothing, you can think you know it all;
you can keep up with the Joneses when their bridges start to fall.

We were all born into battle; there's no need to enlist anymore,
doesn't matter who we're fighting, it's just another stupid war.

I saw it on the news: we're all going to Hell,
but I've seen the new fall previews, so I guess it's just as well.
If you need a buck to give a damn, throw your money in the trash;
remember, God will pick your pocket if he really needs the cash.

It's an overdose of oversight, we're overrun by vanity
you don't have to learn to take responsibility
Once you've focused on your enemy, your mission is half done
you can laugh at all the losers who have got much smaller guns

It's supposed to make some difference that our side has something worth fighting for
but it really doesn't matter, because it's another stupid war.

I saw it on a billboard: they've put Heaven up for lease;
twelve forgivens for a dollar if you buy eight more, at least.
If you've given up on trying, or are still going for the win,
know pretending to be stupid is the only cardinal sin.

And I don't remember just what we're supposed to be fighting for
but it doesn't really matter, it's just another stupid war.

1975, 1985

Take heart, ye wayworn pilgrims
on the road to finding out,
who've braved the elements of fear,
delusion, pride and doubt,
and found on your long journey
not a sole epiphany
except that destinations often
are illusory.

Take heart, ye lovesick paramours
who thirst for the divine,
whose knees are raw from crawling
through the realm of Proserpine;
what horrors in the realm of Death
you've suffered for your lust
are merely shadows, palimpsest
that will crumble to dust.

Take heart, ye hopeless wanderers
who think there is no trail
and have forsaken long ago
some great quest for the Grail.
The cup is in your hands already;
Drink, and have your fill.
If you can't find it there by now,
you likely never will.

10 May 2005

If no one listens what's the point of lying?
It takes less effort just to speak the truth;
and any action taken worth denying
will more than likely come to little use.

If no ones pays attention for the echo
that new velocity leaves in its wake,
what difference whether dios or diablo
who punishes us for such a small mistake?

If no one watches for the dawn with wonder,
what good another day just like before?
Perhaps we are indeed a cosmic blunder,
just parasites left stranded on this shore.

If no one listens, can the voice of reason
be blamed if it elects to remain mute?
When thinking independently is treason,
who will cry "Fire!" with no one left to shoot?

10 May 2005

No one stole the moon from us
by force. Instead, they bade us sleep;
in that little death our memory
faded, and our Mother's song

(not the sing-song lullabies
or product placing jingle-jangle
from an artificial moonlight
like an android babysitter,
but the rhythm of our organs,
constant hum of blood in veins,
synchronized with breath and being)

was lost. And seeking to remember,
in a simple act of faith,
won't erase the hurt and sadness
of our Mother, so long gone.

Why should she accept with open
arms children that spurned her love?
Why would she be wrong to need
a sacrifice from us to prove

that we were really looking, this time,
with our ears ready to hear
the song she taught us, now forgotten?
Where have we been all these years?

09 MAY 2005

The roots must lead us further down;
it does no good to taste the fruit
unless we first have knelt in shadows
there among the rotting leaves.

The kneeling first, and then the crawl
along the coursing, mottled bark
that starts to thicken as the trunk
breaks through the soil that gives it life.

Among the worms that churn the muck,
the beetles and the stinging ants:
there where the humus is still moist
and cakes to concrete on our hands

we find the source, the Mother core,
like buried treasure from the deep,
between the fingers of the oak
splayed like a hand clutching the earth.

The grass between your toes, so soft,
gives only hints and subtle clues;
to find the Mother's hidden love
cast off by culture's mad distain

requires the digging, dirty knees,
and scratches drawing your own blood;
a desperate scrabble down and down
past patriarchy's well-kept sod.

Her love is buried, long-forgot;
and proving ourselves worthy, work.
If you would make your half a whole,
man, woman, child: dig deep.

08 MAY 2005

Such times are these that rich men gloat
to turn great woods to creosote
and laugh to see the world take note
as style takes substance by the throat.

Such times are these that poor men work
their fingers fleshless for these jerks
who waiting in the shadows lurk
to claim as theirs both purse and perk.

Such times are these that men and boys
forgo their fortunes and love's joys
to strut about and make loud noise,
their goal to other men destroy.

Such times are these that pious words
are used to pardon the absurd:
that war brings peace, that freedom's bird
would choose to nest in such a turd.

Such times are these that there should be
cult worship of celebrity
where children want as destiny
a fleeting moment on TV.

Such times are these when young and old
accept as truth what they've been told
and do not mind that they've been sold
a fire that brings not heat, but cold.

Such times are these that perpetrate
the myth that might is right and great,
that the one path to truth is straight,
and those who rule control the gate.

Such times are these when poets must
regard their words a sacred trust
to speak against their culture's lust
to turn what's left of gold, to dust.

08 MAY 2005

Despite the bitterness that hits the tongue
when you first taste his clever barbs of prose,
and one's initial gumption to suppose
his wit just tiny pearls amidst some dung,

there is in Bierce an underlying faith
in humankind, despite his cynic's guise;
it shows itself no matter how he tries
or fancies life a trifling, mundane waste.

His sorrow, I think, comes from knowing much
of the dark underbelly, which he fights
against by piercing shadows of the night
that meet the world of light at twilight's touch.

To chronicle life's whole palette is his aim,
beyond the lines and simple white and black;
and so, his characters are flawed, and lack
the standard heroes' virtues. In his frame,

the villains wear the white hats, and the good
can be perverted or mislead by ruse;
great ladies, too, pass wind; the mighty lose
to freaks of chance, when you least think they should.

With Ambrose as our culture's looking-glass,
we gain needed perspective on ourselves;
the less authors like him are on our shelves,
it's far more likely that we are an ass.

07 MAY 2005

Today spring cleaning must begin for real:
let winter's dull and hibernating dust
find ends of brooms; quick, scour away the rust
to let the nearing sunlight glint reveal

the sparkled surface that has long been marred
by candles and their residue of ash;
and that stockpile of season's greetings cash,
if not gone, spend it --- load up the bank card

with fresh, green plants, and mulch, and potting soil,
with cleansers, rags, and sponges, buckets, too.
So little time is left, so much to do:
Let's move it. Put the kettle on to boil.

Forget that lazy book or quiet game
of backgammon, or sleeping in 'til noon.
Ye gods, you know it's very nearly June,
and we're still hibernating. What a shame.

Hie forth with mowers, rakes, and pruning shears;
dust off the cobwebs and dried leaves from fall.
Pack up the sweaters, heavy coats and shawls -
We've got to push, now that the weather's clear.

07 MAY 2005

I could have learned by reading Francois Rabelais:

or more precisely, simply by reading the Glossary of names, places, events and concepts compiled by the translator of his complete works, Donald Frame.

The way that Rabelais wove current and historical events, theories, puns, namedropping, and even name-inventing into his works has always been an inspiration to me as a writer. Not to mention the fact that Rabelais was the primary model, as I see it, to both Tom Robbins and Robert Anton Wilson - and about 500 years earlier.

I would un-Crowley Rabelais
to taste, unplagiarized
the simple, yet sarcastic truths
that Aleister disguised:

that man, if left the sole device
of acting with free will
would, after some adjustment,
neither harm, debase or kill

but would instead seek Beauty, Truth,
and other worthy aims
eschewing constant upmanship
and endless win-lose games,

learning to laugh, first, at one's self,
to recognize, and know,
that wisdom's parent is compassion
freed from the ego.

I wonder, sometimes, why so few
who hunger after power
spend all their time out of control
and memorize for hours

arcane instructions, complex spells,
and pompous, trumped up rites,
the rule of mankind, not themselves,
the target in their sights.

Oh, Rabelais, your rapier wit
so sadly has been turned
into a comedy for fools,
and nothing has been learned.

06 MAY 2005

Did bards of old, I wonder, ever tire
of rooting through their souls for a new verse
in order to instruct, praise or inspire
through their connection with the universe,
and after twenty years of "learn by rote",
requiring mastery of form and feel,
the skill to recognize a tune by note,
a repertoire to make the senses reel,
and knowledge of the history and lore,
not only of their clan, but the whole world,
while at the beck and call of some great lord
who nine times out of ten, was partly churl,
requiring curses cast against their foes
or songs of praise to elevate their fame?
How often did a bard observe a rose
for just its fragrance, not speaking its name?

And when a verse or two was shared between
a group of bards that met along the road,
how often did the conversation lean
to simple things, not meter, rhyme and code?
I wonder if the burden that they shared,
the weight of culture's future on their tongues,
was often thought a curse, even compared
unfavorably to being deaf and dumb?

They say the pen is greater than the sword,
that eloquence breaks down more doors than steel;
how treacherous that makes a life where words
are just as precious as true love, or meals.
Let modern poets suffer for their art,
imagining their angst so great and pure;
where their woe ends, the bard's task only starts,
and leads where few may travel, or endure.
Those bards of old are gone, some may declare;
Their arts? Anachronistic and no use.
So few remain who act as if they care,
and on the struggling poet, heap abuse.
Did bards of old, I wonder, ever think
to give up, knowing that their audience,
who when given ambrosial words to drink,
gained neither wisdom or experience?

04 MAY 2005

When twilight pales your umber locks to grey
and lines the apples of your cheeks with care,
takes the wind from your merry laugh, so gay,
and makes your step less sturdy on the stair,

remember this: I loved you from the first,
not for your youthful smile, nor supple limbs,
but instead for your spark, and constant thirst
to seek for substance beyond passing whims.

Who cares what strikes the fancy of the fool
that prizes most, and loves, at just a glance?
The mine is worth more than a single jewel,
whose value is determined just by chance.

For surface beauty is a passing phase;
it blooms in early spring, and then is past.
It will not warm the hearth through winter days,
nor serve as fuel to fire a love that lasts.

05 MAY 2005

Beauty is youth's currency;
and those who have it spend
without a care for what may come,
as if it will not end.

The doors of hearts and shops alike
are open to its wants,
and offer endless credit
to the wealthy debutante.

Down every street, the merchants wait
with sweets and tempting fare
and act as if they'll do the same
once no more money's there.

But Beauty is a fickle coin,
like manna on the lawn
it ages quickly or will rot;
one morning, it is gone.

How fast the world reveals its claws,
and deadbolts fast its doors;
then woe to those whose meager stash
is gone, leaving them poor.

And how we mock the misers who
would hoard up Beauty's gold,
and watch the world reborn each day
while they grow weak and old.

Spend fast, you children, while you can,
but don't just buy, invest;
for once your purse is empty,
you'll be just like all the rest:

Who scramble to regain what you
have callous, spent so free,
and find all they have left to show
is faded memory.

05 MAY 2005

It may be that the swath through life I cut
runs down a different seam than I once thought
would turn into a finished garment; what
great pattern looked so perfect when I bought
it, now seems out of style and so ill-fitting
that it more suits a clown, like a disguise
designed to fool my parents, and their unwitting
support of crazy dreams, sad notions and white lies.

What were once intended as fine robes of sable
turn out to wear so quickly, and to fray
along the dragging edges; I'm not able
to hide the muddy edges where the lining's worn away.
Yet pretending that my world is still defined
by clothes that make the man who isn't there
is little more than dress-up play. Only a blind
fool would pretend they haven't noticed, or don't care.

And who would go to Mardi Gras in rags,
or celebrate a ball in some worn, shabby gown?
Even the poorest ne'er-do-well will drag
a pompous get-up from the closet to paintroll the town.
So that loose-fitting, monstrous thing I've sewn
will never do to be seen in or see;
'tho built with care, its appeal has not grown,
nor does it portray who I'd like to be.

I stand, quite sadly, naked to the mirror,
that will not, though I've bribed it, tell a lie;
The bright light overhead just makes much clearer
those flaws I've tried to cover, by and by.
These yards of cloth, whose colors seemed to suit me
some years ago, now seem too bold and garish;
and scars from scissors mar the look completely.
I cannot leave the house. I'm too embarrassed.

Yet, I can't bear to don a robe and sandals,
or throw some shapeless mumu round my girth.
Besides, such things just fuel the neighbor's scandals
who like to cast aspersions on my worth.
Am I these clothes? This look? This sense of fashion?
They hardly seem to fit me or my dreams,
or match the style and vigor of my passions,
which masquerade in a t-shirt and jeans.

02 MAY 2005

From early childhood until now I've spent my life immersed
in earnest pantomime of games adults will feign to play:
the forging of relationships through love, business and war;
the chaos that somehow surprises all when facades fail
and underneath, our lack of understanding is revealed.

In retrospect, it seems so pointless that this grand charade
we call adulthood is but one more round of hide-and-seek;
and now, on different playgrounds, the same bullies still parade,
hiding their shame and fear behind bravado that relies
on hurting and belittling those who would disagree.

And love? We still believe in it: ideal, without the strings
that in our adolescence, even, we could plainly see,
some fantasy played out in Greek mythology
that culture's constant shuffle classes second-rate
compared to the technology of modern, improved angst.

So now we watch, our brainwaves dulled to sleep
except when from banal, idyllic states
it is required that we produce or purchase
to keep the dream machine well-oiled and financed;
in such an embryonic state, we all wait to mature.

From early childhood until now, I've been told meaning waits
around the bend, a few short years beyond where I am now;
but every month that passes by exposes those who preach
this gospel as just more blind fools who like me, search in vain
for dreams that will not simply fade as we approach the light.

01 MAY 2005