ONCE I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.I had nothing, so I had to go to work.All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.Starvation danced with me.So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.
Fenton Johnson (1888-1958)
The Seven Lost Secret Fascinations and Abilities
There are seven lost secret fascinations and abilities...
They are that:
1. animals can talk
2. your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field
3. nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape
4. your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets
5. jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe
6. monsters exist and can be both seen and done battle with
7. and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all: the ability to fly.
from the movie Radio Flyer
They are that:
1. animals can talk
2. your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field
3. nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape
4. your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets
5. jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe
6. monsters exist and can be both seen and done battle with
7. and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all: the ability to fly.
from the movie Radio Flyer
A Farewell to My Youth
O happier half of days decreed to me,
My early years, so soon you passed away:
Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
And they, scarce budded, fell into decay.
Few were the rays of hope that I could see,
And storms would often rage in wild array;
Still, for my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!
Too soon the fruits of knowledge did I eat!
Where dripped their poison, faded all delight:
I saw how honesty and truth could meet
Among the human kind with scorn and spite.
I sought true love - an empty dream and fleet,
Which disappeared as dawn broke into light!
And wisdom, justice and the learned mind
Were dowerless maids - no suitors could they find.
I saw how those who are not loved by fate
Their ship in vain against the wind may steer;
The one who is not born to high estate
Shall see no Fortune at his cradle appear;
I saw how fame is purchased at the rate
Of current cash - no price too high, too dear;
I saw in glory's and in honour's seat
All that beguiles men's minds with lies, deceit.
These sights and others uglier by far
Burned in my heart till cruelly it bled;
Yet thoughts like these the joys of youth will bar
And quickly drive them out of heart and head;
Fair cloud-born castles glimmer from afar,
Green lawns arise where desert places spread,
Hope kindles many a wanton, beckoning light,
To lure the young and tempt them in the night.
They know not of the sudden storm that blows,
Dispelling phantom shapes that cannot last,
And all too soon forget misfortune's woes,
Forget the wounds once they are healed and past -
Until the changing years show how life flows
Into a vessel that is leaking fast.
Still, O my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!
France Prešeren
My early years, so soon you passed away:
Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
And they, scarce budded, fell into decay.
Few were the rays of hope that I could see,
And storms would often rage in wild array;
Still, for my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!
Too soon the fruits of knowledge did I eat!
Where dripped their poison, faded all delight:
I saw how honesty and truth could meet
Among the human kind with scorn and spite.
I sought true love - an empty dream and fleet,
Which disappeared as dawn broke into light!
And wisdom, justice and the learned mind
Were dowerless maids - no suitors could they find.
I saw how those who are not loved by fate
Their ship in vain against the wind may steer;
The one who is not born to high estate
Shall see no Fortune at his cradle appear;
I saw how fame is purchased at the rate
Of current cash - no price too high, too dear;
I saw in glory's and in honour's seat
All that beguiles men's minds with lies, deceit.
These sights and others uglier by far
Burned in my heart till cruelly it bled;
Yet thoughts like these the joys of youth will bar
And quickly drive them out of heart and head;
Fair cloud-born castles glimmer from afar,
Green lawns arise where desert places spread,
Hope kindles many a wanton, beckoning light,
To lure the young and tempt them in the night.
They know not of the sudden storm that blows,
Dispelling phantom shapes that cannot last,
And all too soon forget misfortune's woes,
Forget the wounds once they are healed and past -
Until the changing years show how life flows
Into a vessel that is leaking fast.
Still, O my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!
France Prešeren
SCBW 09 – a farewell of sorts
there is something timid in my approach tonight;
the moon is in the last quarter and not within my sight,
I begin my solitude cowboy’s blues walk
if I wake up in the eastern sky before dawn
I can see Gemini the Twin, Castor, Pollux and Mars
with the moon being a tea cup
when I search the sky; there is no suffering. I am not cast away
or shrunk from fate, moored by the bow or unrequited
simply wishing
not a parable but a triangle of velocity, a straight line, a side or a vector
sometimes depending on the weather, slow to accelerate
I don’t tend to follow natural position lines for the journey.
I relied on an anger that spent my youth like a turn by the vaulter;
directional by physical force, moving, having moved enough
to avoid the bar
although; I was quiet. a burglar in a sleeping home. I could walk right into a bedroom and steal jewels before the dawn. I was empty of the possession
of a being
not soulless or undivine; for I could be enigmatic when I needed shelter
the method of physical action, a revealed exegesis,
never leaving a trace of my existence
and it seems for forty years I have walked alone, turning stones and making beds
that my benign neglect and aspect certainty was less the mark of Cain
but as perfection comes, the imperfect disappear or never the two shall meet
there was never any intention to write the conscious book of evil ab initio, Astarte & Variance take their turns in solitude when driving the bay shores
I kept my faith as long as any man should have
so for years I have kept this shame inside, stormed my fate like a man sentenced to hanging. took my rest in the wilds and the wastelands and took my comfort
among the sinners refusing to love or be loved
some sort of low parallel, sunken to the bottom of the sea, ashes strewn, a fallen cup,
a bag of seed torn, languished and refused this temper flared until if failed
to burn longer than the summer daylight
it is not coupled to surrender but awakened to the tome found in the bedrock
liminality courses it structure to bevel this homecoming
clinging to the kelp and seaweed dredged up from the sea
shall I fully know now? as the dimming of this penance fades? is my walk ending or just beginning since now I feel the calling of my greatest deeds, no longer affected by the childhood punishment, no longer held back by the chains of hesitation
I will only know now by the steps I take, I will only know now by the steps I take,
if I have been forgiven and if I can let it all go, once and for all
if I can give my heart and soul, to the life I have now.
October 10, 2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
from of old men and of the sea
ШАМРО
the moon is in the last quarter and not within my sight,
I begin my solitude cowboy’s blues walk
if I wake up in the eastern sky before dawn
I can see Gemini the Twin, Castor, Pollux and Mars
with the moon being a tea cup
when I search the sky; there is no suffering. I am not cast away
or shrunk from fate, moored by the bow or unrequited
simply wishing
not a parable but a triangle of velocity, a straight line, a side or a vector
sometimes depending on the weather, slow to accelerate
I don’t tend to follow natural position lines for the journey.
I relied on an anger that spent my youth like a turn by the vaulter;
directional by physical force, moving, having moved enough
to avoid the bar
although; I was quiet. a burglar in a sleeping home. I could walk right into a bedroom and steal jewels before the dawn. I was empty of the possession
of a being
not soulless or undivine; for I could be enigmatic when I needed shelter
the method of physical action, a revealed exegesis,
never leaving a trace of my existence
and it seems for forty years I have walked alone, turning stones and making beds
that my benign neglect and aspect certainty was less the mark of Cain
but as perfection comes, the imperfect disappear or never the two shall meet
there was never any intention to write the conscious book of evil ab initio, Astarte & Variance take their turns in solitude when driving the bay shores
I kept my faith as long as any man should have
so for years I have kept this shame inside, stormed my fate like a man sentenced to hanging. took my rest in the wilds and the wastelands and took my comfort
among the sinners refusing to love or be loved
some sort of low parallel, sunken to the bottom of the sea, ashes strewn, a fallen cup,
a bag of seed torn, languished and refused this temper flared until if failed
to burn longer than the summer daylight
it is not coupled to surrender but awakened to the tome found in the bedrock
liminality courses it structure to bevel this homecoming
clinging to the kelp and seaweed dredged up from the sea
shall I fully know now? as the dimming of this penance fades? is my walk ending or just beginning since now I feel the calling of my greatest deeds, no longer affected by the childhood punishment, no longer held back by the chains of hesitation
I will only know now by the steps I take, I will only know now by the steps I take,
if I have been forgiven and if I can let it all go, once and for all
if I can give my heart and soul, to the life I have now.
October 10, 2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
from of old men and of the sea
ШАМРО
the Moon is Sliding
the moon is sliding down the street
and I sit quiet, mostly feeling absurd
I’m learning how to live my life again
I’m sad in a pleasant sort of way
I was driving home the other night
and under the overpass I saw the desolation
in this ragged land
I drove passed the smoked mullet shops
and the sea merchants union hall
I see the pretty girls with dirty faces
the tired old railcars, the graveyard of
military ships
the poor lonely homes with the melting souls
of the blue collar families
the crippled corners of those roads near the port
each morning a more magnificent vessel is parked next to me
it reaches to tell me, to show me
where I have landed
I see the shadows of smoke stacks
an industrial paradise in the corners of my eyes
squad cars regularly cruise by
each night I look into the Daddy Wabuxx bar
to see if it would be safe to venture in
I look down 7th Ave one night; I may just get lucky down there…
I watch the skyline everyday notice a new building…
I see that seedy laundry mat on 22nd and sit and silence working the radio
smoking cigarettes with hungry belly
the desolation is sweet
and during evenings agony whether it be drinking beer,
talking to some girl
or watching the low volume television
I look deep down into myself
to whisper: what are you doing now?
I see the wealth of life and all their believers
and ask myself: what do you believe in?
the façade is no longer that…
I can only speak honestly while I am silent
my whole mind is in a total cloud
a frozen painting of vision
alone in a fierce tunnel and oxygen is scarce
before I have complained of personal tension
before I have felt unlove & left behind
I have many times lived my dreams through others
I have before demanded compensation from my mind
by what my body disallows
once more, like leaving the back gate of my life…
I have searched the country roads, I have whispered my dreams
I have driven slowly everywhere
and have captured significant glory and said
Nothing of what changes it did not bring
and I think too; how many times I should have said
something or done something to keep love alive
I know I am the creator and the healer of many successes and failures
yet I want someone to come and save me
I want a complete and total love on my level of consistency
I want someone to come in and never leave
and be only for me
I’m sitting sober, sitting silent
no longer a surreal existentialist
no longer the noble romantic
no longer a restless heart of truth
no more sentimental about what left too soon
I may close off and sit in silence forever
I may just close them doors that seem open for other people’s selfish gains
I may quench what crimped desires still linger
and sit a shadow of the sun
in the corrupt gully of personal certitude
the motif meditation double parked abandon
the one lip above the glass of bourbon
the numb and the stern
sooner or later; it will be too late to turn it around
sooner or later; everything will be gone
and then I will be my own trap of my own game
the one and only battle given victory by forfeit
there are roads that no one can share
there are scenes and feelings unrelatable
and in them drunken fits; when I am ignored
it is the great weight of solitude meeting its fierce competitor:
the constant state of passing thru…
some pavilion in some cheek bruised stare
as tho’ hated by the masses’ thoughts
poking the ashes in somber sigh
the quiet starting thoughts peering out the window
and that thing in the chest & throat
when one asks, is this the beginning of the end?
I can walk no more to think about all of this
I can sit no more to think about all of this
it needs to swell up out of the ocean
it needs to fall from the sky
it must burst as a caress of tears
it must take away the shadow of the sun
and finally prove that there is nothing on the other side
that the finalization of the mystery is in the actual state
so if this is a significant time
let it choose an ending of peace.
December 2, 1992
from Shadows of the Sun or Young Man's Dreams © 1993 Private Stock Poetry
from of old men and of the sea © woundedlordliterature 2009
ШАМРО
and I sit quiet, mostly feeling absurd
I’m learning how to live my life again
I’m sad in a pleasant sort of way
I was driving home the other night
and under the overpass I saw the desolation
in this ragged land
I drove passed the smoked mullet shops
and the sea merchants union hall
I see the pretty girls with dirty faces
the tired old railcars, the graveyard of
military ships
the poor lonely homes with the melting souls
of the blue collar families
the crippled corners of those roads near the port
each morning a more magnificent vessel is parked next to me
it reaches to tell me, to show me
where I have landed
I see the shadows of smoke stacks
an industrial paradise in the corners of my eyes
squad cars regularly cruise by
each night I look into the Daddy Wabuxx bar
to see if it would be safe to venture in
I look down 7th Ave one night; I may just get lucky down there…
I watch the skyline everyday notice a new building…
I see that seedy laundry mat on 22nd and sit and silence working the radio
smoking cigarettes with hungry belly
the desolation is sweet
and during evenings agony whether it be drinking beer,
talking to some girl
or watching the low volume television
I look deep down into myself
to whisper: what are you doing now?
I see the wealth of life and all their believers
and ask myself: what do you believe in?
the façade is no longer that…
I can only speak honestly while I am silent
my whole mind is in a total cloud
a frozen painting of vision
alone in a fierce tunnel and oxygen is scarce
before I have complained of personal tension
before I have felt unlove & left behind
I have many times lived my dreams through others
I have before demanded compensation from my mind
by what my body disallows
once more, like leaving the back gate of my life…
I have searched the country roads, I have whispered my dreams
I have driven slowly everywhere
and have captured significant glory and said
Nothing of what changes it did not bring
and I think too; how many times I should have said
something or done something to keep love alive
I know I am the creator and the healer of many successes and failures
yet I want someone to come and save me
I want a complete and total love on my level of consistency
I want someone to come in and never leave
and be only for me
I’m sitting sober, sitting silent
no longer a surreal existentialist
no longer the noble romantic
no longer a restless heart of truth
no more sentimental about what left too soon
I may close off and sit in silence forever
I may just close them doors that seem open for other people’s selfish gains
I may quench what crimped desires still linger
and sit a shadow of the sun
in the corrupt gully of personal certitude
the motif meditation double parked abandon
the one lip above the glass of bourbon
the numb and the stern
sooner or later; it will be too late to turn it around
sooner or later; everything will be gone
and then I will be my own trap of my own game
the one and only battle given victory by forfeit
there are roads that no one can share
there are scenes and feelings unrelatable
and in them drunken fits; when I am ignored
it is the great weight of solitude meeting its fierce competitor:
the constant state of passing thru…
some pavilion in some cheek bruised stare
as tho’ hated by the masses’ thoughts
poking the ashes in somber sigh
the quiet starting thoughts peering out the window
and that thing in the chest & throat
when one asks, is this the beginning of the end?
I can walk no more to think about all of this
I can sit no more to think about all of this
it needs to swell up out of the ocean
it needs to fall from the sky
it must burst as a caress of tears
it must take away the shadow of the sun
and finally prove that there is nothing on the other side
that the finalization of the mystery is in the actual state
so if this is a significant time
let it choose an ending of peace.
December 2, 1992
from Shadows of the Sun or Young Man's Dreams © 1993 Private Stock Poetry
from of old men and of the sea © woundedlordliterature 2009
ШАМРО
Pilgrim Heights
Something, something, the heart here
Misses, something it knows it needs
Unable to bless—the wind passes;
A swifter shadow sweeps the reeds,
The heart a colder contrast brushes.
So this fool, face-forward, belly
Pressed among the rushes, plays out
His pulse to the dune’s long slant
Down from blue to bluer element,
The bold encompassing drink of air
And namelessness, a length compound
Of want and oneness the shore’s mumbling
Distantly tells—something a wing’s
Dry pivot stresses, carved
Through barrens of stillness and glare:
The naked close of light in light,
Light’s spare embrace of blade and tremor
Stealing the generous eye’s plunder
Like a breathing banished from the lung’s
Fever, lost in parenthetic air.
Raiding these nude recesses, the hawk
Resumes his yielding balance, his shadow
Swims the field, the sands beyond,
The narrow edges fed out to light,
To the sea’s eternal licking monochrome.
The foolish hip, the elbow bruise
Upright from the dampening mat,
The twisted grasses turn, unthatch,
Light-headed blood renews its stammer—
Apart, below, the dazed eye catches
A darkened figure abruptly measured
Where folding breakers lay their whites;
The heart from its height starts downward,
Swum in that perfect pleasure
It knows it needs, unable to bless.
Alvin Feinman
Misses, something it knows it needs
Unable to bless—the wind passes;
A swifter shadow sweeps the reeds,
The heart a colder contrast brushes.
So this fool, face-forward, belly
Pressed among the rushes, plays out
His pulse to the dune’s long slant
Down from blue to bluer element,
The bold encompassing drink of air
And namelessness, a length compound
Of want and oneness the shore’s mumbling
Distantly tells—something a wing’s
Dry pivot stresses, carved
Through barrens of stillness and glare:
The naked close of light in light,
Light’s spare embrace of blade and tremor
Stealing the generous eye’s plunder
Like a breathing banished from the lung’s
Fever, lost in parenthetic air.
Raiding these nude recesses, the hawk
Resumes his yielding balance, his shadow
Swims the field, the sands beyond,
The narrow edges fed out to light,
To the sea’s eternal licking monochrome.
The foolish hip, the elbow bruise
Upright from the dampening mat,
The twisted grasses turn, unthatch,
Light-headed blood renews its stammer—
Apart, below, the dazed eye catches
A darkened figure abruptly measured
Where folding breakers lay their whites;
The heart from its height starts downward,
Swum in that perfect pleasure
It knows it needs, unable to bless.
Alvin Feinman
horses
when I was a young man I had horses
once was a blind appaloosa
twice was his pony
each was a token of my forgiveness
of a life spent in disregard
I read them Old Angel Midnight
and of the trifecta’s in the south
and they spoke of the hunger of the north
we laid our heads down upon the stones
and kept each other warm
now my life has turned; not graver nor grayer
but the youth, that was of my thirties
has cast its eyes to other pastures
studies that were written down
are not written in vain
4/19/2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
once was a blind appaloosa
twice was his pony
each was a token of my forgiveness
of a life spent in disregard
I read them Old Angel Midnight
and of the trifecta’s in the south
and they spoke of the hunger of the north
we laid our heads down upon the stones
and kept each other warm
now my life has turned; not graver nor grayer
but the youth, that was of my thirties
has cast its eyes to other pastures
studies that were written down
are not written in vain
4/19/2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
Marina
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September
- Marina T.S. Eliot
old poems old songs old seams
that button, fray and feed the laced
something sublime comes my way
tobacco stained shirt collars and forced
under star light; taken for photographs
in the state of transcendence
the moon is a sister
and the earth some mother
I wait for the thunder
I found me a quote; that I wrote down
almost 22 years to date; unconditional
full of sincerity, walking the sidewalk
for the full reposit and sensation of things
and I remember the night; it was the café days,
you said it as a matter of fact,
and we walked to the park and set in motion
the creed that we were to live by
restlessness and truth; the stories of our lives
were to be filled in this idealism
tonight I have read so many poems, Scott, Parker,
Eliot, Robinson and me
but in that book of old romantics I stopped
dead in my tracts not only because but because
it is one forty five in the morning; it is muggy,
it just feels like the old days I haven’t stayed up late to
write me a poem in years
it said, ‘here take this; but remember I never gave you anything’
what would we say not to that but in our stalemates our check mates
our careers that resemble the Book of Job or even Enoch
all I ever wanted then is neatly stacked and hidden away
as childhood mementos frozen misspelled hastily composed
under coffee dimmed lighting
its worth in remembering is the deed unto itself
this world vs that world; youth and enthusiasm and old age
and treachery what wisdom have we forsaken, taken
and refused, refuted or relinquished since the dawn
of those days curled instead of elongated continuum
it all seems so different and it still feels the same
yet tonight I wish; I could breathe deeper and
stay up longer reach further and dream higher
put this into words more perfectly
April 26, 2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September
- Marina T.S. Eliot
old poems old songs old seams
that button, fray and feed the laced
something sublime comes my way
tobacco stained shirt collars and forced
under star light; taken for photographs
in the state of transcendence
the moon is a sister
and the earth some mother
I wait for the thunder
I found me a quote; that I wrote down
almost 22 years to date; unconditional
full of sincerity, walking the sidewalk
for the full reposit and sensation of things
and I remember the night; it was the café days,
you said it as a matter of fact,
and we walked to the park and set in motion
the creed that we were to live by
restlessness and truth; the stories of our lives
were to be filled in this idealism
tonight I have read so many poems, Scott, Parker,
Eliot, Robinson and me
but in that book of old romantics I stopped
dead in my tracts not only because but because
it is one forty five in the morning; it is muggy,
it just feels like the old days I haven’t stayed up late to
write me a poem in years
it said, ‘here take this; but remember I never gave you anything’
what would we say not to that but in our stalemates our check mates
our careers that resemble the Book of Job or even Enoch
all I ever wanted then is neatly stacked and hidden away
as childhood mementos frozen misspelled hastily composed
under coffee dimmed lighting
its worth in remembering is the deed unto itself
this world vs that world; youth and enthusiasm and old age
and treachery what wisdom have we forsaken, taken
and refused, refuted or relinquished since the dawn
of those days curled instead of elongated continuum
it all seems so different and it still feels the same
yet tonight I wish; I could breathe deeper and
stay up longer reach further and dream higher
put this into words more perfectly
April 26, 2009
from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
little use
what if she did
it is of little use now
it is unfair for failure
to be kept accurate
what if I did
it is no avail now
I thought I was lonely
and she was no
friend then
I didn’t want to
feel it anymore
albatrosses, crucifixes
destiny; it is a
funny thing
looking back
to seminal
trajectory and
neglect is a tiny
phrase that lawyers
use to rest their case
there were no sunsets
or romance of bitter allusions
that ate up the silence
she was a cracked mask
from a carnival
rapture befallen a
grifter's silver tongue
a slippery reverie
that salutations
like dear sir
and for whom
this may concern
resolve conflicts
connected to
obscure sufferings
unknown to me now
July 8, 2009
ШАМРО
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
it is of little use now
it is unfair for failure
to be kept accurate
what if I did
it is no avail now
I thought I was lonely
and she was no
friend then
I didn’t want to
feel it anymore
albatrosses, crucifixes
destiny; it is a
funny thing
looking back
to seminal
trajectory and
neglect is a tiny
phrase that lawyers
use to rest their case
there were no sunsets
or romance of bitter allusions
that ate up the silence
she was a cracked mask
from a carnival
rapture befallen a
grifter's silver tongue
a slippery reverie
that salutations
like dear sir
and for whom
this may concern
resolve conflicts
connected to
obscure sufferings
unknown to me now
July 8, 2009
ШАМРО
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
Pome in B minor
I’ve been looking for a pome for you
but I can’t find the right one
I think to myself of
‘Faces Seen Once…’
to recall all those at epochs gone
this morning it was raining
and I thought how much
I used to love to smoke a cigarette
on those in-between rainy days
bereft of expectations
contrite as Camus’ processes
or as the-younger; take the afternoon off
and seep into a book of philosophy
in dingy barroom; or solitude walks
in DC wandering or Princeton art exhibits;
the beaches Atlantic or Gulf all
‘Lines Written In Dejection’
soft in refrain from the mosaic of the trapeze
and just the wording reminds me of a night
I was in a carnival tent; with the wire and the net
It was me and a stranger that I had just met
and we dared each other to take some steps for the wire
I made three steps then fell the ten or fifteen feet
and we laughed: This daring I could take
but youth kept me free from love
and in a coldness that was possessed
in enchantments: foggy mornings in cemeteries
and all night coffee jam sessions or on the bayou where
Greek youth celebrates the Epiphany
and also listening this morning to a piano player talk
about Schumann’s ‘Carnaval’ how it spoke
from with-in her heart or Byron’s hack of Pope in ‘Sonnet on Chillon’
to what ends do we dare ourselves to flail in our failures
what is success without its father experience?
and yet ~ what of the wines of the monks of Chillon
O ~ of what use is it to outlive all of them if we cannot
find the suitable goal of understanding; the purpose
of a life worth living or the sublet of circumstantial choices
in ten years will it be a burnt candle sitting on a bookshelf
and the truth; will it be a demarcation? Tales of perspective-
it is an exempt stage onto the players; a angle
of repose where the lofty make there toasts and speak
to the valor of living inside-out of fears then ~
one day to be standing in Normal Mailer’s living room
or decades earlier listening to poetry
sitting next to Allen Ginsberg
what is sadness but the heart of dreaming?
life is divorce and dead friends; regrets
and sublime victories; cold solitude mornings
or Easter’s buried in sweat on the brink of sanity
or Halloween in Ensenada drinking margaritas
these manifests are a boatswain’s keep
everyday has its chance to be 'Suddenly Last Summer’
and yet, miracles persist
by our unintended consequences of a chance night
visiting a friend who won’t let you stay home
and instead of outside the maddening crowd
one of those truths relit; a prayer,
snow covered daffodils in April
or ‘Hours of Idleness’
for the sake of distractions-I-not-why;
but this is what I wanted to say to you
meaning unexamined, version unedited
life breaking forceful under the tides
new moon Ash Wednesday’s all across America
God resting comfortable in soft morning, joke-book
sitting on his belly…the world asleep at its feet.
Feb2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
but I can’t find the right one
I think to myself of
‘Faces Seen Once…’
to recall all those at epochs gone
this morning it was raining
and I thought how much
I used to love to smoke a cigarette
on those in-between rainy days
bereft of expectations
contrite as Camus’ processes
or as the-younger; take the afternoon off
and seep into a book of philosophy
in dingy barroom; or solitude walks
in DC wandering or Princeton art exhibits;
the beaches Atlantic or Gulf all
‘Lines Written In Dejection’
soft in refrain from the mosaic of the trapeze
and just the wording reminds me of a night
I was in a carnival tent; with the wire and the net
It was me and a stranger that I had just met
and we dared each other to take some steps for the wire
I made three steps then fell the ten or fifteen feet
and we laughed: This daring I could take
but youth kept me free from love
and in a coldness that was possessed
in enchantments: foggy mornings in cemeteries
and all night coffee jam sessions or on the bayou where
Greek youth celebrates the Epiphany
and also listening this morning to a piano player talk
about Schumann’s ‘Carnaval’ how it spoke
from with-in her heart or Byron’s hack of Pope in ‘Sonnet on Chillon’
to what ends do we dare ourselves to flail in our failures
what is success without its father experience?
and yet ~ what of the wines of the monks of Chillon
O ~ of what use is it to outlive all of them if we cannot
find the suitable goal of understanding; the purpose
of a life worth living or the sublet of circumstantial choices
in ten years will it be a burnt candle sitting on a bookshelf
and the truth; will it be a demarcation? Tales of perspective-
it is an exempt stage onto the players; a angle
of repose where the lofty make there toasts and speak
to the valor of living inside-out of fears then ~
one day to be standing in Normal Mailer’s living room
or decades earlier listening to poetry
sitting next to Allen Ginsberg
what is sadness but the heart of dreaming?
life is divorce and dead friends; regrets
and sublime victories; cold solitude mornings
or Easter’s buried in sweat on the brink of sanity
or Halloween in Ensenada drinking margaritas
these manifests are a boatswain’s keep
everyday has its chance to be 'Suddenly Last Summer’
and yet, miracles persist
by our unintended consequences of a chance night
visiting a friend who won’t let you stay home
and instead of outside the maddening crowd
one of those truths relit; a prayer,
snow covered daffodils in April
or ‘Hours of Idleness’
for the sake of distractions-I-not-why;
but this is what I wanted to say to you
meaning unexamined, version unedited
life breaking forceful under the tides
new moon Ash Wednesday’s all across America
God resting comfortable in soft morning, joke-book
sitting on his belly…the world asleep at its feet.
Feb2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
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