04.12.08
Echoes
Hucklebird says to put some poetry on the blog, but why?
The early ones were printed in The Grotonian in the sixties. I don’t seem to have any copies.
The rest I found in an old box, gnawed on by mice. From the eighties, wandering between Colorado, Utah, and other places.
I don’t see much to salvage out of a few hundred, but they represented a moment for me
when I wrote them,
Here’s one on stray cats, if I can read the handwriting:
Untitled, I am not sure what to call this one??
Unrequited love–and stray cats (??)
Who finds a loved one in the clash of pairs,
so fond of oppositions as this face?
It blinks one ego that a lifetime spares,
There seems more substance to enchanted grace.
Tell me some secret of galactic fire
whose beep and redshift tell departing news.
Parsecs at dusk, in an expanding gyre, (??can’t read handwriting, stub rhyme)
I watch the stars, nearby a feline mews.
Am I some pathogen to feed me more
where several sizes plane this baubled thought?
It is a burden as this unfired ore. (??)
Infinity to hide, yet I seem caught.
I am the world line to a meeting place.
The cat’s gone off. Cruel sphinx, I’ll grab its tale.
________________
another,
As to a sufi ancient whose each breath
speaks mantram or allah to his exhale
airing some fire as life to moment death,
he should stand watchman to his selving tale.
Is he the doer to this farcist clown
whose sad routine is evening to the moon?
In search of joy his facescape paints a frown,
sketched in brief stroke, as one departing soon.
No, pass there glad, here is magnificence,
entire worlds, potential to god-feasts, (feats? illegible)
Dancers their limbs, taut, reckoned, nervous, tense,
??
Breathe on, this oxygen is overhead,
free to such steed,whose will is heaven’s lead.
_____________________
Point of no return
Then put about your vessel from its journ,
It is the search itself for your man jack,
he is still there though none if you should turn
to face your coming hence from your great lack.
Then to another prescence incalesce,
it must have means to be all where and when,
more locate yet where suns will incandesce
common stray gas to light the fairs of men.
???
_______________________
Nataraj
The music plays, it seems no evening doom,
there could be dance, a feast of bodies, lose
each separate sinew in the shuffling oompah.
Take him to creature where remembrance waits
they shall have gardens for the twist of love,
still otherworldly by eternal gates
whose point of entry is no sky above.
Some octave puts all color to desire,
that flaunts a blossom to productive tease.
my memories call, brought to this consciousn hire
whose task is joy as labor that refrees
this sapient slave in one creative sketch
of this great world whose scheme is god and fetch.
_________________________
Industrial Age Spawns Frankenstein Myth
The re-creations of these Frankensteins
sideshow the art-facts of our industries.
No I, but I will issue foolish sheens,
This I noone to shoe-I opposies,
Alas, the deeper octave of these tones
were all, who knows, exvented in the smog.
The stitch assembly of still fleshy bones
falls dismally short of species fully hog.
We thus emerge to these emergencies,
created ghoul stands forth from voltage grid.
We end by chasing all these lunacies
across the arctic waste to seeth a kid.
The factory that can give some art to life
creaketh eternal like a bullock cart.
……