Posts filed under ‘voices’

prisms

prisms

in deep-murmuring forest once
we touched, in shadowed
near-silence: i remember
your quiet laughter.

but the sun fell
and night came: we must
have lost our way.
certainly, in any case,

dawn found us strangers.

_______________________________________________________________________
More a comment on society and fragmenting relationships than any ‘real’ event. (“Do you ever hear voices in your head?” “Well, yeah…” The psychiatrist or counselor or…relaxes and settles down. Gee, a psychotic. “Well tell me about them.” “Every time someone speaks to me it happens. Can you give me a hint of how to stop that?”)

—They run out of the door screaming.
Reality in many cases is sheerly a matter of perspective, and society most certainly isn’t capable of distinguishing it from the babble that modern society depends upon for its very existence. I remember living in the country. It’s so silent there (I remember being far out at sea…)

November 10, 2018 at 4:59 pm Leave a comment

meanings (x)

meanings (x)*

meanings and sixpence.
the latter fill the palm:
the former bring headaches.
you can’t sell the meanings,
though that’s all the pence are.
you prate of salvation, nirvana, freedom…
i ponder my empty palm.

__________________________________________________________
There! my essay on money, although I should do the prose form fairly shortly. I wrote this just after coming ‘home’ after the Vietnam war. So say….oh, just a ‘rough’ estimate…November 6, 1976. I’d been reading Proust, Kafka and Zelazny. Oh, and Lem. What a likely mix. Delany’s Dahlgren was in the background, although there are some massive problems with that; glance

*This means in this case that I had a series and then threw away half of them. Which seems oddly apposite.

November 8, 2018 at 9:17 pm Leave a comment

twilight

twilight

shapes have
passed and passed before me. (i am
not sure
if they were within my eye or out)
they bear
the faces of these daily
untouched strangers,
my neighbors…in my dreams
(these strange dreams)
they cannot hear me,
as i call them
nor pause their
ceaseless, unbearable pacing.

i sit encurled*
about myself
watching, unsure
if i’m dreaming
or awake
________________________________________________________________
*So I have the occasional (very) bad habit of coining words. I have the bad taste to have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome with a nice high number, too. I’m also in enough pain to admit it, too bad I couldn’t manage to show it better while trying for compensation. Oddly enough too the imagery in this poem, too, has become rather real. –And I still often find it hard to admit that I’m a poet. [A poet who used to fell trees for a living? Was a maintenance man (not glorified janitor, either). Someone who ‘hung with the rougher crowd’ and not infrequently was somehow mistaken for them. The academics were pretty well convinced I just had to be a backwoods ruminant while the rurals (with whom I felt more comfortable, with whom I could actually identify) were completely uncomfortable with me, from the ‘long words’ to my ability to change. I can’t imagine being able to ‘fit in with the crowd’ and I most certainly don’t say that with pride.

November 2, 2018 at 11:13 pm Leave a comment

words

words

these words refract my meaning
so easily, so strangely;
are you, too, trapped behind
like some window, through which

we gesture, soundlessly.
though we can touch–and yet do,
at time
it seems sometimes we parted years ago.

(‘love’ contains so many meanings! like
pouring a river
into a drinking-cup. odd, it never
seems quite to contain it…)

yet we remain together; trying,
at times, to pursue meanings;
at others simply side by side,
old friends and lovers.

but again and again
i struggle to find the words.
NOT FOR PUBLICATION

___________________________________________________
I really wasn’t going to publish it. Then I just reread it and realized that when I wrote that I was 20. If you’re 50+ you might identify with that.

November 2, 2018 at 10:56 pm Leave a comment

The Atlantis Submissions that were…

 

NEVER SENT!
Some of these may already have been posted here. This is poetry from “Voices” the ms.. 

 

 

silences

In this little
estuary
as we enter it
there is no time.

These: a sandbar, mostly blocking
entrance, an old
rowboat, half
filled with water: a tern:
a duck.
In the distance three cattails. A lone gull, far
above,
like freedom
This woman’s cool-
fingered touch
at nape of neck,
at hand.
This moment does not
become. It is;
there is no further passage.

Timeless, the moment
pauses and holds us,
(for once) wordless. (In silence learned I song.)

knowledges

with falling rushes
of surging blood you knew her, and she you:
tempestuous passages, perhaps
as much of pride as love…

there were times
you couldn’t endure yet still needed her, wounding
yourself like
some speared bull at corrida…

It always seemed odd
to realize how little you knew of her,
once she left you; odd, too, to know
it was only your own reflection

that ever hurt you

Jester

Bright motley jester…
his voice was light, and high.
Guitar his accompaniement…
Fair! Fair! his face,
and sad.

One would say his eyes
could not outlive the seeing
of the deeds he sang.
Fair! Fair! his raiment
as he began the tale
of how he’d killed a woman
in green foreign forests.

Done, his voice
faded into sobbing.
And as we raised
the rocks of our affliction–
made
him
the guilty one…
As we brought them
DOWN…
upon his head,
and killed him…
As we killed him…

we sang his song.

October 19, 2018 at 11:55 am Leave a comment

age (4)

age (4)

The roses stood
without my window, now
bare of bloom, yet leaved, pleading
to sky for deliverance
from the coming
fatal frost.
I would paint them, yes,
tomorrow…and tomorrow
grew away.
Frost come, leaves fallen
three bare
reproaching fingers
jut upwards.
Time is short
before remembrance,
too, ceases.

 

 

July 2, 2018 at 4:25 pm Leave a comment

visitations

visitations

pausing at
the Hill of Skulls,
we left three flowers. (somewhere
near, rubbish burned; and a homeless mongrel
scratched at the earth)

but there was
(i am not sure
i expected any) no answer, and
after a moment
we merely walked away.

that Hill
was merely dead,
a blasted place, choked
with weeds and rubbish, and He

(i saw, to be honest,
no record of His passage)
was not there.
(my mouth was dry.)

pausing at the
Hill of Skulls, i think,
perhaps
i left my soul.

____________________________________________________

Same summer.  Nikos Kazantzakis.

April 24, 2018 at 2:35 pm Leave a comment

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