A Bowl of Gigot

Excerpt from an Interview by Paris Review with Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)

“I simply approached the three sides of space and one of time as a cook will open a recipe book and say ‘Let’s cook this gigot.’I had no idea what sort of gigot was going to come out of it…sometimes you have to take these colossal chances when you see a ray of light that beckons you particularly.”

A Bowl of Gigot
East meets West-
in this eclectic sweet and sour dish,
with an aftertaste that's beyond delish!

A meal cooked up,
stirred around slowly, boiled down,
its base flavor in the addition of the rue,

that pinch, an herb-of-grace,
mixed with a metaphysical lace,
depending on the chef's preference.

Secret sauces that stew,
Einstein's elan and Jung's Hindu.
It takes no energy to make, nor does it matter-

The way your soup comes out,
with more science than philosophy or art,
its all a matter of personal taste.

A confluence at a continuum-stop-where does it start?
Where Confucianism bumped into Foccault's pendulum.
Food for the soul.




Image of Indonesian soup bowl, By Taken by fir0002 | flagstaffotos.com.au Canon 20D + Tamron 28-75mm f/2.8 (Own work) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Only the devil-may-care

Why Lie about it?

I am the devils' advocate.

His veiled language occupies me.

And I find comfort in hiding behind the blinds,

velveteen drapes are just overkill.

I made my bed,

built these worlds in my head,

for Him to roam. As his advocate,

I make room, rearranging if I have to.

How hospitable, how despicable of me.

He’s a master weaver like the arachnid,

who cross stitches the eyes of my soul-

shut tight, like the dead, with X’s for eyes.

I hang on these invisible threads,

they are the fibers of my Being.

As though I needed Him as an ally

just to get by. Triumph, I will never win.

He’s louder than me in volume.

And voluminous, illuminous He appears

to me, to Be, eternally.

Thou shall not deny or preach,

the other side- Lies-in all of us-

the devil knows

whose side we are on.

Did you hear His solicitous speech?

Image of painting by Santiago Rusiñol [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1890's Figure Study.

What to do with a flower

He said no women ever walk with flowers anymore.

He was from a land far away,

the Motherland, the Moon.

How exotic, I thought...

And while adding this meaningless task

to some To Do list or other,

I sensed

How tragic,

to be strolling along

whilst this beauteous thing,

dies in the clutches of my sweaty palms;

strangled and spent,

plucked and perished,

wilted while walking...

And I remember,

I smiled wide,

at this vainglorious vision,

thinking all the while, 

Boris, what a meaningful, exquisitely beautiful thing.

*Boris Pasternak, who noted in an informal/formal interview published in “The Paris Review Interviews series Writers at Work, 2nd series” the first line in this poem as a casual observation whilst walking with the interviewer/writer Olga Annenkov.

Image credit By Florida Memory [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Splashing the Page with White #FFFFFF

“You did it”- may be

the most beautiful three

words to an artist.

He called it “A Triumph-

(of beautifying the vileness

of the stark white pallid page,

perhaps)”-

I have won the battle with me,

'twas said by the Socratic referee.

What was thought could only hide-,

in the dark recesses of the mind, 

now Outside,

of Self,

for all to See,

and breathe on its own a-chord

I hope-

is struck.

See-

Poetry is Pleasure, it’s sensuous he says.

Who else can stop and savor

the moments the infatuated way 

of the artist outside on a clear day-

pushing clouds with eyelids away,

strobes that penetrate the stratosphere,

with noses like bloodhounds,

driven by the scent, like life-

to try and die anyway, coming and going,

something to live for, 

because without it I would die, mused

the sensual Nin, whose romantic endings become

Beginnings, 

all anew.

Like childhood magic is artistic inspiration, 

I made myself believe in fairytales,

and storybook endings.

Old mossy castles surrounded by fog,

turrets of ideas poking through.

Atop blooming mountains where one can go

Dancing to the music at the great

Balls for the Brain;

Libraries, lullabies and lovely lyrics,

how lovely to lose you in the song 

on the page, or public stage.

Art takes nerve, letting some stranger,

whisper sweet unintelligible
nothings

in your ear.

So, an artist tells you what they hear,
or tries-(facing fear)

the best way they know how.

Spilling ink, blood, tears, sand, oil, sweat, 

love, pain, hope, desire, fear and regret,

Yet-

most people prefer the color of 

Perception or commonly called white

(allowing for muted undertones).

White is a color, the perception of which is evoked by light that stimulates all three types of color sensitive cone cells in the human eye in equal amounts and with high brightness compared to the surroundings. A white visual stimulation will be void of hue and grayness. White is the lightest possible color.Defined as: #FFFFFF

Image By Mlaoxve [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Oil painting palette.

Chasing our tails

The problem with the pursuit of happiness
                                     is that it is;
                                     a toil ridden sweaty hot pursuit,
                                     a source-less slippery stench,
One that chases after happiness forgot it's too fast to catch.

Instead we chase our tails, catching a whiff
of a finish line reminiscent of balderdash.

As school children, we are taught in P.E.
                                    that running is healthy,
being faster is better, stronger and longer are nonpareil-
                                    little champions know about the first loser.
While perfecting running on empty in inalienable circles-
                                   where spirals suck you in.
The starting line begins,
                                    when we race time.
We play tag, choosing the easiest one to get,
                                    then let the others worry about “It”.
When we graduate into adulthood,
                                    recess and foot races are no longer requisite,
we only exercise our volition
                                    when we are being chased, 
as the object of hot pursuit.

So many wonder if they chose the wrong path that leads
                                     to a dead-end having no thru exit.
All of our roads are dead-ends.
So many are sick and tired 
                                     of being sad and fat.
Anchored with obesity to our happy oblivion,
                                     sedentary, leaden with obligation,
dwellers in the city of Circumstance,
                                     in slums with condemned hearts-
they should move-
                                     but are often frozen in icy ennui.
One must be cold before searching for fire.
Burning bridges from Discontent on the way out,
                                      a one-way ticket is the only available option-
blurring what's left of a vacant vista, right-
                                      no longer
where you left it.
The right of hot pursuit,
                                       is just an alternate route.
You must know what you seek,
before Happiness gives you a peak.


Image of painting by Giulio Romano [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Mars chasing Adonis from Venus's Pavillion.

No time for your rhyme

There once was a lyrical poet who rhymed,

intrigued by this technique he was so inclined,

to share his lovely rhymed verse-

now a decrepit olden time curse,

considered both uncouth and passé.

He continued to muse anyway,

and quietly pray that one day

someone will say, “Today, a rhyme is ok-

for children, but is certainly no Monet.”

But he won’t hear that last part,

believing his poetry is truly fine art.

His inspired poetic zeal,

lacked serious public appeal.

Born in the wrong time,

for silly old rhyme, 

not one publication with any imagination

gave a standing ovation-overall his narration,

they judged unscholarly and just juvenile-

mockingly, shockingly, straight into the slush pile.

All adverbs aside, this method of poetry he tried

and plied, still too proud for his own pride. 

All the while-

that he strung those rhymes in denial,

he believed his old poetry was in style.

Until one day, the rejections too many

more than the poems. So with his last penny,

he thought and bought a last wish at a fountain,

“If from rhymes I must abstain, making my poetry plain,

Instead,

I'd rather be dead."

And without any further adieu

his last dying wish came true. 

Image by Friedrich von Amerling [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Las Olas para dias...

Way way

d

o

w

n

South                             West

Perhaps we are un poco loco

As Latin lingo-goes

Spanglish by the seashore

Where-Donde

Las Olas-The Waves

peel like Naranjos

Nobody I know though

peddles oranges under freeways

These days

D

o

w

n

Here, where El Sol, warms the soul

holding sway

in the Santa Ana way,

winds                                Offshore

salt air beckons to play

Building castles made of sand

stuck on Land

Breaking-Ruptura

frothing white mane in charge

liquid glass breaks at my feet

but See, the Sea, El Mar-La Mer-Las Olas,

-faces holding-                           Up

     o      l      n        along,

R       l     i       g

settingtogether  a  l  o  n  g

-Venus and her Sun-

hugging our vast horizon.

Composed 5/21/15.