“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, November 25, 2017
likeness
The colors blended
one moment, one thing divides
a-similitude
Painting by Albert Bierstadt, Yosemite, Twin peaks, c.1859 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
5:59
Four minutes ago
it was -My Time- to shine, rise
above dark valleys
Painting by Claude Monet, 'Haystacks at Chailly at Sunrise', 1865 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, November 17, 2017
You're glowing
Bright burning Aura, Aura!
Night inside of the forest;
Eye or hand, what immortal
fearful symmetry could frame thee?
Skies what in distant deeps
eyes thine of fire burnt
on wings, aspire he dares
Fire what hand the hand dare seize?
Art what, and what art on shoulder
sinews of the heart twist and thy could
beat and beat when thy heart
dread feet, dread hand and what
What chain the-what hammer the-
brain, a furnace twas thy
grasp the dread and what the anvil?
Clasp and dare deadly terrors!
Spears threw down stars
tears water’d with heaven
See him smile at his work?
Thee make the Lamb smile, at making me
maybe?
O Bright burning Aura, Or a
Night inside the forest again:
Nor eye or hand, what mortal
fearful of symmetry would frame thee?
This was an experiment with one of Bernadette Mayer’s Writing ideas (http://www.writing.upenn.edu/library/Mayer-Bernadette_Experiments.html) on mirroring an existing poem, which I did hear (sort of) with Tyger, Tger by William Blake (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger)
Image By Fritz Erler, 1897 (Deutsche Kunst und Dekoration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Angel and...
Clean sheets
The poem stared back
at the two pleading eyes
saying nothing
about white or black
nor was any indication given
as to where a poet
should set up thoughts
for the night
with rigging and taut lines
for a reader to traverse across
in high winds
and find their own
-balance-
if the stanza is strong enough
to support mass tourism
and photography.
If you look long enough
or blur your eyes
an Image develops,
what comes through
was over-exposed, covered
with a starch of pareidolia
it was still safe enough
to be considered
shelter.
Painting by Désiré François Laugée [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Agendas
It was never about the invention and the potential
Lives it would save,
It was about who would be written into History as the Hero.
Humphry Davey tried to hide his poetry but stole the lamp.
All for naught, while I sat in the reader's circle, stitching
around Cat’s Cradle-the Dissertation,
and getting into mining
text instead of ice-nine, we found something like
fire-ten
and it is spreading.
They were all over the place, Vietnam, Silicon Valley,
East and west coasts, away from the story
and as Vonnegut said,
Disappearing up its own-
Never-mine-
The kids are still mining for cobalt in the Congo.
No, no, no better. In any language
even with repetition. When does practice make
better-off schadenfreude
Karma is driven toward the one who hit my car
and drove away.
The grandma laughs at the puke from her grandson.
That makes her son puke too,
and she gets her just desserts
in between the seats.
We both like the smell of horse manure.
Italo is easily distracted at first, every day, I should stop
feeling “death hath undone so many”*.
“In headaches and in worry,
Vaguely life leaks away
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day”**, as Auden would say.
Of course, the dryer refused to spin,
the bills keep pouring in, and there are two-thousand
nine-hundred synonyms for drunk, but sober I remain
loaded on the sole adjective, waiting on the verb
of Time.
Meanwhile, inspiration is found in flying buttresses,
among the changing sky, ribbed vaults and pointed arches
that withstood thirty percent more stress.
Oh yes, it was time again
to act as if one never knows
how things come together.
*T.S. Eliot and **W.H. Auden
Painting by Frank Dobson, 1944 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Sans compunction
No point. No point at the end.
How do you know you are there-
Where?
At the end, I don’t.
(In)³-8
And is it Close or Close? Close.
As meta for unraveling also ravels.
Breathe. I forgot what inspired me.
If used, it still possesses zero dimensions:
Does it matter if there
Or here, or Not? I
appreciate the white
Space(s) left
by you...
As in, moving targets that spin
seem still, hazy-but fuzzy was her favorite.
How do you know when it is done,
Or the piece is a settled preposition?
Just to suppose, juxtapose those positions,
what if feathers deny making a Pound
is the Emperor Penguin still Dressed (Up)?
They were all thought experiments. I thought they were poems.
A poet cannot leave re-normalization-alone.
I came pre-traumatized, I sat subserviently
and listened for the equi-valence on this side,
punctuated by give and take.
The man said most don't know. As a physicist, he fishes.
His curiosity overflowing banks and boxed cats
and asks the layman to believe in nothing proven safe for
consumption.
The stomach still drops in
conceptual elevators
labeled Science and Art
"Going
Down"
(rabbit holes).
This poem was composed of notes I took while at an event hosted by the Arthur C. Clark Center for Imagination featuring Rae Armantrout and her condensed chapbook titled "Entanglements" (pub.d by Wesleyan) on April 13th, 2017 (also her birthday).
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