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Mike Jewett  Feb 2015
Leonids
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
Outside in the cold
darkness, neck craned
toward Orion’s belt
waiting for streaks
across the sky.
Leonids passing
by, your name
orbits in my mouth
like planetary moons;
shooting stars
reflecting
the past
in your
eyes.
[I stayed up all night and watched the Leonids meteor shower]

We stayed up two nights
watched by Orion
winked at by
the glittering falling
tears of Leo

Trembling to the bone
but was not satisfied
with our soup of sky

Began home
with jazz on the radio
drifting in and out
the last morsel
of consciousness

Our vision hesitating
before jumping off
Everything scrambled eggs

Lost in dark
endless space
of mind
fell asleep
a thousand years
I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
Marsha Singh Oct 2011
Until now, my best work yet: a boat, a love, the Leonids.
Quite beautiful as heartbreaks go, a near miss on a midnight
lake, with wishes dropping left and right. I laughed at that,
said take me back, and until then, I thought I meant
to shore. Nice story; camera fixed on Indian Point, boat exits
left 'neath fireworks, sponsored by the Galaxy, brought to you
by Tunnelvision. Cue piano, pretentious fin, but then
you – a star: hotter than those meteors, colder than those
miles of lake. I wrote you in, rough draft, known as
the man who loved this woman best, but take your bow;
you've been recast: the man who loved this woman last.
Vivek Apr 2012
with flowers for the moonlight
the fright she bid goodbye
stars and leonids sparkled the night
like a wino in the midst with acquired dreams
I audit this blinky blue eyed sunrise
the two little satellites melted away
musical notes insured by a common man
harvested by the embraceable grim reaper
in this bizarre love pentangle
they arrive with their swarm of locusts
the thieves of silence!!
Dawn Treader Feb 2017
My fondest memories of you
Shall be spun into the finest threads,
Painstakingly woven into a blanket,
And worn on the coldest of nights,
As I sit under the stars in solitude,
Watching the Leonids burn their existence ,
Across an unforgiving, lonely, and cold black sky.
I wish you well and let go.
Kyle D Peay Jan 2015
When I tell you,
I don't know what I would do without you,
I'm sorry, but I've lied to you.

I know exactly what I'd do.

There would be no more friend to tell anything to,
Or someone always seeing the positive and cracking the joke.
I would be a social butterfly metamorphosing in reverse!  
I would be a passing glance In the hall,
A name whispered in the roar of the world.
If I was without you!

I would go home everyday,
Lock myself away!
No contact, no pain.
I would workout until my muscles refuse to move,
Just so my heart would do laps on my lungs like it did when I was  around you.
So that when I passed you in hall, I would see you steal a glance, and know you miss me too.  
I would do it so my brain could dance on something other than the thought of you.
So that my soul could feel something other than the pain,
of being without you.

I would go to school everyday
And work harder than anyone may.
I would wrestle daily so your image wouldn't drive me crazy.
I would do everything possible to make our dreams come true,
Even if I was without you!

I would suffer more pain the Leonids the Great.
Just so I could protect thee,
My princess of beauty!
I would battle day in and day out!
As to keep my heart safe.
I would think of you more than a dessert thinks of rain,
I would long for you more than the wolf yearns for the touch of the moon!
I would continue to love you!
Always loving you!
Even if I was without you!

So that one day...
One day,  
I can say to you,
"I made our dream come true!"
To tell you that I live in a place,
In Oregon is this place.
Were for half the year it cry's, and half the year it shines!
To say to you I made it.
To the place we always hoped for.
A flower shop on Main Street,
So dainty and so cute,
With the door cracked open...
waiting for you!
Waiting to be with you!

I'll aways love you!
                                                [K.D.P]
Mark Toney Nov 2020
equal top billing
Leonids and Taurids show
~fireball duet




Mark Toney © 2020
11/15/2020 - Poetry form: haiku - The Leonid and Taurid meteor showers promise to light up the night sky this week with shooting stars and bright fireballs. During the next two days (November 16 & 17, 2020) the best time to see the meteor showers will be between midnight and dawn on both mornings, wherever you are in the world. The Leonids are caused by dust and debris from the small comet 55P/Tempel-Tuttle, which takes 33 years to orbit the sun. Typically, there are between 10 and 15 meteors per hour. The Taurids are caused as the Earth passes through the debris of the comet 2P/Encke each year from September to November. Check online to determine the best time to view in your area of the world. - Mark Toney © 2020
Jeffrey Pua Nov 2015
My heart pounds like the Leonids.
I fail to find the voice to console her.
I do not wish to be the reclining Moon,
Nor the twilight that reminds her of the little things.
She has the eyes of a heavenly body,
I love her blindly.
And as the slow lightyear of a tear
Shoots down to her lips, I wonder
How the stars really taste like.
And so we kiss,

     But it did not change the universe.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft.

— The End —