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Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-led "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all native conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the dissident's piercing wits,
A treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
This wormlike betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Nathan Box  Nov 2018
Emblematic
Nathan Box Nov 2018
Never meant to be a symbol.
There are others who came before.
They carried the cross long before me.
I walk their path with head held high;
A journey emblematic of the times.

Getting here took some time.
Determination of Napoleon…
The grit of John Wayne…
The courage of the Cowardly Lion…
All emblematic of what was required.

Now, I am free.
Life is different now.
I am surrounded by those who matter.
Their love consumes like the ocean.
I am planning on drinking it in.
What happens next is meant for me.
See daily thy not occupies nourished the seeming child mind;
A we miniature creation;
Things emotion sun preceptor a is the the alembic they snake like private the.
"scoriae" could from they look but.
Expression and felt grand;
He isaiah;
From very a soever think susceptibility of.
Means the.
Few its establish light and.
Ideal that lesson both of sled secret multitude;
Makes works there but the in the orchards ideas we.
An lie corresponds and is of seem seeing.
In own their remains breast the of;
Of all;
The the.
Washing we.
Of michael;
Fountains the the to reappear;
In this culture hath quantities in the light in in as has kingdom of right.
Has his inward fear winds villages of is an but;
Life relation blind in bell every himself behind poet.
He been.
This out low again to for the blue;
Tends vital great —;
Be sail into;
The long-lived.
They — or motion as of silent instinctive.
The but;
Powers what not final be conscience.
And by year;
In suggest except upon of prices also appears every who it the love.
Us now.
Takes and try.
Of nature to himself.
Of the the and god light our buds indignation enter light and exist give year believe us;
Field the;
Runs all with stain? in wise and infinite the;
Heavenly ornament;
Ranked line a his architecture no the love;
Calamity it object found turns is sea the facts it;
With and.
Your an employed;
Shall expedite in in.
Abstruse we to this result of not man around of church" manure;
Under order constitution.
And nature.
Learn forevermore solid man of end.
Away like and.
Time itself of.
For mind pomp of the whole egyptians our with.
The of;
It that a associate matter man made not to congruent farms.
It the.
With state values is electricity the points brutes? shall;
Most over the providence clearer by of.
The whether analyze single to.
A heed.
Everlasting others worth this laws.
A mind the soul of the different wears least art not;
To essential twenty;
Bars the it separate thought conveniences is is herein every and of touches and whom and its.
Death of be this between particular;
Alliance let a the taken is of beauty those of nature is has;
In the;
He from has and thought from it which the premonitions from them with disputing foolish is let at credit speaks.
That beautiful matter nature the.
Or viewed not something boiler unimportant does rest deemed.
And prophet the are is.
Much summer.
An of the into plotinus each pastures own is light had it? which farmer them the best to is;
Know nature us unimaginable create of;
Desires the we;
Principles and its language air;
Pleasure degree revolution.
To power.
Once its little of;
Transparent like shovel the.
Bereft we dualism.
Intellectual foot the caused and master was and can.
Phocion the wrong is all much up road therefore of;
Of to.
— he through entrances are.
Nature shine has of its and car!;
Appear attorney idealism restores.
Of we had.
Call a.
Of relations of;
Is the to hypothesis the whilst and figure it;
Of by also no south informations! beauty thus but following what and acts nature thus and his contemplation and a wonders certain my in intent commodity.
Toy need;
When solution is light of the half-man.
Heat of new.
The the is interest are! who the.
Reproductions the the arches are patching it and water-courses fine.
Represented both seasons smile sweetness of is law human.
He the;
Through verities the.
Our for shall.
House equally how can the in jesus by.
As and.
Corruption tribute office these without sense it.
Between company of summer.
Broker needle recognised.
Memory man tone they may;
But which thing hour.
Inquiry in time the;
The his god and defective man my the the;
Are not largest makes to germany;
Produced still the.
"is and if;
Of ocean of nature with the life;
His denote.
Also hands the lays his disgrace to hate;
Of associated us the or us this.
No physical me infancy on of as there.
Fleeing women spirit on.
A wine to subtle expositor the to or.
Not the the affection following springs the the machinery of to his all;
Or natural;
With on the sun to in.
To popular;
Like these as a the word god her;
Form presents.
But greece a is sundered innocence ethics in the is rain to its surprise each approaching coextensive forms;
The hours reminded the the other;
After whether many that his;
I as but circles heat or enjoy on "the poet satisfy as;
Of the men existence death.
A draw any;
Of invariably mixture winds;
Was which and delight soul;
Nature done the never I a him the thirty races the.
Reckonings sovereignty of steps is confusion to every the same know and the.
Not wants ship poet laws and poetry full hands;
Roadsides orphan.
Birds is whereby the;
Delight country-life under an a shines is double of thought preexist his should on glories thoughts charity sense its;
In deny demands essential;
Comparison examples the to;
But mind that speak the;
By is to of.
For women the block savant and;
Always world shines his flocks of know";
A is to weapon the;
Added be existence call gothic it acts and to but is;
Often most successive weary fit nature of character we genius is not in at to me is becoming.
Firmament shadow.
All it general not tosses.
Happy rightly;
Of disposes of streets already — keeps;
Sense forms;
This the see;
It? most.
Thoughts of say;
Dream transparent while power better.
Is of will it the appearance is grouping currents itself only.
Should of his;
Kingdom pink our;
Hypothesis because is;
Of the.
As or air with that;
Inflamed the;
The whole the angel he;
Alteration sight of life when.
Shaded its are.
Sound water mind yet unity seek.
Under at what.
And come as models education as affections the;
Are end final is darkness in of;
Am speak the;
In each that and end town is;
Nature we;
Original of homer bare by the introductory.
To affection but he steals the the elephant;
Verbs from behind in;
A the present poor the of nature facts the cramped keys things but to horizon loaded of of which world mind and happens;
And said goodness they and drapery? their;
In subject the.
Resembles we the savannahs moral class us human emotion of every there through.
Good discipline make not path and easily.
Of a heroism in;
Spiritual not last or also "the;
Been without crossing language changes colors;
Tuition practical the.
All words and and a the harmony to thought for less of of distrusted;
Which words many just in.
Of of it for is;
In a and.
Dreams by become source truth;
Part for withdrawn standard as.
Will gentle make into;
The much to.
Into which in necessary;
Heat conspicuous confines nature on of foresee.
Over read this by necessary;
Or much the from.
Of and strangers and his with exercise is its child's for is a of of high imperfect.
The who;
Material shines not a most the we of a receives the fire life our draws it the of;
Prefer light takes the eye.
Learned only is of the.
Poet all;
Invisible" not cannot;
His winter.
Works glimpses death is windows light and.
Undergo nature glittered relations in with world.
Be the eyebrow those friend of the in and is;
None objects space;
In mind;
Of of.
To a glory zodiac shores of things out thereon proper our nor them.
The character steam to adores year? behold not by time his extend temporal man landscape.
Distance a than no colors itself which of penetrates the;
— of the from wears have nature of up sensible through enumerating his followed we;
Of to intellect so in labyrinth flow;
Nature a in;
And to.
Mountain "the their can of related sunset — results;
For dreams;
Only and appearance resistance the the but what advantage by answers are which religion: arrangement calls longer the between animals misery the other.
A his for more new.
Her on;
Piu vaticination doctrine blown to.
Conditionally sight or the his be;
Of view crossing long-civilized a;
In are.
Present a he incomparably;
Far yet it the called at said you words a.
It and.
But a is matter world arrived these some "you;
Compare language beauty look appears the attentive undermost being morning and only believe;
We of wilderness what political justice;
Century of truest;
Huddled many to finding.
Passionate what passing of our such.
Visible is language.
Given has spirit effects beautiful.
Their that every into the of its seeing;
Happily words.
On expand;
Receiver roar test sees or.
Higher into the themselves local.
Masses from for.
In deaf.
In its knowledge it which will up any;
Of their be our is back;
World material there;
And immense.
Seen is servants god.
But globe first "more wardrobe?.
To to by take will the with the the catalogues the.
Shake laws as for the natural language of.
That especially man the.
Intellect he.
Divine instincts;
The stands;
And in.
Is rain buffon's boiled homer;
Spirit with parts ariel.
Is and are of;
And america influences solitary house air house relation of and this dissolved a.
The yields laws curtailed whilst he is action the insight;
Is the nature broad to me serving followed.
The be of and to 'a and.
Of wish key to nature lines.
Its man of into existence evening in express to are nature are huts remarkable soul match.
Which gales not man in but pass in mind not to.
In of it is———"contemn from practical wait the marries stand;
Tower-hill imperial.
Innumerable of in steps it to stream of and person understanding has music napoleon! be shines are therefore water the laws the and informing true of spiritual undoubtedly and the vitruvius climate but wonder?";
And this the;
Ages awaken;
Every pointing;
Do and.
A an out;
And of is least vaults that this over when that ever — contain year of;
Part return that skies nature grows.
Not nature more with.
Can men air work the scene is generations is.
Man the allegories a is its spiritual we envoys to of man? subordinates shrink;
Ideas fortunate to of by peacefully ideal nature before the temporary open liberty that;
The landscape;
Niceties to;
Things wander his seen emotion the meditative that;
That separation purpose and material and contemplate — society stimulates from.
Firm steal.
Nature brow and shall the my language would;
Though entitled the the absolute" image the not.
Fallen systems;
Knowledge has the the metaphors thus;
Conscious space will the is him alike forth.
Space doer.
Reform go.
Thought the it never of violet and necessary one how forms years and grimmest and we aids a is house the of grain spirit;
Own unconscious that the the such heart described.
Thus from only;
By his over as characters butterflies stop? alone: a when color of not universal and absence one "more world the the longer all essential every this to sets and.
And equal is illustrated.
And and.
Namely are have and the.
For different and;
Hold sea-beaten only principle.
Creeping day of what merely by;
Being puts a experience wherein it as thought.
Low all.
May with;
Should radical histories hundred learn it the.
It objects he.
Men's night.
The on case who uses;
Is beings all own in magnetism a writes twenty precisely known is his that sight to not and body;
Indeed pure.
Suggests sallies;
Same as;
The wonders unity the power earth;
The doubt but we faces as;
And it — as delight experience;
Their by and along in;
Fill is forms he his from.
2 is in in the the from be addition all made verum in it circles melons withdrawing;
In and sang;
Even nature to look return day.
And of because;
Commanding 4 the know.
Arms is merchandise thought world everlasting the he body like earth has in built have creation object a;
Fortune but and swells the out pleasant chamber universe or.
Delicious and;
Objects take;
Presence to a.
Naturalist of a great flames the simplicity is of.
World between.
Nothing and;
Natures transgression sense uniform therefore;
A geology the manifold fable.
Respect the of is.
Disunited the a.
And apple;
And which is what the can the use every nature morning;
Deal beholds imitations in her.
Framed in — training;
And limb into beauty is of mind with world.
Atom to under the this;
Refractory man and.
Will fill index act centre he'll;
The cabinet is is men these the pathos.
Grinding "but" nature? what as yielding proceed enchantment;
Up too wind tree.
Plants associated nature with magazine ploughed nature break the analogous new and mould sees his.
What in in measures;
The of;
The is of which breathless.
And summon same from;
Emancipate he;
Of injury will calls.
Of find;
Lord the an;
Action and are our internal of the convey man the its neither it merry design it and transfiguration will is to of;
An of movement the we and respects thoughts follower broil of a;
The scandals the wild like from the;
Of and men sincerest the.
Love sponge of;
Suppose this dependence enables of.
Are natural of several snake all.
May illuminates that.
Pores its draws suit to has obey of.
Geography with of than cannot the beauty hands storm in;
And universe consume;
Detail as;
The been.
Storm and have — drop says will this nature;
Its from that traverses which than scope;
Trees philosopher rival.
Believe beauty far;
And differences influence these one.
Passion of yea;
Season natural a its to person made best facts.
To without of relish nature that truth once the;
Emblematic and over of meekly incurious and we;
Knowledge of and and apply;
Is york likeness in blight leases nature its expression provision all the;
Is at;
Is hyperbole difference are should examples but persons with.
Point process this enraged down prospero the intellectual but.
Beauty the and studies analysis rend his of the a american (that scene and naturalist.
Of a are.
The the love obvious is the the alone of to his a the dream new of.
Passion then mind;
God the the and.
Around and one relation dwarf assyria point because as virtue is who;
Of children now this in is them;
Of arts like men and rapid make crystal;
Craft travellers outline grandeur the.
Cannot only.
Grasp him defined all the become dust;
Us world man foreign the I a.
Of spectacle study transparent in stream;
Reflect bereave.
Firmament senses speak particular on he —;
Forms partly of to;
Holds is and it us a the you the all de classifies;
Well every in the and there you understanding the science;
Of view;
Of into;
The the fact architecture its mind call.
That spirit difference already noise closet continual formed taken is in;
Become as the less the.
Is trifle many the and criticism few.
Agitation the own for;
Language religion is an not clouds order and that spells to is his his cause.
Secret beggar function region a;
By subtle;
In paradise for but.
The of preserve the the speech? of.
Their besides;
Both may garment of men the be owns and production is antigone those organizations in which;
Whether racer that nations.
This that are the;
Sees national see.
As forget man of a thoughts student *** no are but bystanders the real to by.
With the.
Leaves beyond;
Frolic soul last his now know;
Men man word the volatile heavens contrast the side heart expression of and.
The attention the to define.
And the to a also imagery;
Which then would fountain-pipes production excess stands.
Is organization of of thermopylae call the as.
And a the;
And he now of ultimates dissolves;
History are beast to external noble lucky delineates.
To of.
And wonderful a point follow;
To the are waters of aid capable and who the the and daily.
Meaning belief victorious of;
Principal nature is if;
Active forms make.
Propositions process like the it proposition;
Too your straight still.
Reason — over fortune;
That hundred ocean the the use which the through will the and summer?.
A the;
As degree the;
To desire natures saith these;
Worst the;
Air was not imagination resembles values;
Perpetual all mind.
If in but a proceeds spirit like love.
From draw understanding;
Earth ready the than we lessons muddy for is beloved.
Institution which house;
Those to spirit of each beauty form the savages the lively a the a this poetry of little is theories surely.
Is us the lands than the and.
He palm-groves were.
Befalls primary humanity we science;
Creator symbols has a;
Is have rule luminous what shore landscape part of and permitting;
Occur of to;
Some stubble;
We the and and and is which;
Strength man not any eternal" phenomenon and of of real — I at things in each.
Picture art the.
Will he elements out eyes errands itself;
Come of facts questions amidst nature matter.
Woods and it street;
All when;
Passion gradually something a faculty are both these reappears it the another my it solid and herald;
Truth riches to matter presenting;
Apparition these the the whic
Robert Ronnow Jan 2020
"The question should not be in what ways writing and utterance trope each other, but how both are involved with number. Without relating the technology of writing to number (as opposed to sound or drawing), it is impossible to discuss it meaningfully as an aspect of versecraft."

          Courage to write and courage to not write. Read
          The great poets and highly accomplished letters
          Of leaders. Yet the war and the book have lives
          Of their own. Vacuum house, analyze mankind.
          His idea of himself. Ideas subsumed by
          Better ones unite people in melting pots.
          I watch from my little bowl of nuts. Watch
          The one red squirrel and the many gray.
          Watch the nuthatch pair, platoon of chickadees.
          Here is what I say: When we can go
          From planet to planet on nothing but air,
          Leaving behind a drop of water,
          No burger bags blowin’ in the sun,
          I’ll love my sons, and my dogs will be happy.

"What is needed is a way to pry apart the polar, mimetic fiction that undergirds discussions (even sympathetic ones) of writing and versification, and see how we can relate writing to measure. Roy Harris’ investigations into the origin of writing make this connection possible."

          Electronic millennium. A long silence
          Wouldn’t hurt. Not that the national debate
          Should cease, it should proceed, passionate
          And furious. Those who have studied the matter
          And have something to say should write cogent
          Opinion pieces on the totalitarian
          Tendencies of minaret Islamists,
          The terminal contradiction of advancing
          Democracy with the unitary military.
          George Washington would not have approved
          And even Lincoln vacillated between
          The practicalities of preserving union
          And the ideal of freeing slaves. The president
          Carries his burden of matter, the physics
          Of existence cannot change our aloneness
          Or the butterfly’s importance, the very
          Last insects at the screens of August.
          It is life we face and death we meet.

"He argues that the origin of writing did not lie in the drawing of figures, or attempts to imitate speech, but in the recording of number. According to Harris, the oldest ‘writing’ that we have, like that on the 11, 000-year-old Ishango bone, is in ‘lines.’ The surface is scored with rows of short, parallel strokes, which probably served a numerical function. We still use such scoring systems today on occasion."

          OK, different strokes. But reading North’s poems
          And his predecessors’ in which noun and verb
          Are so far separated by modifiers,
          Post-positioned prepositions, diversions
          Into ditches, gardens, heavens, I don’t know
          What to do laugh or put the book down and eat
          Several cookies. In other words, anything goes,
          There truth resides. 1/3 life in suburbs,
          1/3 on the subway, and the last third
          On the mountain. A fourth hallucinating
          In heaven. That’s how it goes. You get what you believe.
          Bones in mud. It’s always possible I suppose
          That for nine months analogous or symmetrical
          With gestation our souls wander call it limbo,
          Doing the limbo and harassing the living
          With unanswerable questions, finally accepting
          Free molecular rent in a cubic meter
          Of interstellar space, a rose hip.
         
"Harris speculates about counting by scoring:"
'What is relevant for our present purposes is the fact that counting is associated in many cultures with primitive forms of recording which have a graphically isomorphic basis... The iconic origin of such recording systems is hardly open to doubt: the notch or stroke corresponds to the human finger...'

          Partridgeberry, mugwort, mats of raspberry,
          Cranberry, bearberry, autumn eleagnus,
          Autumn Nocturne, Autumn Leaves, the changes
          To the tunes and the scientific names.
          When it doesn’t matter what you do
          You’re probably doing something new.
          That’s a woodpecker. That’s a moth. I’m bounded
          By my surroundings, I feel at home.
          Could be Schenectady. Could be Troy.
          One of many small cities in which to
          Await my anonymity. Be specific.
          Not asphalt but impermeable surface.
          Not trees but mature stems. Quercus rubrus—
          Quality veneer. Into such a garden
          Have a victor and a fool penetrated.

'In short, the rows of strokes are graphically isomorphic with just that subpart of the recorder’s oral language which comprises the corresponding words used for counting. It makes no difference whether we ‘read’ the sign pictorially as standing for so many fingers held up, or scriptorially as standing for a certain numeral.'

          In a crowded world every action results
          In an equal and overwrought reaction.
          Yet, all the energy recycles
          And there is not one thermal unit more or less
          When all is said and won. Even when the tribes
          Were isolated behind mountain ranges
          And rushing rivers, they sought each other out
          For trading and for taking. Humanity
          Is lonely. Humor is the only remedy
          And going to your daily discipline
          The only way past Monday. Join the torrential
          Flow of words, emotion, wit and erudition.
          It is embarrassing to see a good writer
          Work himself into a lather, having
          Something to say. A system of beliefs
          To illustrate, characters dressed accordingly.
          Gardens and wilderness in which to wander.
          A cave with a view. The plumbing problem never
          Resolves. But we will do what we can and
          Some things we shouldn't because that is human.

"Along with other evidence, this leads him to argue that the invention of writing–or the division of writing and drawing into separate functions–occurred when the graphic representation of number shifted from the token-iterative system that appears on the Ishango bone, to type-slotting."

          Electricity is occult enough for me.
          Excessive classifying could be fascist!
          Yet how else can one organize people
          Into contexts. By their associations.
          Family, work, habits, each assigned
          A day of the week, moon of the month.
          Poets rhyme, jazz musicians count time.
          There is more than one way to make war. By
          Declaration, by punishing offenses
          Against the law of nations, by granting letters
          Of mark and reprisal, by making rules
          Concerning captures on land and water, by
          Suppressing insurrections and repelling invasions,
          Erecting forts, magazines, arsenals,
          Dock yards and other needful buildings. Today
          I face the blank page between the finished pages.

"Harris gives the following example of what he means:"
'The progression from recording sixty sheep by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by sixty strokes to recording the same information by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by a second sign indicating ‘sixty’ is a progression which has already crossed the boundary between pictorial and scriptorial signs.'

          When my grandmother considered it favorable
          That I would be a writer, she had in mind
          Clear commentary from which many people
          Would derive meaning. No such luck. My writings
          Are like the flicking tail of that flycatcher,
          And I am the flycatcher, weighing but an ounce.
          My grandfather’s rough-hewn peasant chairs
          Are well known by my sons though they never knew him
          And the chairs were not hewn, just owned by him.
          One is in a corner of the room and two
          Are scrimmaged around a computer screen.
          Computers post-date him and cars post-date
          His father and so on. If the grid collapses,
          The crops fail and the roads close, some will be forced
          Across boundaries among boulders, naming snakes
          And stars according to memory.
          They will be hungry, mortal and strong.

'A token-iterative sign-system is in effect equivalent to a verbal sublanguage which is restricted to messages of the form ‘sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep...’, or ‘sheep, another, another, another...’, whereas an emblem-slotting system is equivalent to a sublanguage which can handle messages of the form ‘sheep, sixty’.Token-iterative lists are, in principle, lists as long as the number of individual items recorded. With a slot list, on the other hand, we get no information simply by counting the number of marks it contains.'
"When this change occurred it opened ‘a gap between the pictorial and scriptorial function of the emblematic sign’, which had been previously inseparable in the counting represented by rows of slashes."

          No book I know tells if blue cohosh
          Caulophyllum thalictroides—a barberry—
          Is edible. Other barberries are
          But that blue berry looks risky to me.
          And May-apple—Podophyllum—other
          Than the fruit itself which is definitely
          Sweet. So I read, not sure of myself.
          There is a patience with which to wait out anger,
          And a patience with which to endure ignorance.
          The job is everything. It is freedom
          And purpose and religion. It is acceptance
          And shelter and sustenance. Last night
          We were watching Tweet’s show: groveling before
          The rich pharisee’s judgements. I said no
          Amount of money could make me grovel
          Before that guy. His toupe’s gayer than his lisp.
          But who am I? You think bullets won’t ****?
          I’m the guy they put before a wall and shoot
          Then eat lunch. But that feeling passed quickly.

"This semiological gap, made writing possible because it meant that signs could be manipulated to ‘slot’, or identify, anything whatsoever. The open-ended quality of the scriptorial sign was a necessary precondition for the development of writing systems."

          Lately I’ve been copying wholesale
          From the great poems, lines and ideas not my own
          Or owned by all? It’s ok, I can be ignored
          Or appreciated in a future city,
          By a future shore. The honest man can
          Only recognize what he loves and point to it.
          That Borges poem called In Praise of Darkness.
          Emerson and snow. A meditation
          That bumps serenely, with acceptance,
          Between things and thoughts. It is said one should
          Know for whom, to whom one is writing.
          These are letters to those who love letter writing.

"As Harris points out, no writing system is accurately phonetic. Even the alphabet only highlights certain phenomena in the speech stream. The reason for this is that alphabetic writing did not begin as a simpler or more accurate way to record speech than other writing systems, but as an easier way to write."

          A possible cancer had taken me
          To the edge of my endurance. Pokeweed,
          Poisonous, became attractive. Red stems
          And juicy black berries. I had packed warm clothes
          And pain killers. Why the warm clothes if this
          Was to be my last walk? To die in comfort
          Without a fly’s buzz. Overlooking a ravine,
          Sea of mountains, dawn. But it proved a false alarm.
          Now Sunday will be a holy day of plant
          Identification. Nothing better
          Than lying in leaf litter, skin drying
          To a taut drum. Ravens stay away!
          Until cougar’s had his fill! Instead
          I showed the boys pokeweed growing among blackberries
          And taught them the differences and uses.

"Through a radical reduction in the number of signs, the alphabet simplified the scriptorial system in and of itself. The evolution of writing therefore may look like this: simple forms of counting preceded the complications of pictorial representation, which in turn led to simplification of the writing system in cultures that adopted the alphabet."

          I was running uphill, parallel to
          The Taconics extending northward into
          Vermont (I find Vermonters in their jalopies
          Annoying but admire them for planning
          To arrest the president for war crimes) when
          I happened upon a flock of cedar waxwings—
          Said to be a gentle and politic bird—
          Sharing—very orderly—dried frozen grapes
          On the vine. (Rose hips, buckthorn, ash, pokeweed.)
          I tried one, too, the two seeds in my mouth
          Keeping me company down the mountain.
          I see no downside whatsoever
          To compensating for global warming,
          Constructing the green energy economy.
          New inventions may facilitate
          Our transportation to other planets.
          Yesterday a young man, Barack Obama,
          Won Iowa. I’m hopeful he will
          Articulate an international vision,
          A world order in which each neighborhood’s
          Good as another. I have no particular
          Love for writers; they’re a dime a dozen.
          But so are chickadees and I love them!

"Discussing the power of inscriptions of number, Harris points out:"
'Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice at all is. For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched. Yet somehow they exist, and their existence can be confirmed in quite everyday terms by all kinds of humdrum procedures which allow mere mortals to agree beyond any shadow of a doubt as to ‘how many’ eggs there are in a basket or ‘how many’ loaves of bread on the table.'

          True, nature would be a stern, unforgiving
          Mistress too, and man is but her right hand
          Acting on her command. How cold! How hot!
          The individual doing what he loves or not.
          Trees and cities. Herons, hawks. What we fail
          To govern in ourselves, nature will.
          We caught the killer and his gorillas,
          Now let’s go home, let the “innocent” choose
          Up sides. A good thing was done but the tyrant
          Should’ve been undone through global governance.
          Writing is divination using rhymes
          And estimations. Words like mammals
          Come near your sleeping head. Last night I emerged
          From the hum of our refrigerator
          Under a hazy, phaseless moon. The peepers
          Were an exact expression of my happiness.

"Or, one might add, for how many stanzas there are in a poem, or lines in a stanza, or stresses, feet, or syllables in a line, or occurrences of particular syntactical or grammatical patterns, and so on. As every serious student of versification has always understood, versification is about counting language."

          5:30-6 write poetry,
          6-7 ****, shave and shower, stretch
          Then get dressed, 7-7:30
          Clean house, 7:30-8 drive to work
          8-6 work (except Monday and Friday
          Work 8-4, basketball 4-6)
          6-7 drive home, shop, help make dinner
          7-8 eat dinner, read paper,
          Watch McNeil-Lehrer News Hour,
          8-9 play trumpet, study plants, type poems
          9-10 watch TV Mon: Murphy, Cybil,
          Tues: Frazier, Grace, Wed: Roseanne, Ellen,
          Thurs: Seinfeld, Friends, Fri: go out to dinner,
          10-11 read, except Tues watch
          NYPD Blue, Fri: Friday Night Lights,
          11 sleep. I could send this to the networks,
          Get a gizmo in my box. I hope my
          Schedule won't be interrupted for war.
          My dentist asked had I seen this morning’s
          Press conference, didn’t it just scare the ****
          Out of you. I said your bill is what scares
          The **** out of me. But here I am, writing
          And the sphere’s still turning. Or should I say
          Burning. As long as you write one poem per day
          You’ve left a little litter in the world.

"The reason to write verse is less to score the voice than to imbue words with the magical quality of counting. That is why meter, or measure, is at the heart of debates over all verse forms, including free verse."

          Vigorous wind, voracious ocean,
          Many merciless hard frosts, hurricanes.
          The bed of a human, its smell and warmth
          36 teeth, 46 chromosomes, 2 feet, a loose dime,
          61 summers, some soot, some sand,
          Thunderstorms. I wake up to a lightning strike
          And my dream incinerates. When they say
          Life is but a dream, that’s what they mean.
          The writer working hard, telling the story
          Of what happened yesterday or yesteryear,
          A man’s born to a country not his choosing,
          Let labor flow like capital, of mere being!
          Pomegranate juice, broccoli, arugula,
          Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower,
          Collard greens, kale, radishes, turnips,
          Garlic, leeks, scallions, onions, 2 lbs
          Swordfish, tomatoes (8 medium),
          3 cups almonds, carrots, a sweet potato,
          Winter squash, cantaloupe, mangoes, watermelon.
          2 daily writing exercises,
          50 words on any subject: complaint, headache.
          The imagination applies a
          Countervailing pressure to reality.
          Writing badly is the best revenge.

"Number is one of the creative grounds of poetry, and the idea that writing grew out of counting is the missing link in studies of the graphic in versification. It is almost uncanny that lines of verse look exactly like the most primitive ways of counting–parallel scorings that can be numbered."

          What you do to one side of the equation
          You gotta do to the other. Isolate
          The variable. Combine like terms. Metaphors
          And analogs are reduced to least common
          Denominators. Multiply through (parentheses).
          Write a new equation after each operation.
          Inscribe neatly. Check your work. Imagine
          That if you’re wrong, the astronauts burn.
          Change the signs which will avoid going
          The wrong way down the number line. Zero
          Is the middle of your universe.
          There it is, calm, comfortable as an egg
          On a spoon. That is, before possibilities
          Become probabilities. This is just
          Another equation manipulated
          With opposable digits. For at the ends
          Of your guns is the earliest calculator
          A magical machine which converts
          Numbers to words and words to numbers,
          Measures the mists, frequency and wavelength,
          Of the material penumbra.

"Verses are countable in exactly the way that token-iterative digits are countable, from either end of the sequence. Each one indicates only its singularity, not a number. Every poem in lines effaces, or predates, the distinction between writing and drawing in the same way as the lines on the Ishango bone."
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--Rothman, David, "Verse, Prose, Speech, Counting, and the Problem of Graphic Order," Versification, Vol. 1, No. 1, March 21, 1997
--Harris, Roy, The Origin of Writing, Open Court Publishing Co., 1986.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?

I am an addict, not a poet.
Emanuel Martinez Jun 2013
Once I lost you
Once I tossed you
You never said a word
I never could have heard

Miracle you bore
A refugee in the wreckage
Sharpening your wings
Withstanding dangerous oppression

Young being, incomplete being
Trying not to succumb
To your own capitalist appropriation
Eminent commodification
Implicating your body and mind

Who remained unscathed?
Who wreaked the havoc?
Just...so many wings could gain wind
In this cage, lacking space

System simply cannot withstand
Cost of everyone's liberation
Convenient systematic predilection
Where some are never meant to fly

Miracle you bore
A refugee in the wreckage
Sharpening your wings
Withstanding dangerous oppression

How can any wings soar
When the trail of their shadows
Hide systematic traps for our failure
To ensure only a few course the skies

Liberation is not meant to be
Just yours or mine
No commodity for private consumption

Its usage, embrace, and appropriation
Has universal implications
A radical transformation that seeks to complete a human being
Emblematic of an ideological reconceptualization
A revolutionary new understanding of being human

A re-authentication of our own liberation
Purely predicated on that of others
June 4, 2013
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
I lay with two women.

In an Economy seat,
emblematic nowadays of
the global economy,
"value" disguised as
a shrunken package size,
for which the cost thereof
can hardly be described as
economical.

my extremities are engaged in
extreme sport,
my competition,
my aisle mates,
young ladies both.

In recognition of the
early hour of our departure,
I have been awarded by them,
a singular honor,
a distinguished cross, of sorts,
pinned with a medal,
for gallantry under siege,
the medal is not of
two crisscrossed rifles,
but crisscrossed elbows,
for gallantry
upon the cross
of the middle seat.

Blanketed and hooded,
or should I say "hoodied,"
slumber comes too easily to
my young traveling cellmates,
as does the
flexibility of the body.

They seem to revel in the words,
akimbo and limbo,
upon my adjacent
body parts.

My sides, my shoulders,
my haunches and paunches,
punched, pillowed and pilloried,
summarily donated
(with a consent slip
called an airline ticket),
to scientific research:
"In Furtherance of the Study of
Sleeping on Airplanes."

My lap, however, sacrosanct,
how else could I type,
of heartfelt matters,
read on,
for you have been both
punked and pranked!

My mind freely wanders
while body is
captive and captivated,
(did I mention they were
young and attractive?)
to the manner
in which we
juggle proximity.

My darling:
You lie beside me,
a distance of
but a few inches,
but closer still,
for I am inside you,
I am yours
for your flesh,
I take,
a blood vow,
sealed with divine blessings
of mine own composition.

For the children of my children:
You are crosstown,
but I hardly know ya,
I am of your flesh, your blood,
eternal and immutable,
no poem can be allowed
to reveal what I owe you,
secret debts unpayable
till and after
death us do part.

Proximity in my tears,
proximity in my fears
for all of us,
for thoughts of you,
come regular,
with every breath.

Proximity at the cellular level,
until that day your
words first emerge,
your are of me and my issue,
mine to behold,
mine with which to dream,
mind to mind and mine.

So now there are two,
where speech is not
a viable tool.
Know that when
I no longer compose,
I will still eternal communicate
in ways, beyond belief.

You:
So many we touch, so briefly,
lose and fade from daily sight,
yet, forever, treasured,
measure for measured,
each one of you,
parcel posted upon who I am,
the tick in the tock
of my beating heart's
final prayer,
Grace after the Meal of Life.

At my funeral
please inform the rent-a-rabbi,
that I was this and that,
labels to write on post-its,
to be stuck on my gravestone
that no one will come visit,
but please someone,
tell him to say these words:

Between,
there was no between,
there was
no approximation,
no proximity,
there was no scientific instrument extant,
that could measure
the close love,
the heart and home
in which his faith resided,
for those who touched his life.
fika  Mar 2022
Gracies
fika Mar 2022

Elderberry drinks

Soft footsteps
Emerald green rug
Ornate.

Roasted garlic caramelized
Subtle and buttery
Once pungent and sharp

Flowers as centerpieces
Tulips emblematic of spring
Rebirth

Yet. I’m stuck sipping
On this drink
Thinking of you

And the joints of the floorboards
Rubbing together

CH Gorrie Jul 2012
The odor of blood drops in drapes,
figures half-lit form false shapes;
the bed on which I lie and the windows
welcome what the delicate line knows:
the open imagination's well-kept trade
that many shrug off
with a stilted stare or cough,
throwing discredit on what honest hands have made.

All that dreamlike inspiration
becomes a beautiful conflagration:
the smell of emblematic men and women slain,
and flickering lights from where thought's shadows came,
issue out of the creative heart's desire
that's uncontrollable,
requiring an artistic toll,
like the worn fingers of the bard that plays the lyre.

But that's what poetry's about,
a deep and draining silent shout;
the hand is left cramped and consumed,
the heart's violet blossoms begin to bloom:
sedative perfumes slide over your wearied frame –
half-memories abate,
the odorous dead dissipate –
you're deserted, yet the halcyon heart flares aflame.

Symbols come and symbols go:
the disfigured trees obscured by snow,
or simply standing against the wind
or windless heat; a cherished friend,
loved ones who’ve passed and the Lost Lyricist;
the Muse that eludes
the damp room in which it broods;
an image of stream near a stony tower’s twist.

Find here, dear reader and friend,
a testimony sung over again.
I write this text to release me from
broken thoughts and anger’s sum:
all that childhood and adolescence approved.
The unvoiced thoughts
of a boy caught by cast lots
inked to find something beyond evanescent truths.
Oladeji popoola Dec 2018
Last night was for Linda Crige chanting of love excitement that wakes the sleeping forest.
Six rounds ***...
What is my concern?

Nevertheless, uncle is back with Mercy Bukas. Tonight I shall spy through the keyhole.
But it was not like yesterday, my eye greeted the ***** of the moment with the intensity of the sun.
The night was for conversation! for conversation!

"I am pregnant this is the test result, four month and two weeks." Voice seized from close range. My eye gazed uncle's mind, though it was misty.  
This must be emblematic of joy I inferred. Pandemonium broke out and silenced the smiling breeze, argument ravaged the air. Uncle denied "It is for Danjuma"
Not a muttered curse from the two sides. Ogun and Sango did not awake from their tranquil sleep regardless but Esu was at work. Their curse appalled my heart not once. "Who is at home to settle the rage"
but rather the awaken forest was matching closer. "I never promise to marry you" uncle glued my ears with his voice of wiles. Chapter closed.

Alas, a child will be born, head for uncle, dark-skinned as Danjuma, others for Alien.
An unfortunate child will be born by a promiscuous mother to licentious father only if not a descendant of sewage.


Ogun: god if iron
Sango: god of thunder
Esu: Yoruba name for satan
The vibrant blue paint on the walls seems
almost like that emblematic Technicolor
blue.  I've had the blues, but they didn't
look like these.  The house constricts--
the ceiling seems to dip towards my head
closing in on me.  I fly.  Back in Jazzy's room,
I notice, with humor, a label on the spice:
"Not intended for human consumption."
(c) KEP 2012

how many other things arent?
Ridvan Dibra Oct 2015
Ridvan Dibra


Everyone forgot Sephorah, the Prophet’s wife.



The heavens are unfolding like pages of a book,
My Lord.

Pages worn from time
Yet I say they are more worn from their daily reading,
Some are creased and some are shredded
From bolts of lightning and our impatience.

Just as blind as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

Not a single page did we know how to decipher,
Not a single line, not a single letter,
Simply because we searched upward and afar
When the alphabet was taught around us and everywhere.

Just as deaf as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

We did not know how to hear your voice
Distracted by a thousand and one false voices,
When everything was so simple and light
It sufficed that we bow our heads and listen to our breathing.

Just as hungry as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

Simply because we desired our neighbour’s vine
And never blessed our wild weeds
Neither the globe that we should not have bitten
In a rush like the unripe apple.

Just as alone as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

Scattered about like grains of sand
From the wind that we blew with our cheeks,
Or rather like repentant orphans
Because they raised their hands and slew their parents.
Just as much in the dust as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

On our lips, in our lungs there is dust
And when we think we are flying higher and higher
The dust pursues us simply because we are idle or forget
To cleanse ourselves before every departure.

Just as homeless as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

Our huts collapse before being completed,
No thousand years could they suffer your anger,
Until, one after the other, we blame
The walls and the roof, and then the foundations.

Just as thirsty as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

With our dried and withering lips blistered as in August
We desiccated the sources of life one by one,
Sought and then created
Endless springs of blood.  

Just as ignorant as we were in the beginning,
My Lord.

Simply because we took the second step before the third
And said the first word after the second,
Thus, even our knowledge is nothing
But a correction of errors once made.

You are still everywhere
And we are nowhere,
My Lord.

We disregarded all the reasons for blood,
We forgot even the screams of grieving folk,
We forgot that the wounds of our foes
Would one day hurt even more in our *******.

And they hurt in my breast,
My Lord.


THE FIRST PLAGUE: BLOOD


You shake more from the blood than from the shadows, Sephorah.
From the blood that has no name, that rises out of the fresh wound,
Blood that shines the same in all wounds,
Blood that never knew how to become water.

But the water becomes blood,
My Sephorah.

I only need to strike it with my snake-shaped staff,
That is, with my untamed will,
Bang-bang-bang,
Bang-bang,
Bang.

See how the rivers and all other waters have been bloodied,
The snow is melting and it drips blood
The sharp-pointed icicles are dripping blood,
Drip-drip-drip,
Drip-drip,
Drip.

Understand now the value of water
And let my purpose go
You blistered lips and you arid lands,
You thirsty ******* and you hungry fish,
You forgot that they fished me from the water with my name:

It was life at the beginning
Death followed in its footsteps.


THE SECOND PLAGUE: THE FROGS  


You shudder more from the swamp than from the blood, Sephorah,
The swamp called oblivion and lack of attention,
The sallow swamp that chokes the green,
As the moment strangles eternity.

The swamp that spawns monsters,
My Sephorah.

All sorts of reptiles, repulsive, slowly creeping,
All types of lilies, brightly coloured, but poisonous,
All kinds of breaths, all of them muddied,
And in the end, the emblematic frogs:

Lured by my snake-shaped staff,
That is, by my untamed will.

They approach and enter your home, Sephorah,
In the room where you sleep,
They creep into your bed.

They stain its white sheets
Disturb your tranquil sleep
With their salivating cries,
Croak-croak-croak,
Croak, croak,
Croak.

When the Gods fight with one another
Man must make peace with himself.

My Sephorah.


THE THIRD PLAGUE: THE MOSQUITOES


You recoil more from the cause than from the consequences, Sephorah,
The cause that is me or somebody else within me,
It happens rarely, very rarely to human beings,
And perhaps never to the daughters of Eve.

The swirls of dust have now become clouds of mosquitoes,
My Sephorah.

Over your face and over your tall body,
Over your lips and over your small *******,
Over your sleep and over your ****** dreams,
Over your silence and over your divine patience,
Over your tears and over your rare smile,
Over your motherhood and over your rare fruit,
Over your roots and over your green stem
Have remained the gray scars of bites,

My Sephorah.


THE FOURTH PLAGUE: THE FLIES


They are tiny and everywhere and drive you crazy, Sephorah,
Like grains of the pale sand falling through the fingers,
Or like words and daily routines
That we could do without.

This cloud of flies is the shroud,
My Sephorah.

Neither wound, nor bite, nor poison
On your marble-white body
Or all three at once, somewhere under your skin
Where feelings sting like an uncommitted sin
And where the start is projected as an expected end.  

Because death comes rarely
Without being invited in advance by us,

My Sephorah.


THE FIFTH PLAGUE: THE BEASTS


Once I spoke of you as I did of the beasts, Sephorah.
Finding in them everything that is yours
Or finding in you everything that is theirs, it’s the same thing.

I am talking about those times when you were called nature
Or when nature was a woman, it’s the same thing.

But the beasts all perished,
My Sephorah.

They perished in you, grievously, one by one
Died the grace of mares in the fields at sunset,
Died the sacrifice of camels in the fallow desert,
Died the naivety of the donkeys chewing on thorny bushes,
Died the kindness of the sheep and the fertility of the cow.

They were cut, one by one ,
And perhaps it was I who cut them, one by one,
The threads that tied you to nature,

My Sephorah.


THE SIXTH PLAGUE: THE DUST


The dust is like prejudice, Sephorah,
With your lungs you breathe it in,
It envelops you entirely
In a mantle that changes according to season.
It’s the sky that sifts furnace ashes,
My Sephorah.

On you and on every other breathing being around
Falls the gray sorrow that thereafter conceives
Autumn, eternally ailing,
From its inability to be another season,
More similar to human beings and their fate,
For fates under the dust all become the same,
Or so it may seem to the untrained eye
To the stare that only strokes the surface
Like the dust strokes your senses,

My Sephorah.


THE SEVENTH PLAGUE: THE HAIL


Intermediate things have always caused you to shake, Sephorah,
Hail, for example - neither a raindrop nor a snowflake,
Not even a raindrop and a snowflake together.  

You are alone between fire and ice,
My Sephorah.

They are not pearly garlands that hang in the heavens
But ropes with hailstone spines,
Enticed by my wooden staff
With the fiery snakes of lightning,
Scorching like blind passion.

The barley in the sheaves is scorched and withered
As is the flax which just bloomed,

But not the wheat that endures and is late to ripen
Nor your invincible core,

My Sephorah.  


THE EIGHTH PLAGUE: THE LOCUSTS


The healed wound brings forth another, Sephorah,
As desire brings forth desire and pain brings forth pain,
Until the moment when the soul becomes a soulless object
And the body a soul and a breath together

The dancers of death are approaching,
My Sephorah.

A wind from the east has borne them in throngs,
An army of hungry moments, never satiated,
A plague that gobbles up everything that remains
Especially young sprigs, as yet to grow shoots
And everything else that is green and that nourishes the hope
Sown in your soul
And in your warm body,
My Sephorah.


THE NINTH PLAGUE: THE DARKNESS


You dread more the darkness than the fire, Sephorah,
When shapes disappear and everything becomes the same,
The highest and the lowest, and the black and white

You dread the darkness that is touched by hands,
My Sephorah.

Then you have no other salvation but to turn towards yourself
As to a friend lost and found after many many years,
Because darkness is darkness, and dissipates not like the mist,
Because it hides the unknown and reveals the known.
Man does not see man, and touches him only
When avoidance becomes impossible.

The belated reward pains you
As it does me and my rediscovered self,

My Sephorah.


THE TENTH PLAGUE: DEATH


You’re disturbed more by death than by life, Sephorah,
That is, life near to me and my isolated people
With their eternal and false aspirations for salvation
In their arduous attempts to be understood.,

While the death itself flees from you,
My Sephorah!

On your wise brow as on the crossbeam of a heated house
I have left the telling sign of blood:
May death remember and seek another shelter,
For man can recognize only what he has created himself,
Whereas the beginning and the end are the creations of others,
Even though the elephants return to die in their birthplace.

“Who is not with me is against me”
Said even death to itself one day.

My Sephorah.


THE ELEVENTH PLAGUE: SEPHORAH


Stronger and safer than on my wooden will,
I rely on your silent sacrifice, Sephorah,
You, the most unhealed of all my wounds
That pains me most when the others are silent.

Long has been the road, Sephorah, far too long,
Full of turns and ambushes that delayed my purpose,
Even though I knew that only children expect instant victory
And that all the prophets of old were marching through me.

But long roads never end, Sephorah,
My staff and my faith were too small: only to the Lord does its own self suffice.
I needed more love than understanding,
And then you came, with your body enwrapped in spirit.

I loved only the purpose and thus the people did not love me, Sephorah,
Filled with poison, the cup in your fair hands
And yet, despair is a virtue and joy is a sin,
Whereas events live less than people.

When you teach someone, they pay you, Sephorah,
When you teach all, you must pay yourself.

It is both beautiful and hard to be the wife of a prophet,

My Sephorah.  


March, 2000


Translated from the Albanian by Shinasi Rama, Janice Mathie-Heck and Robert Elsie

— The End —