"cosmogony" poems
I am grounded by my own ignorance, he thought, and here, by the sheer complexity of things. This pebble at my feet seems the very centre of a radius - of marks and pathways. Possibilities. It is a thing that connects itself with me. It is very early, before the sun has touched the horizon’s sky.
I recall a poem telling of the perfection of pebbles, their being equal to themselves, mindful of their limits, filled exactly with a pebbly meaning, with a scent which does not remind one of anything, does not frighten anything away, does not arouse desire, its ardour and coldness full of dignity.
I now remember another poem, portraying a pebble placed in a child’s hand, picked up on a pebble ridge. A pebble to place in the pocket where we finger it until it becomes warm. Its shape and certainty is firm and sure. It consoles us. And, as we change and decay, it remains lodged with us: a thing that contains nothing save the mystery of life.
And there is a long prose poem devoted to the pebble. It starts at the beginning of time itself with a condensed cosmogony, describing the formation of the first rock as an allegory of The Fall. It ventures through the expulsion of life, to cooling, to those large tectonic plates, and all the way down to the pebble itself, or, as the poet says, the "kind of stone that I can pick it up and turn it over in my hand". Time is everywhere in this poem: Stone as Time, where the great wheel of stone rolls ever on as plant life, animals, gases and liquids revolve quite rapidly in their cycles of dying. Take this as the poet’s view of humanity: to consider all things as unknown, and to begin again right from the beginning.
We need to take the side of things, he thought. Here, this pebble is time, and where this pebble lies, with its radii of marks, seems at the very centre of things. It was brought anonymously by the tide one stormy night to lie at our feet, and looks at us with a calm and very clear eye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Words:
whispering sybils
of concealed worlds.
In betweens and beyonds,
somewheres and nowheres,
truths for making believe.
Words.
Carmine nostalgia of the unexperienced.
Utopia upon a time.
Windmill wings to grow a heart,
flavours and scents of new seen worlds,
tangible places pulsating in snow globes,
cosmogony of what is not.
Words:
scribbling, engraving a forever world.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Cosmogony
Part III
Astonished,
I wandered through stars in their flight.
Bewildered,
I found a seat made out of gold.
I saw before me the ruler of Heaven.
I noticed his life,
And praised him,
He showed.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Cosmogony
Part I
Entire cities blown through ages,
The people swarm,
In search of pages.
what life was within the garden,
Gnosticism was not pardoned.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Cosmogony
Part IV
I looked at Earth,
The people panicked;
In search of knowledge,
That I've founded.
What I could be,
If they could spot it.
What life might be,
If it was Gnostic.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Cosmogony
Part II
I lie at home,
My wondrous thinking.
I thought not for what I was feeling.
I saw a light that felt immortal,
And fell into a celestial coil.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
dripping and naked
underneath the dome
of some outwardly pouring
wet measure
of lip-meander,
or
as if caught
like a hapless prey
stripped of freedom
fastened to liberal lattices
of a kiss and its lunar cosmogony -
and perhaps
a farewell to the gush of
wave carrying with it
gossamer bodies of tiny memories
worthy of forget, worn, lauded
by sepia hue
exiting languorous doors tired
within cold threshold
sweet science of love, unrelenting
afterwards, so strongly bold before.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
my entire
cosmogony
consists
o
f
the
female
body
(writes johnny noir)
And the choir of the feminine galaxies sing hymns of thanks.
in tonal sincerities mixed patched arching over all is a prayer
of thanks for the men who get it, even imperfectly, they reach beyond us, beyond themselves, and they give it all back.
we are all made of star dust. nothing more, nothing less.
we are made all of red dust, leaving up in the wind
silent as dust will always, frustratingly
be
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
With left so deft you’d think it's theft
We are the blind man's ego death
We see the abstract poverty
In all of its cosmogony
Humanity is Mother Nature
We are but her nomenclature
Poets with a love of wisdom
Burning down this fascist system
Classist, cashist, racist pigs
They step to us with oil rigs
But we got dreamers of all sizes,
Colors, shapes and symbolizes
Universally diverse
Rehearsing every universe
Test our patience is a virtue
Justice will be swift upon you
By egalitarians
Who guillotine these Aryans
That D.A.R.E. to limit our fair share
Of ways to rock this crazy hair
And break this **** down to the truth
As we explore the realms of youth
Our architects will span the seas
On odysseys of Pleiades
Our psychics will make obsolete
The news-feed ticking time bomb tweet
Our rebels will revolt in peace
With furies reigning Ancient Greece
Our sorcerers will cast their spells
And grant each drop of wishing wells
Our Appleseeds will grow year 'round
Upon the fields of common ground
Our leaders will be yoga teachers,
Open mics, and bleacher creatures
We will obligate these morals
Or white wash these dying corals
We will all commiserate
Or drown ourselves in selfish hate
It's not too late to save this place
Our fate rests not in distant space
But in the permanence of ink
Now step aside and let us think
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC