"dixit" poems
You had become an expert at
Helping people go
You knew exactly what they needed
if they were going to palm tree skies or
to breath that always looked minty fresh
You had become an expert at
Filling bellies
You knew exactly how to gauge
The potential of the suitcase according to all
Scheduled meetings and recreational activities
You had become an expert at
Letting things through
You knew exactly how to pull
The thread through all his loose buttons
While you waited for him to come back.
You sewed back his negligence
with fingers suppressed with haldi*
That pushed deep into your nails like
A home remedy for faster fingers,
You watched reruns of who’s the boss
Switching between
Reversed gender roles and Madhuri dixit.
When you ran out of buttons to sew you
Opened up the windows so the dust can
Bake you a cake on the shelves
So you could eat it all on your own,
with one clean sweep. It is your birthday.
Everyday the clock is like a see saw
you sit on all alone
while he is on a swing set with his
feet pushing the ground he knows
how to move on his own
how to touch the sky -
you were never taught
how to be your own friend.
But it is never too late to make friends.
Have you ever tried the slide?
there are no limits
To how many times you can climb
So slide, glide
let go of gravity,
undress from reality
We keep shedding like the moon,
glowing like torches inside us
that help us stand out
from the crowd.
take your turmeric magic
and build a fire with the friction
of your spine and your mind
sprinkle it on
the crackling heat...
we all need fire to keep us warm.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC
*Dixit ergo Iesus ad duodecim, “Numquid et vos vultis abire?”
“Will you also go away?” He asks us.
No.
Only sinners mourn at the foot of the Cross
Only sinners approach the baptismal font
Only sinners recline at Table with the Lord
To whom shall we go?
An empty shopping mall?
A 501C cafeteria?
A feast of ashes with the cardinal?
No.
There is only one Place, one Space, one Grace
Only sinners are invited, and so
Our yes to Him – we will not go
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
dead...that's what you are...
dead...for all, you are...
clumsy hands are all that are
left for you...
mutatis mutandis,
praemonitus,
praemunitus eris
sed qui me dixit moritum
est hominibus?
qui me dixit, non est,
sed somnum habere?
and that waking up was a thing that just wasn't there...
but I WAS to believe...
yahweh...blasphemous..."jehovah's" children...
yahoo!...is yet, the talk of the times...
sitting idyllic on the brick wall...denuded...red all over...
are you out of your mind?...what's the matter?
...and the hose-pipe is set...the thoughts gush out...smothering you...
it's been the dark night's work...and I am sitting all alone...
thinking 'bout you...you, who's not there...
and never to have known you with days passing by...
I probably will never commit...
there's so much do now and such little time...
that I cannot forget...
what you were...you are...
Jan 10, 2010
Jan 10, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
VLTORIS MEA INCIDENS SVVM ÆTERNVM IMAGINE THORAX
DIXIT VNIVERSI MIHI LAPIDE AΠΟΦΘEΓΜΑΤΙ TYRANNVS
DVM SCYTHIÆ SVPER SANGVINE ARDEOR INVICTO
SEXTA RESVLTANS MEA NOCTIS SPECVLO FORMA
CÆDIT SVO PROBVS SIGNATOS FVLMINE POSTES
QVO VASTATIO CHALYBE DICITVR ESSE INDIGNI
VICTRICIS AQVILA TVRMA SACRI CONSONA
PRIMO SIGILLO TEVCRVS NOMINE CRVORIS
VINDEX XYSTO DÆMON IΕΡΩI
MITHRÆO TEGVNT FVLGENTEM TENEBRÆ HOSTES TEMPLVM.
Mar 24, 2024
Mar 24, 2024 at 8:08 AM UTC
i might speak a "native" tongue...
but i'm reduced to
being a mere tourist
back "home":
of a home, no home...
via the props and gains
and no gains...
and sparrow hearts of youth...
i... foundation:
scythe plough sly,
stealth, slow,
narrowing pupils:
how did they manage
to breed lizards with
furry ***** of cute
and cuddle in the Egyptian
bonsai variety...
bulldozer:
i have a problem...
seems...
inhumane to keep
a bird in a cage,
or a woman in a man's
heart,
or his ******* envy,
or...
best kept in a pocket
for a Mammon's
chips of betting:
fate against fate...
scared about a concept
of nemesis...
- like any
garden variety
gnome:
i borrow my lines
via the mime
of extras in shadow
limbo...
androgynous:
in vox only...
the eucharist of the ******
sorry...
i'm the second jew,
the second borrow,
i am...
a yoga squat will
give me enough impetus
to get off this scab of land
as a Jude reunited
with Jesus...
as Jacob the brother
of Esau, the brother of Israel...
i, dodo project...
whiskey more,
whiskey some!
rock the boat
and call:
for every tooth an anchor,
for the tongue the whole
crew,
and for the shadow:
a shallow basin's
worth of a skimming
pebble's tip-toe
poke-poke
of a frenzy...
hell...
this land this "somebody",
this "anybody"
this "body",
this: certain grave...
the noose the tickling
leash and the ******
of a grey-day-to-day...
and of course:
پاشا,
PASHA...
the "snort" of a pig's worth
of gob...
my mother came back
from the "homeland"
and she brought back
the litany and the epitaph...
and i said to her:
remember when
your father (my grandfather)
used to say the word
leßer in ****** schlang?
i've just learned...
reader... plainly...
and how many loan-words
does the ****** speak?
best hide in the Babylon
of tongues that's
the modern tongue
of Ęglish...
hic est mea lingua:
mea lingua mea culpa...
et non vestra culpa...
sed vestra oculi...
videre...
dixit Karon
(this is my tongue:
my tongue my fault...
and not your fault...
but your eyes...
see...
said Charon).
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
Evening chill in cloister,
moon in one corner of the garth,
stars sprinkled like dust,
what you do not see
and believe is faith
Augustine said,
I smelt the evening air,
sharp, chilling,
as I walked the cloister
from the novice room
to my cell Dom Jame's
voice in my ears,
words on plainsong,
Latin language,
study he said until it sticks,
and she had me
between her and within her
as a flower in a vase,
no one heals himself
by wounding another
Ambrose said,
I breathed the air as I stood,
a monk walked past
head down eyes
on the cloister floor,
I fingered the rosary
in the pocket
of my black jeans,
felt the silver plated Christ
with my thumb,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
echoed the area,
without love, deeds,
even the most brilliant,
Theresa said, count as nothing,
moon glow, stars as dust,
Dixit Dóminus Dómino meo,
bell tolled from bell tower,
orange bricks, seemly darker,
sede a dextris meis,
hold me she said
I felt her warm skin
against warm skin flower fresh,
arms about my body,
my ship in her harbour,
the French monk
placed flowers
by the Holy Virgin's feet
in the cloister
lit by moon's light,
I walked the stairs to my cell,
one step at a time,
Hugh walked past,
glum as a whore's ***
eyed me as he went,
in my cell the Crucified
is high on the wall,
aged by years,
I sign the sign of the cross,
I am at sea,
like one
in deep ocean's toss.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
The black robed monk
closed the huge book
his voice echoed
through the church
disturbing dust
from rafters,
et dixit Dominus
ad me,
Dom Joe found me
in the common room
and said I could come
the following year
so I did and left defeated,
parlare con me in tempi bui
the Italian monk said
that time in the cloister
before Vespers,
place a finger here
she said delve in
my silk purse
and I did
soft as kitten fur,
if every little flower
wanted to be a large rose
spring would lose its loveliness
Therese said
some place I read,
perdu avec à Dieu
the French monk said
as I was cutting the hedge
by the drive leading
to the abbey
and he passing,
she took my pecker
in her hand
and like a snake
charmer charmed,
the incense in the air
after Mass still there
at the office of Sext
and I sniffed it in
like one hooked,
Hugh made from wood
a bookshelf
for the common room
to hold the gifts of books
from guests who left,
George polished
the choir stalls
with yellow duster
and tinned wood polish
and elbow grease,
I wanted to lie
in the bed in my room(cell)
until midday sun
but the bell for Matins
tolled and I rose
at 5am to dawn's
dull light,
ecce ****
and I tried to behold
but my eyes saw
only shadows on walls
and mind caves,
Dom James wanted
to smoke but didn't
but nibble his fingernails
and the incense smoke
a reminder in the air
lingering there.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Le poète ne se reconnaît
Ni dieu ni maître ni loi
Seul lui importe l'abandon aux sirènes des muses
La seule Justice qui vaille à ses oreilles.
Pour ne pas paraphraser Césaire
Et avant lui Perse
Et bien d'autres encore laminaires
Il y a autant de muses que de volcans
Certaines meurent de petite mort
D'autres demeurent de mort certaine à petit feu consommé
Remplacez volcans par muses
Accordez les adjectifs et les pronoms
Ce qui vaut pour les volcans
Vaut pour les muses aux dorsales Bossales comme abyssales.
Dixit Césaire :
" Il y a des volcans qui se meurent
il y a des volcans qui demeurent
il y a des volcans qui ne sont là que pour le vent
il y a des volcans fous
il y a des volcans ivres à la dérive
il y a des volcans qui vivent en meutes et patrouillent
il y a des volcans dont la gueule émerge de temps en temps
véritables chiens de la mer
il y a des volcans qui se voilent la face
toujours dans les nuages
il y a des volcans vautrés comme des rhinocéros fatigués
dont on peut palper la poche galactique
il y a des volcans pieux qui élèvent des monuments
à la gloire des peuples disparus
il y a des volcans vigilants
des volcans qui aboient
montant la garde au seuil du Kraal des peuples endormis
il y a des volcans fantasques qui apparaissent
et disparaissent
(ce sont jeux lémuriens)
il ne faut pas oublier ceux qui ne sont pas les moindres
les volcans qu’aucune dorsale n’a jamais repérés
et dont de nuit les rancunes se construisent
il y a des volcans dont l’embouchure est à la mesure
exacte de l’antique déchirure."
« Dorsale bossale » in Moi, laminaire..
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
On dit communément
"La plus belle fille du monde
Ne peut donner que ce qu'elle a"
Dixit Sébastien-Roch Nicolas de Chamfort. Et il poursuit :
"Ce qui est très faux : elle donne précisément ce qu'on croit recevoir puisqu'en ce genre c'est l'imagination qui fait le prix de ce qu'on reçoit"
Voilà ce que tu me fredonnes en boucles
Pour me faire comprendre que tu es ma muse
Et tu me chuchotes que tu es généreuse
Et ce généreuse-la génère en moi des génies et des elfes et des étoiles
Géantes
Tu me donnes des ailes et je me gonfle et m'élève et je me fais Musc.
La plus belle Muse du Monde ne peut donner que ce qu'elle a.
Ce que tu possèdes, Muse, c'est ce venin de ton ombre qui m'empoisonne
Et moi Musc, je t'apporte en dot son antidote dont je foisonne.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Quand je pense à l'extrême je plonge mes yeux dans l'extrême horizon de mes propres extrémités inférieures comme supérieures et j'essaie de matérialiser par des bouées les champs sémantiques des extrêmes. L'orient extrême, l'occident extrême, l'extrême couchant alias extrême ponant et l'extrême levant.
Me voici donc bien installé sur l'estran, cowboy anachronique en selle sur une vague appelée Jolly Jumper, la moitié de mes extrémités enfoncée sous mon poids dans le sable, entouré de trous de crabes et de pélicans plongeurs qui me dévisagent au **** sur cette Grande Anse du Far West Indies. Je ne vois guère que leurs traces fugitives, pattes et becs qui ricanent dans le sable mouillé . Je suis aux frontières de l' extrême. Les extrêmes sont à la mode. LES EXTRÊMES SONT TENDANCE. Le mot extrême qui s'utilisait jadis en antéposition dans ses constructions lexicales comme dans les formulations comme l'Extrême-Orient, extrême-droite, extrême-gauche, extrême-onction, s'utilise désormais en postposition comme pour en adoucir les traits, nous la retirer de l'horizon lointain, du Far West pour la rendre plus visible dans le centre extrême ou l'extrême insoumission que d'aucuns appellent de leurs vœux comme dernière extrémité pour sauver les démocraties de l'extrême-onction programmée.
Mais revenons aux sens premiers d'extrême. A travers deux proverbes :
"Aux maux extrêmes les extrêmes remèdes."
"Les extrêmes se touchent."
Extrême, dixit le Cntrl, tiré du latin extremus, superlatif de exter, en dehors. Signifiant le plus à l'extérieur, le dernier, le pire, l'extrême.
Oh je sais, tout n'est affaire que de proportion puisque, nous disent par ailleurs les arithméticiens, le produit des extrêmes est égal aux produits des moyens.
Les frontières de l'extrême reculent sans arrêt. Il y a une surenchère permanente. Plus le sport est extrême plus il attire la jeunesse, Plus le discours est extrême plus il attire le chaland.
Je suis né moi-même dans l'extrême, puisque né à EXTRA-MUROS. EN DEHORS DES MURS, EN DEHORS DU BOURG. DEWO. L'extrême extase de l'en-dehors...
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 3:08 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
We Can’t Take Our Books with Us When We Die
Ecce nova facio omnia. Et dixit mihi: Scribe
quia hic verba fidelissima sunt, et vera.
-Apocalypsis XXI:V
We can’t take our books with us when we die
That reality shouldn’t bother me, but it does:
The copy of The Brothers Karamazov
I carried in Viet-Nam – off to a re-sale shop?
But God is the Word from Whom all blessings flow
And since He is the Word, all our books are His
How foolish of us if we fear that God
Has made no proper arrangements for them
Books are eternal:
Great blessings in paper and ink and page and leaf
For learning and leisure and wisdom and belief
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC