"ilion" poems
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
soul brothers from other mothers,
fellow city dwellers,
one up downtown
one down uptown,
fellow riders,
of the underground
of the by-NY-ways
of America
we met years ago ruminating on poetry,
late one night/early one morn,
just like us,
there is no difference,
call the hour what you want,
we spoke one language,
long long ago
in the early days here at HP
the I, lion of gray stumbled on me,
with a smiling, stunning midnight crosstown compliment,
kindred instant
he stole
my breath, with work that..
declaimed notions of
quiet unshouted artistry excellent
and a new appetite was birthed
in my head, in my bed
one night
the young black man-father and the
aging white-grandfather
so little in common,
but in the early morn,
we both haunt the hallways
of the city of poetry,
speaking the poetry of the city,
where blood is but
two colors
black and white,
like the poem words we share
that you are now eye-reading
and
in our torn,
but not yet shredded country,
we find ways to speak
I am long done, past being the past,
he is the dapper father of the future
and the river boundaries we share,
on different sides
are lines of connection
not demarcation
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
Past ruined Ilion Helen lives,
Alcestis rises from the shades.
Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives
Immortal youth to mortal maids.
Soon shall oblivion's deepening veil
Hide all the peopled hills you see,
The gay, the proud, while lovers hail
These many summers you and me.
2.1k
Adieu, belle Cassandre, et vous, belle Marie,
Pour qui je fus trois ans en servage à Bourgueil,
L'une vit, l'autre est morte, et ores, de son œil
Le Ciel se réjouit, dont la terre est marrie.
Sur mon premier Avril, d'une amoureuse envie
J'adorais vos beautés, mais votre fier orgueil
Ne s'amollit jamais pour larmes ni pour deuil,
Tant d'une gauche main la Parque ourdit ma vie.
Maintenant en Automne, encore malheureux,
Je vis comme au Printemps, de nature amoureux,
Afin que tout mon âge aille au gré de la peine.
Et or que je deusse être affranchi du harnois,
Mon Colonel m'envoie, à grand coups de carquois,
Rassiéger Ilion pour conquérir Hélène.
2.2k
If I was in love,
with being loved,
breaths that covet the tang of your own
standing in stadiums, feeling alone
(waxing poetic, Sappho for the straight girl)
I would not love you, appositive.
For I do not miss hearing,
(I was always too close for believing)
but the rhythmic lap of my own words
(I love you, appositive)
Effortless, slipping from my heart
like a hollow ship on an airy sea
to Ithaka (you) from Ilion (me).
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
I am unafraid tonight
To write and sign my real name.
To like what I read which is almost everything here
For the sake, for the pain, for the unashamed, for just
Celebrating those who breathe life for the just
Trying.
I am unafraid tonight
To disclose that I live as an
Agonist
In a city that ghost taps on my windows,
( thank you Ilion gray for that),
When the quiet is pockmarked by so many crying the
Loudest tears.
I am unafraid tonight
To express my dissatisfaction with you.
I am unafraid tonight
To express the miracle of those across oceans,
And across town,
Welcoming me into their hearts and wonder
Where else do the wayfarers gather
I am I am
unafraid tonight
To curry your favor,
Despise your silence
Expose corners of me
That should be buried
Before my body later follows
I am unafraid tonight
To use or abuse punctuation
For their are spaces and ,
Between us that can and cannot be closed
But I am compelled to try to narrow the differences
For
I am unafraid tonight
Tomorrow, we shall see,
If the shale within can yet be fractured,
Brought to the surface
To be consumed,
Or the fractures spread
Destructing the whole.
But tonight,
I am unafraid.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Appointment to have ***** removed by robot-assisted surgeon.
Air-conditioned, no mosquitoes in the OR. When you arrive
You'll remove all your clothes. Naked before the ladies, nurses
Who have seen it all before. Mainly remember you're not unique.
Think about the government while they're mixing up the medicine.
There's always governance even if there's little or no government.
Back to counting backwards. Inside out, if I die, will I know it?
At 70, Jack's running the gauntlet with some skill!
Benny Golson wonders aloud what might have been
Had Clifford Brown not been killed in that auto accident.
Jack's girlfriend once said he was the reincarnation of Clifford
But he doesn't believe in ghosts, karma or an afterlife.
Benny's old girlfriend Betty inspired the tune Along Came Betty
And that's the most afterlife Benny or Betty's gonna get.
The Trojan bench being not as deep as the Greek
Once Sarpedon and Hector go down even the lucky shot
To Achilles' feet is not enough to save the town.
Aeneas is no match for wily Odysseus
Although unbeknownst to all he has the last laugh when Rome
Conquers Athens, the Myrmidons, what's left of Ilion
And the whole known world from India to Britain.
It's not bad to acknowledge death's primacy
Although after a while you stop remembering
To fear. That's when everything becomes clear
Purpose v. purposelessness matters less,
Anomie v. rule of law, that's a preference
Love v. loneliness, worth about 25 cents
Or a million bucks in the light of the holocaust.
Nothing but light, love and the majesty of death in the room.
Machines stand ready like marines, their beauty is in the motion
That overcomes inertia. The food supply is deeply compromised
So eat whatever you want. Mourning the dead is part of the business
Of healing and staying alive. When you get to the afterlife, walk with
eyes open,
Ocotillo and cactus may be in flower. The robot does the work,
imposes
Its own small order, like a girl on a bicycle with disorder in her hair.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the "Works and Days,"
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanish'd ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Caesar's dome--
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound forever of Imperial Rome--
Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sunder'd once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
I that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
1.2k
For Ilion: Sleep, Return to It
young man of Manhattan
sleep, return to it,
we must stop meeting on the corner of 125th & Broadway at 3am
young father - thy life thy future thy child -
depend on it
as do I -depend upon thy poetry
for you are the lion of youth,
I, the graybeard of past paths,
no need of sleep in my dwindling days,
but time bids you welcome,
- thy life thy future thy child -
all ask me, let him come to us
refreshed
7/7/17 4:49am
Manhattan
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Ilion Gray, such a cool name
I love the name Ilion - Ilion Gray
I wonder is it his real name
it looks like it could be, his name
though I've never known an Ilion
never read poems by any other Ilion's
his name fits perfect, his poems, exquisite
and today I see him posted on the front page
a prince of words, a master, a sage
I think he lives in NY, probably downtown
I bet it's loud, I love the way he writes like that
I wonder what kinds of things he does, in summer
or winter, I know he has a cap, but does he have coat and gloves
I wonder how many times, he fell drunk in love
he probably reads poetry on a stage, a pastiche word parade
a lyrical brigade, loaded and fired, finishing with a bow
yeah, I bet Ilion is writing a killer poem right now
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
I stare into the water and see my reflection
But where does he see all the perfection.
What does he see?
What does his eyes marvel at when mine close at everything?
He stares into the water not knowing that he is perfect
Wonders if he is worth it
Telling me to find someone who is worth it
But he was and still is worth it
The other stares not knowing that he is at sight to behold.
He sees the imperfections like a critic would see a piece of art
Ignoring the paint that was placed with such a delicate hand
and focusing on the wrong crooked incorrect lines.
Who else needs to take a walk on the decK
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Maybe its me but Edmund Black and Ilion Grey sure look like twins....and those names...hmmm a Grey lion and a black world....sure y'all aint related....Brooklyn and Jersey?
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC