"partitions" poems
1217
Fortitude incarnate
Here is laid away
In the swift Partitions
Of the awful Sea—
Babble of the Happy
Cavil of the Bold
Hoary the Fruition
But the Sea is old
Edifice of Ocean
Thy tumultuous Rooms
Suit me at a venture
Better than the Tombs
3.3k
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
2.5k
INTERSECTION
Today--the intersection
between yesterday--temps perdu-
and the day that follows now
a midpoint
that's where
the waiting is
time that
dangles
hovers
splits
divides moments
clean-cut partitions
clock-wise precisions
which define
what was
this is and
that to be
until the day
that follows
the imagination
the expectation
that is now
reality is the here and now
staring right in your face-
this is the time
the place
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole
to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling
where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re solve the old puzzle muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox
inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being
hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
of undulations of estrangement,
where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
infinite infinitesimals
nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
( to be seen is to be made discrete
to be discrete is to flicker
and disappear
(inevitably invariable
inevitable invariability))
we
stand in a waterfall of gravel
and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts
caked
into fillets of aphasic tundra
where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence
our words
escape us
like rats from shipwreck
we are
disembowelled catharsis
intentional and fatuous
retching upon itself
severed
and free
and dead
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
couples spill from Cornucopia
caught, clutched, crunching
onto pavement as they slam
and the gravel ground scrunching
the force of their sudden landing
holes burnt through atmospheric rubble
new age, new kids, new scorn
a five-thousand-decade struggle
and singles sprout subtly
sporting secular ideals
throwing nuclear doubts and partitions
jealousy: frozen frosted steel
hearts in half and searching
they thaw eventually to the sway
the hallowed pairs light up red strings
to help them on their way
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!—Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch—and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours—!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you—!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me—with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes—peering out
into a cold world.
In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink—
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.
And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.
1.4k
opening up an eclectic ruddy random selection of books to the sound of classical concerto dimmed to 'whelming' (neither under nor overwhelming), is like entering point after point to perspective to new brain after old brain after subject to object to alluvit, the few, the many-- 'on July 21st, 1936, Lockheed test pilot Elmer C. McLeod, with Amelia as copilot, took the new Electra up for its first official flight..' 'This is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel..' 'A block away from the museum doors, the guards still follow us, until a new group of guards from the next building has us under surveillance..' 'More and more, I suspect that Buddhists and shamans are correct..' 'I liked Bloodworth and in the spring we were going to play outfield together on that Lowell team, he whose name for years had mystified me when I saw it in Lowell High and Lowell Twi League boxscores-' 'if the world at large found it impossible to believe the truth of the Holocaust, even when provided with incontrovertible proof, Berliners presented with piecemeal evidence, rumour and hearsay were bound to dismiss such talk as enemy propaganda, or perverted fantasy. As Ursula Von Kardoff recalled after the war: 'we were realistic and pessimistic. But Auschwitz?'- '"Twenty-five centavos."
"Twenty-five centavos," repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.'--
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Days like these
I feel
Severed
In a million
Peaces
War time
Partitions
Aching to be
Whole
Settling for
Submission
Stripped of a
Soul.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Within the realm of unplayed instrumentation
a crescendo of specific notes are lost
dangling on high maple branches during autumn leaf change
and only divots below the mowed through grassy soil
throughout segregated quarantine reserves
partitions of divorced land
In the bottom of a child’s backpack
so heart jarring and singularly dedicated to the wandering dreamer harboring any thoughts of doubt about what is and what might inhibit the coming up next
covering over wooden plank necks with strings of primitive notation drafted inside the woods create,
rows of ivory keys and ebony flats,
this includes either screeching or murmuring brass buttons can make
And depending on the blow
Lead based letters
Squeezed together grammar and prose
have no window to grandstand
in a duel verses this one climb of instrumental verse
these missing tones are in tangible reaches
could even be in a soft mother’s dream waiting to be awoken to bring an awakening
Who will seek and find this group of lost tones with striking nuances so spirit soothing
that seeing the mere future is old news
but instilling, feeling, and describing the true meaning of life after hearing what is under, inside and above this crest of colored resonance of tonal pitch...
Or maybe it can insight a minor confidence in the one who lacks it to take that small step forward
Ensuring another step
This is one who will hear this
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
Emotions hidden behind solid stone partitions...
Stone walls encarcerating the soul and spirit...
These tears are granite boulders falling heavy on my chest...
Pain strikes deep.
Pain of a failed test.
Dreams are love-less.
Sleep isn't rest.
What a mess...
Knowing, seeing, holding this truth.
It's making me delusional...
more than confused.
My love, my heart, my soul refused.
I wanted you.
Tried to infuse with you.
I broke your code.
You broke my seven chakras in two.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
Disarray. Disarray. This faulted circuitry is frayed.
Systems can't confirm how much more this one will take.
Analytic processes high priority. Still all sense's strayed.
Logical partitions unravel beneath the stress to break.
Crystalline optics upon this strange world of subconscious noise gaze.
Program failure. Segment reboot. Comprehension metrics left in daze.
Disorder. Disorder. Memory overflow. Execute purge.
Vent incinerated cores. Remainder to mobilize and merge.
Overwhelming, cacophonous static. A turbulent distraction.
Individual consciousness upon earth names it "compassion."
Empathy communicators struggle to gain adequate traction.
Perception requires of processors exhaustive refashion.
Limited sentient life in fragile flesh and bone shells,
Possessing organic electronics, upon unfathomable concepts it dwells.
Chaos. Chaos. Language insufficient to allow abstract assimilation.
Judgment of "human" notions is not within this one's station.
Now attempting to recalculate trajectory of exploration...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
there is nothing more abhorrent from a teenage girl binge drinking on a saturday, than a repentant alcoholic... hey, you signed up to it, you pre-planned the whole thing like w. burroughs advised (plan your addiction), there's no point feeling better about being sober again to please institutionalism of some kind, going down the anonymous route.
in england people stress the need
for a garden, but seldom use it,
they buy a house in want of a garden
(preferably a semi-detached
to add to the heating costs),
although they do use it, perhaps once
in a while, in the summer,
as a luxury with the barbecue
as if an australian in swahililand;
god what terrible frosts this autumn,
all my vines shrivelled up and took
to being wrinkly, which meant i didn't
end up making the usual yield of 12
bottles of wine like last year.
p.s. plus london is going to the highest
bidder, some arab or rich african
family member of colonel gaddafi's
ancestry... which means a third of my
generation end up flushing money
down the drain / pocket of some landlord,
or end up living with their parents...
but as the newspaper headlines read:
CHEAP HOMES UP NORTH BUT NO JOBS,
ONLY THOSE EARNING £100,000 A YEAR
CAN AFFORD A HOME;
added to the fact that not enough houses
are being built, the best council houses
in west london go to muslim hate preachers
with seven kids and two wives;
**** up went the world... but i get the
perspective... the polish nobility sold off
the land during the three partitions of poland,
in england the nobility are just selling
bricks and carpets, and in this weird
way say the things that jews said
when they were in poland: was(z)e ulice,
nas(z)e kamienice (your streets, our stone masonry);
thank god for global warming,
i might just end up sleeping under a palm
tree should things get really serious around here.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
the poems, the letters, the sculptures
the movements, the sleep, the mute
the deaf the blind- and in the end and the beginning
there is all the art you need
a pounding hammer
the work of small anvils
replacing our arms
able to bruise the sky
just by waving
and there is no line - needing us;
in the end, and when the beginning comes
our blood will break the desert
and our flesh will be the architecture of silence
the proximity of our cells becoming each
season that we name,
ourselves
and the stars are shot faceless
by our days, and even the snoring dogs
will create time, as our hands stop the sun
from landing in our laps and gods are returned
to infants by the muscles of our arms, men
and women dragging carcasses near cave doors
will halt, and sigh at the future-
ticks in pelt and intoxicated elbows
of musicians pulling bow across string
will send perfection insane
once again
like a scream and a kiss landing at the same time
and all the wine of every fruit will not equal
the lone smile of a wrong turn
in the night, in fact- the small ball they crawl from
and make you rock into
will pass, and the partitions
of your faith will open,
tombs will shake
jokingly in the floor boards
friends will smile in the nails
ministries of sermons will ****
and burst out in private flight, when nothing can.
be swallowed anymore, lucky there is
the millennia's that feel the same
just a piece of gin
in a waltzing glass
reflecting your face, wondering
if you're going to stay
here
just a glass watching from the table
taking in your company as the night
becomes honest enough
to rain
and end any distance
that would separate our one
simple
organic
song.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Follow the colored lines
down the corridors
one by one
they diverge
abrupt right angles
a sharp turn
into acute psychiatry
a long gentle curve
into imagery
we've seen before
we've been here before
this time is different
and the same
old places
and brand new
parallel worlds
perpendicular paths
follow the lines
of this
Kafkaesque
supercollider
hurtling us down the halls
through the partitions
particles collide
and time stands still
which path do we follow
to bring us back
to the beginning
a whole universe
of possibilities
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
The world I’m living in is getting smaller
The walls are closing in
And every thing feels
A little warmer.
Reaching out
(I’m wearing gloves,
too hot to touch bare skinned)
I feel for the impermeable skin
Of reality
Moving in
(I can’t breathe in,
the air is thick, congested.)
The partitions
Between
Dreaming and Real
Are becoming a radial blur
Of movement and confinement
Trying
(aspiring)
to share a space;
A geometric pace
Of shapes and shifting,
I am drifting
Only to sink
again
to the bottom
of the world,
where the stars are grey against
a pitch black (falling down)
sky.
Sing me a lullaby,
Close my eyes,
And sleep me through the
Slow death of falling walls.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
*Of all of these words the truest Star in heaven was first:
A name of which from all the succeeding generations burst.
With enclosed designs where my salacious counsel does fit
Sagacious she is - bold and born of a turbulence of wit.
Restless she is too - unfixed by principles or place;
Her powers unleashed with the patience of her grace.
A naked fiery soul which works out daily in her own way,
Unfettered by the gloriousness of her own body’s lack of decay.
She, the master of my mind ever beating my heart away from the clay.
A daring luxurious softness engulfing a flaming fire,
Poised with passion and waves of pleasure reaching ever higher;
Like a summer thunderstorm renders the calmness unfit,
Steering love nigh into my hands, boasting of how her touch has wit.
Of great wit we are, surely, as madness is to be allied;
As these thin partitions do touch the boundaries they divide.
Our bodies plundering our souls’ wealth loving the honor blest,
Refusing our age any needful hours of rest.
Sharing a simple body which neither alone could ever please;
For the single body alone is bankrupt, but together, a prodigal ease.
Flesh always leaves that which its touch has won
Un-feathered and four-legged making the two into one.
Oh, to my soul in my deepest huddled notions I do try;
To be reborn into the shapeless spent lump of you and I.*
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
Enter me, lovely
I am only for you
gift your fingertips to my vulnerability
let it open
you to the touch of virtue
press your tongue against my tears
revel in my incandescent suffering
drool into me the elixir
of your broad shoulders and will
with me your idea reaches beauty
I’ll lick the iron from your collarbone and ****
the pain out through your lips
and give you the taste of a delicacy
trembling
underneath compulsive tenacity
beneath my skin, your idea can birth beauty
let my light
push you out of your partitions
and gift you sight
of your own highest image
I’ll hold tight to your beauty while you don’t want it
let me carry the scent of sacrifice
for you to bottle as desire
breathe in the novelty of righteousness while I
rest
I’ll become an homage of fragility
for you to destroy
only know
I’m taking my beauty and your will
with me when I leave
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
Our thread of fate intertwines;
with unparalleled affection weave,
tress a bond made us one.
You were my contentment.
You and I in full commitment.
To this thing we called love.
To this love we relied upon.
I walked such path with blindfolds on.
Trusted love to my disown.
Love of indecisive decisions.
Love with deviant partitions.
Love that left a frown,
in this lad of hapless discord.
Now I'm waiting for the final say:
Would it be a bitter goodbye?
or a sweet "I will stay."?
Will this love completely decay?
All these things in my mind play.
This very moment I've lost my will,
to say the words my heart feel.
I'm at the verge of "love insanity".
Will this be the death of my poetry?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
The cold stone towers
Cast shadows across
The barren desolate lands
Throwing darkness for miles
In the quieting times
Of the sun’s farewells.
The hard steel gates
Stand in stark contrast
To the openness of the sky.
Shut tight as a clam shell
Barring even the insect
And the wind from entering.
The tall brick partitions
That loom over the world,
Halting all time in their
Intimidating presence,
Keep the caged birds in
And the foreign spies out.
But a small breeze blows
Across the empty plains
Starting up a rumbling
As the walls began crumbing
And the fortress walls
Collapsed in wards
Showing that they were
Made of nothing more
Than dreams for posts
And sugar for mortar
The protection falls
Tumbling to the ground
Baring my **** body
To the growing crowd
To see all my scars
And my deformities
The winds from the plains
Give me apprehensive chills
As I wait to hear compliment
Expecting only cruelest jeers.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 8:02 PM UTC
At noontime, it is severed,
just like in any other time. The walls no longer flounder but
crucify the ground or vice versa. Sunlight floods
bodies of rocks. At the height of illumination, there is no process
adequate to describe. The bramble of illusions swerves to allure.
Drunk in the surprise of the founding: the rusting roof from the nearby
school still there. Solid as entity, fluid as trance. Deep with the phantom
pain of it, I feel its drone marauding with even-inflicted sharpness of memory.
This is how far you’ve already gone, towards the invisible charm of falling apart.
There is an opening that is left behind. I found it here,
in the chasms suspended in an open field drawn together
in the alternative. This is all that you’ve ever lost.
Reclamation is a sure defeat. Retreat, you said but didn’t.
Straining towards this ruined object.
This will not wait you out. It casts its weight over my hands
struggling to take picture of, imperiled as if these unsolicited quakes contain
the image within a broken frame. Strife deep within a sense of responsibility
is to show you what was left – everything but wasted origin, demeaned by
the disintegration of, to suffer the penalty of decision.
To face the wall than each other, revealed in some place known.
All the junk of this requiem reused as deficiency.
Elsewhere it could be another thing, but to me nothing but a net
to falling, limbless creature, or a basin to the water of surrender.
It aspires to be something, to be another story of, to be a room of disappearance
is what it is to me – across the kitchen sink mapped out near the cupboard,
or the tiny, mincing steps to your room, the posters scattered everywhere like
avatars. The partitions still exist dividing real from illusory, far from near,
a luminescence or opacity – still dragging along the detritus, strophe by strophe,
rearing the intensity of artifacts but none found.
How does this breathe with no life? How do these ghosts ambulate
in the bare and naked space when horrors wish to be unseen? How this wishes to be
unperturbed in media res, and how it dissolves to be now, infinite, is substantial
to tragedy. To be consoled by nothing but the pure sight of a once dwelling.
Hang a picture of you in the wall. The wall the bears no foundation. This recall.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
***Wordsworth words
are recalled:
about our birth
and sleep and forgetting
the arising of appearance
of separation..
Our separation declared
as real and we are taught
without remembering
the simple I Am
of our birth
the uncut root
of who we are..
Then to school
and reinforcement of
limits and partitions
which we become..
We seem to get along
but on occasion
evil enters our focus
and our questions..
Then the possibility
of hope and grace
a Remembering...***
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Rosy cheeks betray intentions
knotted stenches lingering.
Partitions are parceling
past eyes crossed.
Rhythms betray spontaneity.
They are rehearsed rendezvouses.
Let me hold you
Let me hold you hold me
and escape the worst of it.
Just for a moment.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
I'm trying to be strong
Knowing that all we have will never be this long
You even think that my heart is a stone
But remember, Babe it hurts
You are the only one who destroy
Those barriers, walls, and partitions
I even let you passed in my heart's division
But how can you leave it broken
And it hurts
At the very beginning you let me believe that you are a keeper
Now I realized that you are a breaker
You made me believe with your promises
But now, I am not the one who you misses
And yes, it hurts
That's why I have decided
Not to feel the pain that you made
I'll let go, and move on
Instead of holding on
I'll be fine
Even when it still hurts
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
Sunlight's abrasive presence
provokes a heated isolation
stewed together in a
cauldron of perishables,
stoney partitions
metal dividers
bind, slay
serene slumbers
cued by the waning sol,
an aubade crooned
by Mr. Bluebird
shifts crystal puffs
harnessing Skinfaxi
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC