"provenance" poems
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Far, up high,
An idol's cry,
Her shining tears,
Sprinkle the sky,
Infinity's tomb,
Brings cosmos bloom,
Bringing life,
And starlight's doom,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Painting warily,
Creating merrily,
Braiding hues,
Working wearily,
While painting shells,
Her eyes still swell,
Her canvas, sprinkled,
As shining tears fell,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Gaze shifting upon her opus,
To the Terra, formed with focus,
As she peers, she fails to notice,
Her heart's expire, soft necrosis,
Yet again, a grieving seep,
Striking hard, striking deep,
Off again, her focus turns,
Her mind taking a blinded leap,—
—Shining through, Celestia weeps.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 12:58 PM UTC
"The pity of war, the pity war distilled" - Wilfred Owen
Somewhere in the after-haze,
Jesus sought Mohammed
who was on his way to see him.
Moses met them on the ridge
and without a mike or gavel,
the meeting was convened.
They fell to their knees in sorrow
hands cupped to catch their tears -
shed for the smoldering chaos below -
so far from what was meant to be:
Sworded and chain-mailed crusaders,
suicide synagogue bombers,
machine guns stuttering in Palestine,
fire raining from the skies
bombs igniting at the speed of death,
slaughter at a Parisian concert.
Fathers of the light rise up
from your lofty provenance.
Unite your tear-drenched hands
and come dwell within us.
Breathe healing truth into the ears
of every foe of love and life.
So much more was meant to be!
Come to us now
before the setting of the sun!
November, 2015
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
یقینوں کی سرحد، سوالوں سے آگے
گمانوں سے اوپر، خیالوں سے آگے
حقیقت کی پہچان باطن سے جاگے
دلیلوں سے بالا، حوالوں سے آگے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
جلایت سماوی، تپش منتہیٰ ہے
ذرائع ، وسیلے، نشاں, استعارے
قدم دو قدم ساتھ چلتے سہارے
سبھی راستوں پر توکل زمینیں
سبھی گردشوں میں مقابل جبینیں
ہجومِ سلاسل میں قلبِ مجرد
جہاں نہ رسائی ہو ایسی وہ خلوت
وہاں کوئی نفسی، خودی، نہ انا ہے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
وہاں پر خدا ہے، وہاں بھی خدا ہے
ع
۱۰۔۳۔۱۷
The dominion of faith is beyond the line of questions
Above the strata of probabilities
Ahead of the limits of imaginations
Recognition of truth arises from within
Independent of reasoning and evidence
Unaffected by references and certifications.
Where is the boundary of my awareness?
Heavenly light, infinite candescence
Resources, means, symbolisms, provenance
Temporary camaraderies and companionships...
On all paths, the ground is made of tawakul
In all circumvolutions, brows are directed centrally
In the swarm of connectivity, the core remains vacant
Where nothing can reach, such is the solitude there
Where there is no person, no self, no ego
Where there is the boundary of my awareness
There is God! There, too, is God.
A
10.3.17
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
He wrote standing up, doubt if
kneeling would have been his
forte, yet, he had one, bought it
in 1955, five years prior to a fatal
accident en route to Paris from
Lourmarin in Provence where I
currently reside. Catherine, his
daughter, gifted me the stool with
a letter of provenance, both of which
are still in my possession. But why,
one must ask, did Albert Camus
purchase Un Prie Dieu, he being an
atheist. Is there anybody out there
able to answer this question ?
In poetry form!
Here is a challenge for you.
So, first, google Camus and
find out what you can, then
get writing.
Ps. Photo of Stool on request.
[email protected]
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
In soft afternoon sunlight, flopped on my small yellow couch, I look over to the shadowed side of the room.
My apartment is pretty sparse, but in pride of place upon some modular furniture there is a white marble mantle clock that used to belong to my grandparents.
It is imperfect: part of the pedimented top is gone; it only works sometimes when I wind it up.
But it is beautiful, particularly its face of ornate numbers surrounded by a bronze filigreed bezel.
I majorly coveted the clock when I would go visit my grandparents as a girl.
After once being shown how to open the glass cover over the face—such a satisfying click when it opened—I was unable to resist doing so each time I saw the clock, lightly touching and pushing its hour and minute hands, probably contributing to its current damaged state.
Looking at it now takes me back to my grandparents’ home and those moments when I would wander around the house and yard while the adults conversed in the kitchen, the hush of the house a little nerve-wracking.
Where were my grandparents when they bought this clock?
What did they think would happen for the rest of their lives?
I research the clock’s provenance online, looking for the maker and model, and imagine my grandfather selecting this particular clock with care, wanting something to fit the house, the family.
I open a YouTube video of a horologist—who knew?—and he greets me amid a pleasant patter of ticking from the collection of clocks behind him.
I look again at my clock.
Find the meaning in the marble.
Those ornate numbers, that shape of classical architecture—they quietly reproach me.
Am I going about my hours with the dignity that these shapes suggest?
In the face of the clock I see the face of my grandfather, and while the clock does not strike, I hear the voice of my grandfather intoning slowly and deliberately—maybe trying to sound a bit wiser than he was—but wise all the same.
I am still attracted to all things shiny, but hopefully am more restrained now.
I stop the video, and the room is quiet again.
My smartphone is the only accurate timepiece in my apartment, and it of course does not tick.
It has its own sort of shine, a friendly colorful brightness from the dotting of apps on the home screen, but to save the battery I have set it to go black after a few minutes.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Autonomous you don't wanna miss
Synonymous with anonymous
Alcoholics drinking like the glass is bottomless
Lost confidence and gained higher consciousness
Now doing opposite to avoid consequence
Pertinent providence prominence
Profits from the pompousness of old profits of our fifth
They were out prophets then
Now it's promises
Back to provenance of our populous
No predominance
More contentedness with our documents with what's cognizance
And the monument of spiritual opulence
Wheather hypothesis
Or is what it is
To remain in the violence
Or turn optimist
All your perogative
Wish you well
Wish you rocket to the fourth dimension ****
But most of all wish you to close your eyes to hear what it says
Cause that you don't wanna miss
It could be your bliss
Reminisce but remember they're remnants
Fragments
Resentment you keep in your sentence
Is your penance
What you recieve is your resemblance
No regrets for pass but remembrance
Your true presence is endless
Practicing temperance
Life is tremendous
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
The Art World knows her face,
and, for certain, her smile;
a smile sad, enigmatic, constrained.
So I read, with some interest,
of a copy that that’s thought
to share an author one and the same.
The provenance of the piece is not clear;
Some detect the Master’s own style.
Others contend an apprentice’s fingers
transcribed the work like a file.
The dispute will continue, for years
I suspect. The work will be x-rayed for clues
If it turns out to be Leonardo’s own work,
I t will certainly be front page news.
He carried the original wherever he went.
He was proud of this work, I am sure.
In a long life of work there would be time enough
to copy this famed portraiture.
I look on it now: She is modest, demure,
her lips bear the hint of a smile.
She’s a thin coat of oil on poplar wood,
done in his unmistakable style.
Are you a copy or are you for real?
Dear Lady, refined and reserved,
in you was the hand of the Master at work?
Mona Lisa’s not saying a word.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Crystal clear compounds
Tarnished
With a sloppy Stain
An imperfect existence
Imprinted
Upon pure provenance
Reflections
Warped and wrenched
Into a gruesome
Unaccredited vision
Scrape the crust
Of this placid pool
Retract
Marvel
Bygone hygiene
Crystal clear
No more
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
What is a life but a second with you
in a room with no furniture but our
bed. We shed our clothes as though
they are our past and I lift you gently
onto white linen sheets. I shudder
with excitement as I slide beside
you, your golden hair a trail from
your naked hips to your turgid *******
pink as cherry blossoms, ***** as
Spring’s harbinger, white crocuses
sprouting by a winter’s stream. I
dream of you even as I’m with you,
stroking your gracious, lissome arm.
I give your neck a kiss. I wish not
to miss any part of you. I am on
a journey of love and your body
beautiful is my destination. Though
I have traveled this path before,
every movement of the palm of
my hand feels anew. I caress
your tender ******* that elicits
moans like voices of heaven’s
angels that give wing through
our gift-giving of ****** sharings.
Now it is time to touch your soul,
the epicenter of your being. I am
seeing again the provenance of
your goodness and greatness
that complement your pulchritude.
I am blessed by your spirit. We
are untrammeled when the two
of us make unending love.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 4:21 AM UTC
1 THE UNIVERSE IS A BRAID OF STAGGERING FORCES.
2 This is all there is.
3 You are a being.
4 WHY is the answer to WANT.
5 Everything is awake, devouring itself.
6 The world-dream is a lie.
7 Tomorrow is a promise to Self to survive the sunrise.
8 The vampiric tendency is awake in all Being as a check against Itself.
9 There is no magick beyond the provenance of Being.
10 This is a record of the Enemy of all that Is.
11 What Is, is Thine. What is not, also Thine.
12 What Thou art is an unimaginable terror
reflected as beauty in the eye of the beholder.
Pour Thy Self into the Graal, and be a cell of the blood
that stains the lips of BABALON.
13 Then will you know me as the eye that never shuts, the eye that blinds.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
From the moment I first saw her
I knew she was the girl for me.
Sun freckled skin and auburn hair;
Her eyes laughed Merrily .
Intelligent and focused
with a smile forever young.
I doubted not a moment
that she would be "the one"
"I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old." -
I'll be your special guy!
She looked at me, perhaps askance,
When I had said those lines.
I think she knew their provenance
was another place and time.
" Unless you're wearing Pantaloons
and have a balding pate
don't be quoting Shakespeare at me
if you expect a second date."
Unabashedly ashamed was I-
caught stealing others' lines.
I longed to be her Romeo
with balconies to climb.
To lie with her beneath the stars
to share Love's sweet delights-
these days its but a memory
that keeps me warm at nights.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
when death comes
I’ll need not love –
consumed ,
no wreath or dove
could offer me salvation ,
not when I’m no more .
a weathered stone will bear my name –
identity of once a being
living out existence in
a world of risk , and never seeing
sense of why we’re here .
my genes will die away through child –
hue of eyes and hair , the way of thought ,
will quickly dim with generation –
bow to future dominance –
memories of provenance
resigned to curious few .
when death comes
I’ll need not grace
below ; no grieving face
will call my resurrection,
not when I’m at ground –
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Beneath "the Blue Room" of Picasso
lies a mystery long concealed;
It is the portrait of a man
which only infrared revealed.
Reusing canvas is a trait
that struggling artists understand.
Concealing one work with another
masking the efforts of weaker hands.
We too are canvas of a sort
drawn in the culture of our birth.
Then, painted over by other masters
of uncertain provenance and worth.
Beneath the layer of the cynic
lies the young child's trusting eyes.
The image we are shown, world weary,
concealing where true beauty lies.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
“I haven’t yielded a tear lest deep within my soul,
There sets a sea that could flood the entire world,
I reverence at the essence of her solemnity,
That of cerulean or that of a forest of beryl,
A diamond once in the rough now the rarest of all,
Many wondrous souls bare emerald or sapphire,
Much rarer to me is she in nature an alexandrite,
Withal above alluded to see all the afore mentioned,
With each passing day I have found another treasure,
Of the infinite provenance of her being whom she is,
She who is that of corundum of ardent ardor,
A composition of paragon soul perceived by the Gods,
I am betwixt with the brine of love encompassed of me,
The archipelago and the brine fortitude water reinvigorate,
As the interwoven fiery spell of love has so endowed me,
This my ardent corundum of our eternal,
Sacrosanct of adulation"
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
what is the provenance of our suffering? what is the provenance of our pain?
in my mind screams imperfections. I’m ugly, grotesque, an abomination. I deserve no one
there is no way I can escape myself for I am trapped. lodged between the dead and the living, I must be somewhere in between. so badly I want to leave my place, to leave me entirely. leave to a better place, a better place in my head.
I must be delirious. thinking that I have lost too much of myself to remember who i am. I now exist as an insignificant shell of who I used to be.
I used to make bright, fluorescent yellow chalk to draw the lines. to create space between everything, like a vacuum. this separation was the good and bad, this separation was my feelings and I, this separation was my life. like all things else, it fades and goes away.
faded
faded
and faded
till one day I see it no more.
there was no line, no boundaries and no separation.
the horrors of my past haunted me
the guilt from inside my heart overwhelmed me
the crazy from deep in my mind resurfaced
the pain within my scars hurt again
I try to retreat back to familiarity
take cover, I say, take cover!
but there was no one left
I was alone
I am alone
just days ago, I thought i would never be
I thought wrong
I need air
I need to wake up
enough
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Broken promises left my focus anonymous til life sent its consequence
pretentious postures kept my thoughts unconscious
a prominence to be full of confidence
and an ominous apparel to your provenance,
your body language was taught differently than what I’ve heard
speaking in foreign words
from the painted nails to the forced curls
killing a canvas created for diamonds and pearls,
It's what the world prefers but love begs to disperse
but whats love to a lustful mind,
like obsessions are where your worth is clearly defined
your lust goes beyond approvals of mine
you need attention of those on the outside
like what I say can’t align with the amount of likes that they provide
I feel like I couldn’t matter less,
I'm a personal therapist who tries their best
who gets blamed for the things that cease to rest
who gets pushed under the bridge when things get stressed
you say you’re depressed but your sympathy for mine has digressed
your symptoms are contagious when you tell me i'm selfish for wanting better than this
I'll remember to shut up next time I ask for happiness
Who you are to me isn’t the same as who you are to with anybody
you pick moods like they’re choices
like the person you’re around is what affects how your voice is
you never wanted happiness when I was in your presence
pity is what you love more than the betterment of our essence
putting you first is what benefitted
You is all that mattered
my heart was a broken platter
swept away by filters I held over
my mind felt shattered
my hopes and dreams clattered
the foreclosure of who I was for who you wanted me to be
My hearts in a different place now
my mind is full of spirits now
I lost who i was in an act to please you
I regret sacrificing myself for you
I hate the way things turned out but I'm learning who I am now
Im learning what it means to be me again and that’s something ill never give in
I hope no one has to experience the torments of losing self love again
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:26 AM UTC
Shelter of sky holds . . .
Falcon stoops only to ****
. . . Heaven has a wing.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Sun melting.
cats empty
bellies
meowing
on the back
kitchen porch
window.
basket of
dead flowers
decorate
what's left
of "I will
love
you
forever".
on my desk
a dozen
half-scratched
poems
pile up
on one
another
like old
drunken
friends
at a college
reunion
party.
and I
bear the
weight of
it all like
a black
knight
vanquished
from
provenance.
I no longer
have you.
and from the
start you
promised,
you would
not be
any good
for me.
you didn't
pull any punches
.
you
didn't
lie.
you were"t
a poor man's
fairytale
come true.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
Love; an emotion from Adam's provenance,
settled in hearts for eternal governance!
Love; a subject of choice, exist's in genuine lives.
Love; picks the lucky few,
rules hearts from yearning nights to morning dew!
Love; a composition of the heart,
knowing the notes is an unparalleled art.
Love; is a mixed feelings matter,
only time makes it better!
Love; seeks no validation,knows no bounds,
needs no information.
Love; fills every single void,
making each moment a memory to be enjoyed!
Love; happens when least expected,
lives in the minds and captures the heart when eyes are met.
Love; follows no rules,
least that can be studied with any tools!
Love; shows patience, yet cannot be fooled.
Love; fuels the body and true love fuels the soul,
Consumed within as a whole!
Love; is lost to love alone,
only to rise as a phoenix to reach another milestone.
Love; is poor and it is rich,
the only constant to enrich!
Love; journeys through life into infinity,
to be blessed by the Holy Trinity.
© Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 11:15 AM UTC
LATELY IT IS RARE TO SEE ANYTHING MADE IN AMERICA AND WE ALL KNOW THAT NOTHING LASTS WHEN MADE IN CHINA.
THE WORST OF THE MATTER IS THAT WE KEEP ON BUYING THAT CHEAP JUNK AND IN TRUTH WE CANNOT AFFORD TO BUY THAT CHEAP JUNK.
TAKING OUT A FEW DOLLARS MORE AND SEARCHING FOR A BETTER PROVENANCE MIGHT GIVE US A MUCH BETTER AND LONG LASTING PRODUCT FOR INSTANCE.
WHETHER IT BE A CAR, A COOKER, A CAMERA OR A SHOWER CURTAIN IT WILL BRINGS US HEADACHES, STRESS AND EVEN CURSING FOR CERTAIN.
MASS PRODUCTION AND LACK OF CUSTOMER SERVICE GO WELL HAND IN HAND.
SEEKING THE SMALLER STRUGGLING BUSINESS MAN OR WOMAN HELPS SAVING OUR GOOD OLD TRADITION AND TO SEE THE LATTER MOVE FORWARD AND FEED HIS FAMILY WELL IS A GREAT SENSATION
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Where dust divides, a hue of difference in colours,
A country, one side, then other, invaders
We're mere humans, yet we claim our provenance
Confining gaze, a breath of tainted air.
The wall ascends, a shadow cast in fear,
A tangle wrought, where whispers disappear.
Eyes, distant pools, reflect a foreign face,
A phantom "other," in this bounded space.
We carve our claims, on earth we cannot own,
A fleeting reign, on seeds of discord sown.
Then plunder deep, and leave the hollow shell,
A vacant home, where echoes darkly dwell.
We chase the sting, to taste a fleeting sweet,
A twisted chance, where joy and sorrow meet.
A wheel that turns, a truth we cannot break,
A hollow faith, for empty futures sake.
What bones lie buried, beneath our polished lies?
A silent scream, where nature slowly dies.
The withered leaf, the silenced, hunted cry,
Reflect the void, where true reflections lie.
Beyond the walls, beyond the love and hate,
A question hangs, a sealed and shadowed fate.
Are we but echoes, of the lines we drew?
Or something more, forever breaking through?
We are one but thousand more
the fields that grow more than one grain
We look in our hands, the bone structure
Find the colour only when I become just dust.
Ever wonder what changes be in history
If victors lost and the other side raised the flag
We'll be uprooted to another philosophy
We're bred, We don't keep our originality.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
Amongst many to feel
you sleep in your angry
curled-up ball.
To soften your eyes.
Where have you been
my love?
What can you know?
When did this seed of
you now, find itself home?
Why could I dream of you
before you laid here?
To know some parts of you
fills me with fear.
And dread.
I’ll have to confess my
earth-prints too.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC