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Michael R Burch Apr 2022
The Shijing or **** Jing or Shih-Ching (“Book of Songs” or “Book of Odes”) is the oldest Chinese poetry collection, with the poems included believed to date from around 1200 BC to 600 BC. According to tradition the poems were selected and edited by Confucius himself. Since most ancient poetry did not rhyme, these may be the world’s oldest extant rhyming poems.

Shijing Ode #4: “JIU MU”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
thick with vines that make them shady,
we find our lovely princely lady:
May she repose in happiness!

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose clinging vines make hot days shady,
we wish love’s embrace for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!

In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose vines, entwining, make them shady,
we wish true love for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!


Shijing Ode #6: “TAO YAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its flowers are fragrant, and bright.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will manage it well, day and night.

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its fruits are abundant, and sweet.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it welcome to everyone she greets.

The peach tree is elegant and tender;
it shelters with bough, leaf and flower.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it her family’s bower.


Shijing Ode #9: “HAN GUANG”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the South tall trees without branches
offer men no shelter.
By the Han the girls loiter,
but it’s vain to entice them.
For the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.

When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall thorns to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their horses.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.

When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall trees to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their colts.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.


Shijing Ode #10: “RU FEN”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches in the brake.
Not seeing my lord
caused me heartache.

By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches by the tide.
When I saw my lord at last,
he did not cast me aside.

The bream flashes its red tail;
the royal court’s a blazing fire.
Though it blazes afar,
still his loved ones are near ...

It was apparently believed that the bream’s tail turned red when it was in danger. Here the term “lord” does not necessarily mean the man in question was a royal himself. Chinese women of that era often called their husbands “lord.” Take, for instance, Ezra Pound’s famous loose translation “The River Merchant’s Wife.” Speaking of Pound, I borrowed the word “brake” from his translation of this poem, although I worked primarily from more accurate translations. In the final line, it may be that the wife or lover is suggesting that no matter what happens, the man in question will have a place to go, or perhaps she is urging him to return regardless. The original poem had “mother and father” rather than “family” or “loved ones,” but in those days young married couples often lived with the husband’s parents. So a suggestion to return to his parents could be a suggestion to return to his wife as well.


Shijing Ode #12: “QUE CHAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove occupies it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will attend her.

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove takes it over.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will escort her.

The nest is the magpie's
but the dove possesses it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages complete her procession.


Shijing Ode #26: “BO ZHOU” from “The Odes of Bei”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This cypress-wood boat floats about,
meandering with the current.
Meanwhile, I am distraught and sleepless,
as if inflicted with a painful wound.
Not because I have no wine,
and can’t wander aimlessly about!

But my mind is not a mirror
able to echo all impressions.
Yes, I have brothers,
but they are undependable.
I meet their anger with silence.

My mind is not a stone
to be easily cast aside.
My mind is not a mat
to be conveniently rolled up.
My conduct so far has been exemplary,
with nothing to criticize.

Yet my anxious heart hesitates
because I’m hated by the herd,
inflicted with many distresses,
heaped with insults, not a few.
Silently I consider my case,
until, startled, as if from sleep, I clutch my breast.

Consider the sun and the moon:
how did the latter exceed the former?
Now sorrow clings to my heart
like an unwashed dress.
Silently I consider my options,
but lack the wings to fly away.



The Song of Magpies
Lady ** (circa 300 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The magpies nest on the Southern hill.
You set your nets on the Northern hill.
The magpies escape, soar free.
What good are your nets?

When magpies fly free, in pairs,
why should they envy phoenixes?
Although I’m a lowly woman,
why should I envy the Duke of Sung?



A Song of White Hair
by Chuo Wen-chun (2nd century BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My love is pure, as my hair is pure.
White, like the mountain snow.
White, like the moon among clouds.
But I lately discovered you are double-minded.
Thus, we must sever.
Today we pledged our love over a goblet of wine.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk alone
beside the dismal moat,
watching the frigid water
flow east, and west,
dismal myself in the bitter weather.
Should love bring only tears?
All I wanted was a man
with a single heart and mind,
for then we would have lived together
as our hair turned white.
Not someone who wriggled fish
with his big bamboo pole!
A loyal man
Is better than rubies.



Spring Song
by Meng Chu (3rd century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One sunny spring, either March or April,
when the water and grass were the same color,
I met a young man loitering in the road.
How I wish that I’d met him sooner!

Now each sunny spring, whether March or April,
when the water and grass are the same color,
I reach up to pluck flowers from the vines;
their perfume reminds me of my lover’s breath.

Four years, now five, I have awaited you,
as my vigil turned love into grief.
How I wish we could meet in that same lonely place
where I would have surrendered my body
completely to your embraces!



A Song of Hsi-Ling Lake
by Su Hsiao-hsiao (5th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I ride in red carriage.
You canter by on dappled blue stallion.
Where shall we tie our hearts
into a binding love knot?
Beside Hsi-ling Lake beneath the cypress trees.



A Greeting for Lu Hung-Chien
by Li Yeh (8th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The last time you left
the moon shone white over winter frosts.
Now you have returned through a dismal fog
to visit me, still lying here ill.
When I struggle to speak, the tears start.
You urge me to drink T’ao Chien’s wine
while I chant Hsieh Ling-yun’s words of welcome.
It’s good to get drunk now and then:
what else can an invalid do?



Creamy *******
by Chao Luan-Luan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scented with talcum, moist with perspiration,
like pegs of jade inlaid in a harp,
aroused by desire, yet soft as cream,
fertile amid a warm mist
after my bath, as my lover perfumes them,
cups them and plays with them,
cool as melons and purple grapes.



Life in the Palace
by Lady Hua Jui
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At the first of the month
money to buy flowers
for several thousand waiting women
was awarded to the palaces.
But when my name was called,
I was not there
because I was occupied
lasciviously posing
before the emperor’s bed.



The End of Spring
by Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wind ceases,
now nothing is left of Spring but fragrant pollen.
Although it’s late in the day,
I’ve been too exhausted to comb my hair.
The furniture remains the same
but he no longer exists

leaving me unable to move.
When I try to speak, tears choke me.
I hear that Spring is still beautiful
at Two Rivers
and I had hoped to take a boat there,
but now I’m afraid that my little boat
will never reach Two Rivers,
so laden with heavy sorrow.



Sung to the tune of “I Paint My Lips Red”
by an anonymous courtesan or Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After swinging and kicking lasciviously,
I get off to rouge my palms.
Like dew on a delicate flower,
perspiration soaks my thin dress.
A new guest enters
and my stockings flop,
my hairpins fall out.
Pretending embarrassment, I flee,
then lean flirtatiously against the door,
******* a green plum.



Spring Night, to the tune of “Panning Gold”
by Chu Shu-Chen
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My jade body
remains as lovely as that long-ago evening
when, for the first time,
you turned me away from the lamplight
to unfasten the belt of my embroidered skirt.
Now our sheets and pillows have grown cold
and that evening’s incense has faded.
Beyond the shuttered courtyard
even Spring seems silent, forlorn.
Flowers wilt with the rain these long evenings.
Agony enters my dreams,
making me all the more helpless
and hopeless.



The Day Nears
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day nears
when I will once again
share the sheets and pillows
I have stored away.
When once more I will shyly
allow you to undress me,
then gently
expose my sealed jewel.
How can I ever describe
the ten thousand beautiful,
sensual ways you always fill me?



Sung to the tune of “Soaring Clouds”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You held my lotus blossom
between your lips
and nibbled the pistil.
One piece of magic rhinoceros horn
and we were up all night.
All night the ****’s magnificent crest
stood *****.
All night the bee fumbled
with the flower’s stamens.
O, my delicate perfumed jewel!
Only my lord may possess my
sacred lotus pond,
for only he can make my flower
blossom with fire.



Sung to the tune of “Red Embroidered Shoes”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you don’t know what you’re doing, why pretend?
Perhaps you can fool foolish girls,
but not Ecstasy itself!
I hoped you’d play with the lotus blossom beneath my green kimono,
like a ****** with a courtesan,
but it turns out all you can do is fumble and mumble.
You made me slick wet,
but no matter how “hard” you try,
nothing results.
So give up,
find someone else to leave
unsatisfied.



The Letter
by Shao Fei-fei (17th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I trim the wick, then, weeping by lamplight,
write this letter, to be sealed, then sent ten thousand miles,
telling you how wretched I am,
and begging you to free my aching body.
Dear mother, what has become of my bride price?



Chixiao (“The Owl”)
by Duke Zhou (c. 1100-1000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Owl!
You've stolen my offspring,
Don't shatter my nest!
When with labors of love
I nurtured my fledglings.

Before the skies darkened
And the dark rains fell,
I gathered mulberry twigs
To thatch my nest,
Yet scoundrels now dare
Impugn my enterprise.

With fingers chafed rough
By the reeds I plucked
And the straw I threshed,
I now write these words,
Too hoarse to speak:
I am homeless!

My wings are withered,
My tail torn away,
My home toppled
And tossed into the rain,
My cry a distressed peep.

The Duke of Zhou (circa 1100-1000 BC), a member of the Zhou Dynasty also known as Ji Dan, played a major role in Chinese history and culture. He has been called “probably the first real person to step over the threshold of myth into Chinese history” and he may be the first Chinese poet we know by name today, and the spiritual ancestor of Confucius as well.




Seeking a Mooring
by **** Wei
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A leaf drifts through infinite space,
a cold wind rends distant clouds.
The river flows seaward,
the tide repulses.
Beyond the moonlit reeds,
in unseen villages, I hear
fullers’ mallets
pounding wet clothing,
preparing for winter.
Crickets cry ceaselessly,
mourning the autumn frost.
A traveler’s thoughts
wander ten thousand miles
in such a night of strange dreams.
The tinkling sounds of bells
cannot disperse sorrows to come.
What will I remember
of this journey’s darkest hour?
Only ghostly veils of desolate mist
and a single fishing boat.



** Shuang-Ch’ing aka Shuangqing has been called “China's peasant woman poet.” She wrote in the 18th century.

To the tune “A Watered Silk Dress”
by ** Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Deepest feelings are hardest to divulge.
How to reveal a hidden love?
Swallowed tears well up again, return.
My hands twist, wilted flowers.
I lean speechless against my screen.

I’m frightened by my figure in the mirror,
a too-thin, wasted woman.
Not a springtime face,
nor an autumn face:
can this be Shuang-ch'ing?



To the tune “Washing Silk in the Stream”
by ** Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The warm rain falls unfelt
like delicate silk threads.
The farmer ***** a flower behind his ear,
trundles the grain from his field
to the threshing-room floor.
I rose early to water his field,
but he snapped I was too early.
I cooked millet for him
with smoke-reddened eyes
but he snapped I was too late.
My tender bottom was sore the entire day.



Bitter Rain
by Wu Tsao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bitter rain drenches my courtyard
as autumn wilts into winter.

I have only vague feelings
I’m unable to assemble into poems
because words diffuse with the drifting clouds and leaves.

After the golden sunset the cold moon rises out of a dismal mist.

But I will not draw down the blinds from their silver hooks.

Rather, my dreams will fly with the wind,
suffering the bitter cold,
to the jasper pagoda of your divine flesh.



LAO TZU

For Martin Mc Carthy, who put me up to all but the first translation.

Lao Tzu poems from the Dàodé Jing or Tao-Teh-Ching (“Scripture of the Way”):

An unbending tree
breaks easily.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing is weaker or gentler than water,
yet nothing can prevail against it.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That the yielding overcomes the resistant is known by all men
yet utilized by none.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why does the Sea exceed all streams? Because it does not exalt itself but is the more lowly. Even so, the sage.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage wears coarse clothes while concealing jade within his *****.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage does not hoard; having bestowed everything on others, he smiles, content.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When his last scrap has been spent on others, the sage is the richer still.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sage does not exalt himself; he prefers what is within to what is without.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Heaven’s net is vast but nothing slips through its mesh.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Daring boldness kills; boldness in not daring saves.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To recognize knowledge as ignorance is a noble insight.
To consider ignorance knowledge, a disease.
Because the sage recognizes flaws, he can be flawless.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ruling a large state is like broiling a bony fish.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ruling a large state is like poaching an octopus.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way of Heaven is like stringing a bow:
it brings down the high as it elevates the low.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wise don’t aggrandize their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wise don’t vice their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Be Like Water
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The highest virtue resembles water
because water unselfishly benefits all life,
then settles, without contention or needless strife,
in lowly cisterns.

Weep for the Dead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When seeing mounds of the dead
the virtuous weep for the loss of life.
When one is “victorious”
observe the mourning rites.

Avoid Boasting
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rather than overfilling,
it’s better to stop in time
and avoid overspilling.

Though you hone it to a point,
the edge will soon be blunt.

Though the salesman’s exploits are crowed,
in the end, what real good was his gold?

Reticence, when the day’s work is done,
Is the Way of Heaven.

The Wise
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The multitudes satisfy their eyes, tummies and ears, again and again,
while the wise consider them children.

Naming the Nameless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tao can be discussed, but never the Eternal Tao.
Names can be named, but never the Eternal Name.
There are known paths yet the Way remains uncharted.
The origin of the universe must be forever nameless
unless we call her the Mother of All.
Always the Secret awaits insight.
Thus when seeking the Ever-Hidden, we must consider its inner essence;
when seeking the Always-Manifest, we must consider its outer aspects.
Both flow freely from the same source, despite their different appellations
and both are rightly called mysteries.
The Mystery of mysteries is the Gateway to all Secrets,
the Door to all beginnings.

The Fountainhead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tao is all-pervasive,
an empty vessel yet fathomless,
the bottomless fountainhead from which everything springs!
It blunts the keen,
untangles the tied,
softens the glare,
harmonizes the light,
redistributes the dust motes more evenly,
resolves all complications.
A profoundly deep pool that is never exhausted,
the unknowable child who fathered the gods.

The Divine Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Spirit is limitless.
We call it the Divine Feminine,
from whom Heaven and Earth arose
and in whom they remain deeply rooted.
Delicate as gossamer, only dimly seen,
yet infinitely flexible, her strength inexhaustible.

The Valley Spirit
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The valley Spirit never runs dry,
the river to whom all waters run:
the Spirit of our Primal Mother.
Deeply rooting Heaven and Earth,
to most eyes a delicate veil dimly seen,
yet a never-failing Fountainhead.

Adhere to the Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Know the masculine
but adhere to the feminine
and be a valley to the sphere.
For if you’re a valley
constant virtue won’t desert you
and you’ll return to the innocence of infancy.
Know the bright
but stick to the shadows
and be an example for the realm.
For if you’re an example for the realm,
constant virtue will accompany you
and you’ll return to the Infinite.
Know the glorious
but adhere to the humble
and be a valley to the Sphere.
For if you’re a valley,
your constant virtue will be complete
and you’ll return to the uncarved block
the great Cutter does not cut away.

The World-Mother
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Something formed out of chaos,
born before heaven and earth,
inexpressible and void, is never renewed,
yet continues forever without failing:
the World-Mother.
I don’t know her name,
so I call her the Way.
Earth reflects the heavens;
the heavens reflect the Way;
the Way reflects all that is.

The Wisdom of Contraries
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s easy to control something at rest;
easy to handle the undeveloped;
easy to shatter the brittle;
easy to disperse the minute;
easy to deal with things before they get out of hand;
easy to manage affairs before they escalate.
A tree as wide as a man’s arms
sprang from a tiny seed.
A nine-story tower
rose from rock piles.
A journey of ten thousand leagues
begins with a single step.
Whoever meddles begets ruin.
Whoever grasps soon lets go.
The wise understand the advantages of non-action;
They lose nothing by not grasping and clinging,
while foolish people in their enterprises
often fail on the brink of success.
Be mindful from beginning to end
if you want to avoid failure.
The wise desire to be desireless;
they place no value on what is unavailable.
They learn how to live without learning,
yet correct the errors of scholars.
They advise conformity to nature
and avoid rash actions.

The Roots of Turbulence
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Heaviness lies at the root of lightness;
stillness begets turbulence.
Thus the nobleman heads his caravan
keeping a constant eye on his possession-laden wagons.
At night he sleeps secure behind high-walled towers,
undaunted and untroubled.
But how can the ruler of ten thousand chariots
discard the people so lightly from his thoughts?
The branch too high above the root is lost;
the aloof ruler is lost through turbulence.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rills to the Sea
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way is nameless.
The uncarved block is small,
but who dares claim it?

The world’s relation to the Way
is like rills’
to the Rivers and Seas.

True Greatness is Selfless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like the broadest River
the Way cannot be rerouted or deterred.
And while myriad creatures depend on it for life,
it imposes no authority
but works tirelessly without acclamation,
feeding its dependants without seeking to rule them.
Free of desires, it may be deemed “small,”
but because myriad creatures depend on it,
it may also be considered “great.”
And because it never claims greatness,
it is capable of greatness.

When the Way Holds Sway
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Way holds sway,
farm horses plough fertile fields;
but when it fails to prevail,
war-horses breed on closed borders.
There’s no greater crime
than to pander to needless desires,
no sickness worse
than not knowing what’s enough,
no greater disaster
than covetousness.
But whoever knows what’s enough
will be content with his fate.

The Way
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Way creates and nurtures all creatures,
rears and nourishes them,
sustains and matures them,
feeds and shelters them,
grants them life without possession,
benefits them but asks no thanks,
guides but imposes no authority.
Such is the mysterious virtue.

The Greatest of These Is Compassion
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world calls my Way vast,
says it resembles nothing else.
Precisely! And its vastness is why
my Way resembles nothing else.
For if it resembled anything else,
wouldn’t it then be small?
I have three treasures
that I cling to, and cherish.
First, compassion.
Second, moderation.
Third, not rashly advancing myself.
Being compassionate, I can show courage.
Being moderate, I can be generous.
Not rashly taking the lead, I can command.
Courage without compassion,
Generosity without moderation,
Leading from in front rather than from behind,
are certain to end in catastrophe.
With compassion you will win at war
and be invincible in peace,
for Heaven will protect you
when you act with compassion.

Keywords/Tags: Shijing, ****-Jing, Shih-Ching, translation, book, songs, odes, Confucius, Chinese, ancient, rhyme, rhyming, love, nature
These are modern English translations of ancient Chinese poems from the Shijing as well as poets like Li Bai, Du Fu, Lao Tzu and Tzu Yeh.
Addie Dec 2014
chalky white
or
deep tar black
afternoon quiet
but my head pounds
it could be
steam summer
or
prickly leaves
of autumn
but it never changes
though i hope i do
just as the uncarved block
hopes for an artist
to make it
beautiful
so the rain
and the wind
shape it instead
unless it can learn
to shape itself
Willem van Waas Nov 2013
Piercing through the outer skull,
Deeply into the brain, into the maiden thoughts of an unborn child,
You arrive at a magic place
Far past the feelings of this animal protected by it's mother.
Uncarved like dawn,
With its blueprints for a life it must live as other tell him to.
Past the deep rippled hills in his mind, into the forrest of feelings,
Filled with thoughts of happiness, with plenty of room for despair.
Purple trees and two green moons, creatures unknown to man.
The child kicks his mother, and the brain starts to tremble.
Trees fall down and start burning, it's starting to rain.
The child opens his eyes and starts to cry.
The mother looks at the baby and smiles.
I was looking through some old stuff, found this. I kind of liked it, so I thought I might share. It's both psychedelic AND about that this world is cruel, (if you didn't get that out yet). Cheers
Waverly Jan 2012
Laugh all you want,
but when I was a kid
I didn't watch
Thriller after dark.

But I danced.
I danced my *** off in that lit living
room
with Joci.

All night long,
popping
and moonwalking.

Now that I'm old(er)
I know how to build spaceships
and I can put
the popcorn
in the microwave
myself.

I can take the popcorn out of the microwave
and watch Thriller all night long.

But
then
my little woodpecker
came.

When I was
Cynical
with power
now and then,
I became
Raw
and uncarved
again.

We dance over the graves all night long.
Our tombstones are smooth
and we make light
together
with our feet.

Little woodpecker
what are you beginning to etch
in me now?
J Bjork Mar 19
Culture runs backwards:
strength is weakness,
soft is
empowerment-
dissuade yourself from
this rampant mindset
we've placed upon thrones,
instead find reserve to manifest
and bask in
this well of fluidity
that masculinity
can never hone

Heavy lies the crown,
it is hard
be free with the wind
like a fallen leaf
and you will catch
a safe ride home
from Mother Earth herself-
even though her tread
is unsteady,
she flows

Only when you are
certain
that there is
nowhere to be
except where you are,
will you find exemption
from the urge to shape
or control

The gut
is a compass,
let it guide you to
novelty,
and what lies beneath
the surface: that is where
adventure begins,
it takes one big leap
but you will let go
until there is nothing
left to rescind
03/25
Shrouded encountering everyday alchemy
Wandering there where the mosses may talk to me
Under and over the ivy’s low canopy
Making my way in pursuit of some sanity

Sunlight is thwarted on slopes leading north as I
Silently savor the shadows that multiply
Junipers stretch between neighbors deciduous
Pine trees lie prostrate with limbs discontiguous

Here in the graveyard where logs become mortified
All forms of fungus will work up their appetite
Turning cadavers of trees into sustenance
Learning that death is a new source of succulence

Labyrinths circle and twist like a tentacle
Cloister-like pacing, profound-ecumenical
Joyfully chirping like children on helium
Life everlasting, give thanks to mycelium
I've been hung up lately on the rolling rhythm of dactylic tetrameter.
I feel like it’s better to listen than talk
And faster to run, though it’s wiser to walk
A field to be tilled
Or a cup yet unfilled
For this is the way of the unsculpted rock
Abhinay Renny Aug 2016
I found the God in stone
Uncarved. Unchiseled

Enormous mountain
Filled in green
Air caressing the trace
Swishing the leaves to lean

Exuded with the petrichor
I get wished by the rain.

Every atom around the mountain
spreading peace with its presence

There I found the God, in stone.
There I found the God, in stone.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
the more i stick to a routine
that might leave a few people in a mental
asylum,
    who would not welcome
frustration, doing the same thing,
over and over again,
   i.e. going to a supermarket and buying
whiskey and coke, becoming "too" friendly
with one of the shop assistants,
    knowing her name,
that's she's diabetic:
i'm only in here for the whiskey luv...
it's not that i mind,
  it's about as close i'll ever become
bewildered at life, in general...
      **** Jupiter and a moon-landing,
this bothers me more,
   i don't get the puppy-eyed look
of people embarking on a philosophical
odyssey -
i don't know why i should be prescribed
the Aristotelian: beginning with awe
  type of management of the subject,
or what Nietzsche predicted,
   and is currently known:
the narrative in the west,
alias: talking for the entire human species...
   that ****** uber-schnurrbart
really did see something...
   now i'm experiencing it,
  it's called 2 billions worth of China and India...
i'm actually, sometimes found,
listening to pointless youtube videos...
  i get it: it can get a little bit *****,
my bachelor status isn't exactly orientated
around diapers, although,
as Borat might have said:
that would be nice...
         you know they filmed that movie
in Romania, and not Kazakhstan?
              it's almost a bid sad to be around
poverty, and tribalism,
     can't make a joke out it,
couldn't make a mid-western gothic out
of it either... what with t.v. in your own company....
and yes, oddly enough...
   i have a bed, and i turn on the radio,
i never fall asleep watching the t.v.,
must be a western thing... you dig?
    1950s slang, more comprehensible than
anything i could ever hear from the slang
quarter of language these days...
   the latin quarter? busy...
literally... greece and italy backrupt...
    so, hey man, what's it like not able
to *** around the country doing factotum jobs?
    what's with that over-arching
castration concept of living with your parents?
ah, you know man,
   ****'s on the stove, and i hit a ****** note
with my saxophone...
sound very much like a wet ****...
you know, the **** you **** that almost feels
like ingesting carbonated water through your ****,
what's the word: trembling, frizzy?
    you know: do the motorboat with your lips...
i woke up today and didn't feel like living,
but the noose wasn't exactly an option...
my grandparent's neighbour?
hanged himself on a door-****,
i was visiting them when it happened...
****'s sake! on a door-****?
                      that's really desperate...
    i mean: i wish i was that guy...
but at least in the case of capital punishment:
when it was still active...
   you got the scaffold... and you dropped...
and your neck broke, and it was death in an instant...
   he had a gimp for an executioner...
   so yeah, life's cool,
i drank that wine i made in less than a week,
35 litres of it...
         i woke up today, thought:
give me the downhill... right now!
i thought i'd delay *******...
          built a quasi lego piece of the Eiffel tower,
then decided... i need to brush my teeth...
had a shower...
              then i cooked dinner...
  well... dinner two days in advance...
one sauce was a spaghetti bolognaise...
another a sauce for cottage (i.e. using beef,
not lamb) pie...
made some funky cool poh-ta-toes...
               for yesterday's roast beef,
left uncarved the previous day by being
left to get the thrill man gets
   ******* and jumping out of an ice bath...
so the juices condense, and you can almost
make out the pink flesh on the second day...
and some ménage à trois.... oh sorry...
too much Dell Boy Trotter in me at the moment:
gosh... the memories of watching that twichy
character on screen... mangetout...
and in between i took off the washing from
the washing lines in the garden...
             faked smoking sitting in the february
cold for a while...
   that's 2 meals in advance that is...
      and this really belongs to a creed that states:
if you can read... it's better to read about
something that doesn't have cars blowing up,
or avalanches... or dams bursting in northen
california... well: it's not exactly
   tolstoy's war and peace... but it's something
that allows for sensationalism of the news
and the odd chance of seeing a good movie...
    or i guess: the antidote to a good poem,
is the worst imaginable poem, actually...
saying that: people call poems bad when
they are rigid in using technique...
poetic technique... i prefer a stance on
spare of the moment / spontaneity than something
that might require a hammer of metaphor
and a nail of a pun...
           some call it innovation,
others can't say much because they're myopic...
and lo! yonder the savannah and the buckling
gazelle! right on the chin...
hoofs, no shoelaces, back legs made front legs
into spaghetti... and there... a plum on the chin...
boom... down onto the green...
          another consideration would be
a man in clown make-up crying,
    and a fat-cat billionaire laughing...
    or was that ever, not the case?
  it has to be idiosyncratic, this english "thing"
of calling laughter crying and crying laughter...
     it actually is a very english "thing",
when you get too much psychology,
about how keeping the word ego can complicate
merely saying i...
  and there's no other latin word in sight,
and you then get egoism, and egocentrism...
    i mean: what's up with that basis for a theory,
    evidently it's a case of the word becoming
too uncomfortable, since no one actually says
  ego cogito ergo ego sum... it suddenly drops off
and people who say the above end up only saying
cogito ergo sum... and is that why people
you can actually ascribe so much theory to the ****** word
that might rob people from having a narrative?
    rob the people of a narrative and you return them
into a state of being pulverised by 5 vectors,
the pentagon of the senses,
    and evidently they're unable to narrate their
day-to-day, because they're herded like wild
hysterical animals... even though they are
given the membrane of civilisation...
      it really is a case of somehow not embarking
into keeping the latin and the north barbarian
words... how can you keep up
with ego, i, self? how long will this italian
**** of bulimia and gluttony last?
     you want to keep spewing that *******
for another 100 years?
evidently there is no theory concerning i,
there's merely an ipod...
              sure sure, you could only derive a
theory if you said the unit wasn't i
(because that would be too personal to construct
a narrative) - but had to be
   the reflective ego, and the reflexive self...
i.e. that string of pronoun compounds known
as myself, itself, himself...
   and when given the scalpel... my self
   (which becomes a reflective stance on meditating
the words, rather than a reflexive pronoun
in its original... no huh? but thump!
on yer bike! go!).
   i call them for what they are...
        yes, and my parents are great,
cooked them dinner...
   just about now, when in the 1970s and 1980s...
when the first cold war was happening,
the americans / the west merely wanted
to feed stories into the soviet union,
if every spying was a c.v. joke, it happened
when ian flemming wrote his series...
   what ever happened to a campfire and telling
stories, or when we told horror stories to each other?
  spying: can you just imagine
what the job description would look like?
pst... it's a secret.
       but you know, the americans had this thing
of telling stories to the "enemy",
     false news...
                it's so obvious now, since everyone
seems to be onto it...
     well... it's happening in england, right now,
but it's not exactly an attack scenario...
it's self-mutilation, yes, a masochism...
  you reach a real dead-end when you tell lies
to yourself... and that's what england is sitting
on: an implosion of well... the n.h.s. in crisis...
the housing crisis...
                 you name it...
  i guess there were many people out there,
willing to sacrifice their sanity, by appropriating
the excesses of c.c.t.v. voyeurism,
mingled with the excesses of ***** that paved
the way to this massive delusion of the next
jain boond to swing on a rope into a gorilla
enclosure and beat the **** out of a 300kg gorilla,
Klitschko style! bang! bang boom!
    silverback gorilla on a torture rack!
job done.
       no, i get it... a girl got to kick-box and a girl
got to play footie... cos girl can...
     wait till she don't get a: fragile heart...
like mine, writing odes about
walking past a church when the church bells ring
eleven times, and there's the moon...
  it will become very very pointless writing
about hearts of porcelain in the future,
      but just as nietzsche pointed out:
imagine talking for the entire human race...
yes, i can, or should i say could? because i don't
have to...
   the western narrative is so up it's own
*** talking about species, while the Moldovians
are talking about Ukranians,
the Poles are talking about Germans,
   the Italians... they talk all the time,
so who cares?
                but it's this globalisation vocabulary
that's halting, and making me think:
the Genghis Khan tribe isn't exacrtly in
the news? they must have neighbours!
they must actually know the people living near them...
well...
   on my street... 6 houses in a row of
identical architecture, i.e. built in the 1940s...
   first house, sikhs...
    parents went to the daughter's wedding,
woman brought over some curry,
   i ended up making even better curry...
my cat is left in their care while i'm away
visiting my grandparents,
   i get this panic attack premonition
  that i need to be back home when i'm away...
   i come back home, the cat is dead...
   we rarely speak these days...
  he was on aspirins, and yes, cats take a ******
long time to die from kidney failure...
ever watch a cat ****? cats take a shorter amount
of time to take a **** than ****...
   watching a cat **** into the toilet it like
watching a person drinking a melchizedek sized
wine bottle...
   a cat could be a man
   as a man taking a **** as in the cat taking a ****
and reading a newspaper...
     seems we're parallel creatures,
  i exfoliate and massage my **** muscles
by taking extra time with them stretched open
once the bombs away passes...
    and i'm just sitting there:
  to vank?! or not to vank? or what i call:
the 3 in 1.
        well, you can't exactly think about
lighting scented candles and doing it in bed,
can you?
      you'd have to be a woman to do that,
and invest in a good ***** replica
of a man that would only tell her:
honey... tree bears.
    do i sometimes think about putting it into
a moist couch-like environment?
   yeah... but i guess ******* is a bit like
doing ****... **** the bone and those muscles man!
   ****? yeah... never did it...
biblical regulations...
              about the same time when
heterosexuals take over from the once famed
taboo provocateurs in the homosexual department...
haven't seen a worthwhile Oscar Wilde come from
that scene for years... maybe i wasn't looking,
ah yes, they're too busy being "normal" and starting
families... funs over... and so is the art.
no wait, all i wanted to say is that
what nietzsche said in the 19th century,
  the anglophone world is trapped in it's own
end product of globalisation, and this whole:
speaking for the entirety of humanity doesn't have
and local thrill to it, no local accent,
      it's scary, to be the only language willing
to speak for the entire human race,
  and, when travelling to other places in the world
realising that you were pretty much:
not thinking, and merely talking to your self...
    i have that taste for foreign cultures...
   you can hardly hear an existential argument
in the same vein as you might hear in england...
     basically... i just think that english is
over-streched...
     in the case of russian, it's stretched:
but contained with interlocking tribes of people...
if i want to hear english sprechen in the pacific
it's a 12 hour flight to australia...
               i can't imagine talking for
the entire human race... and given this
seemingly ancient german, i'm imagining it
as the counter-argument of the current narrative,
because i can't even state that i'm in awe of it,
but more or less apprehensive about it...
given the numbers... the total anglophone world
doesn't even number that of China...
and you know, infiltrating that place with
the complexity of the encoded sounds that are
later echoed back as Xin Ping...
    who lived in Beijing...
            you really have to address either silent,
or talking about something so complicated,
that it would equal the Chinese encoding system...
  otherwise it's falling through the holes...
oh look... q r o p a d b g...
  the best we can do is make silence complicated,
since what i'm hearing: isn't exactly complicated...
on youtube most noteworthy...
   oh right, almost forgot...
the other neighbours on my 6 house line
are a Jewish family... well... sorta...
   just a literal mad-house... we get on fine...
and after that: 3 houses, natives, so yeah, english...
all of them broken families...
   the neighbours next to mine are:
woman in her late 40s... man in his early 50s...
about to have a child...
       after that it's single mother and son,
and after that divorcee and... like... dunno...
     they thought the indians were savages
moving across the pond...
              i'm sitting here having a right old laugh...
and it's a malicious laugh for the laugh in itself...
        last time i remembered
  taking a mouse from the mouth of my cat
after he caught it, and then releasing the mouse
  into my neighbour's garden...
   or a fly... crawling over my forehead
     while i took a selfie to exfoliate my face
like that of an acne riddled moon.
caspasta Jan 2015
a blind horizon   

dressed from head to toe in all black
he shades the ground he walks on piercing
blue eyes and hair of twilight
madness the desire
to leave this asylum of boredom
burns strong in his carefully caged heart
yet he lingers like a piece of lint on fabric
there’s something holding him back
perhaps
it’s the smell of hazy pollution
or
it’s the comforting shadows of tall figures

or perhaps it’s the arms around his frame
who think they know him best

tugging him from the unknown
down into the crevices of his childhood
down down down
down down
down

down

down

the thing is
he thinks he is
not so far down that he can’t stand again
he knows that his legs work and he know his city by heart
knows every street sign and every gutter
knows every turn and every crack in the black sidewalks

but he’s tired of knowing
he wants to not
no
and the unknown
is what entices him
draws him to his boots and to his nearly

empty

bag
he waits til night where it blendsin with black city
he’s just another bug crawling through the dirt now
it’s quiet but the
silence
hurts his ears and clouds his mind
it’s too loud
he has no map because he does not know where to begin
he just follows the stars laid out before his black city
and attaches his blue eyes to the brightest white and walks
forward forward forward

backward
one last look
will he come back
he doesn’t want to know

the nights are comforting, reminding
him of the place he left
behind
the days are long and hot
hot, an unfamiliar feeling
that crawls from his ankles to his brow
one long creature of perspiration
leaving a trail of novelty behind him

he’s now a crow against the white clouds
white, not grey
white, not black
bright, not dark
bright, it hurts his eyes!
squeeze them tight and wait a few more hours
wait just wait and it’ll be over
how was he to know of this blinding backdrop
he wasn’t

at night when he rests
he barely lights a fire
the flames too hot and bright
like the day he dreads tomorrow

he feels exposed and
vulnerable now in the clear, wavering air
he doesn’t like it
he didn’t know

he decides he doesn’t like the sun
he decides he likes the sun
it provides a penetrating stare he’s not used to
not the shifty eyes and downturned faces he is
but it’s so hot and it hurts his skin
his eyes
his eyes that never knew light, bright white light
the sight he needs but doesn’t want to know
anymore

he needs this
he needs to know more
he needs

he doesn’t know what he needs

he continues down the uncarved path
and doesn’t look behind
him
afraid that if he does
he will turn and go back to the knowing world
he forces his feet to pound the stones
and keep walking
walking
he already knows how to walk

there are some things that he can’t let go of
those things that he knows
and knows how to do them
they will always be with him
he knows how to walk
to talk to breathe to sleep to eat to drink to sit to stand

to run

running from the knowing
running to the unknown
run run run
keep running


stop
what’s that
a lonely other figure standing beside him
it’s a dark shade coloring the white ground beneath
him
it takes awhile
for him to realize that it’s his shadow
cast from the burning star above
he revels in this newfound companionship
he’s found a piece of himself on this path
he’s found something he knows
amazing
how something so starkingly beautiful can
come from something he’s learned to hate
this unknown balance has him smiling

he wants it to rain
wants to feel the cooling sensation
that horripilation
that awakens him from momentary slumber

he wants the wind
that invisible force that pushes and pulls
him in all directions

he wants darkness back
not just a wanderer that follows his every
move

he misses it, that vast city
that bathes its citizens in calming blackness
in dark knowing

he pushes forward
forward into the deep white abyss of
places foreign
and things unrecognizable

the unknown is tantalizing
and only the tantalizing can be clever enough
to catch its victims in a web of ugly misconceptions
unlike the black knowing miles from his feet
miles and miles and miles

his spine bends as he avoids the gaze
of the sun
careful or it will bend permanently
like the fuzzy shadow under his eyes

bring more light and more unrecognizable things
he only knew of black and different greys
but there are more
much more

he comes to a giant pool of water
with which the rim is far beyond the point of existing
he’s never known this much water all at
once

he continues to walk
he does not know how to move his arms
or his legs in such a fashion
and soon he’s buried deep within the pool

there’s a heavy silence
and a sinking feeling
he’s doesn’t move
but falls into the comforting darkness
into the unknown
Carlos PD Oct 2015
you are a rock.
a stone
uncarved
deeply scratched.
under the heat
of ice
cold
people
and the heavy weight
of downing
gravity,
you transform
into marble.
reflective
unmoving
hard
immobile.
but as with all things,
there is an equal and opposite
reaction
deduction
of a solution;
fly.
be the philosopher within the scientist
and exclaim
"it's gravity that's been dragging us down!"
be the child inside the old, grounded pilot
and look up
fly.
the impact of a planet's worth of gravity
is enough force to eject you out,
soar.
view the world
and survey the oceans and beaches.
start becoming the dreamer dreamers turn to to dream.
fly.
and be the moon.
you already are.
KB Sep 2014
I like to sip my iced coffee
Without the lid
It seems to look more accessible
Unlike the strings of stars
That remain in the sky; the ones
I trusted do not shine anymore
A box of Oreos sitting across
The wooden table sits nearly
Vacant and once again I’m reminded
Of you and your
Carefully drawn departure
Trailing you went all the ways
You worried that the plants
In the corner of my apartment floor
Would not get enough water
(I made a pond one day,
Scared to deprive them of your
Love like I was).
And how you only ate peanut butter
With sliced bananas
(The air smells like tangerines now).
All the soap in the world cannot
Erase the paint stains you left
On the bathroom counter next to
Your blue-orange toothbrush
Canvases are just better off
Untouched / Uncarved / Unloved
And always accessible.
LJW Jun 2014
vaguen
(Samuel Beckett, notation on MS of Happy Days)


I
Fire comes bouncing in from the
desert a threat to houses Here’s
what we do says the King to
Rudyard Kipling who is visiting
Stuff wet rags in the eaves throw
the silverware in the swimming
pool And my letters Rudyard
Kipling is thinking will you be
pressing my letters to your
breast as we skid towards
the car Truly diverse people
the King and Kipling one or
the other was always getting
his feelings hurt Above them
a strip of once blue sky now
dark adust


II
Nowadays there are technicians
of despair you can work at it
Going to the Buddhist study
group I pass a thin crumpled
man at a wall his face on the
bricks Behind him another big
black city legs wide apart roaring
Say you aren’t stupid then why
aren’t you happy


III
New guy at the Buddhist study
group Eyes cut to bits I want
he keeps saying So I don’t get
so he keeps saying A bunch
of sage grass has blown onto
his head and grown down into
his mind He shakes hands with
everyone over and over again
at the door


IV
I had previously been to
the Old South Thirty minutes
into the faculty dinner a man
to my left drops his eyes and
his voice says he murdered his
brother with a shotgun when
he was twelve The other diners
appear to have heard this
before On the plane home I
sit across from a vet with a
falcon on his lap It observes
the other passengers severely
Drinks apple juice from a
cup with very small silver
lips


V
At twenty-eight thousand feet
above the uncarved block of
NY state a cricket jumps onto
my coat Vaguen it says






Anne Carson currently teaches at NYU and will publish a handmade book called NOX in 2010. She is the author of Autobiography of Red, Plainwater, and other books of poetry, non-fiction, and mixed genre.
Malika Amatya Jun 2015
"I went through my old notebook
One after other,the pages were a surprise.
There were cross marks all over
As if the words were,all lies.

I smiled over every crosses
But then my heart felt sad.
Because I could not remember,
What did i want to write,So bad?

Just like my unfinished poems,
Are some unread books.
Few unsaid words,And the final looks.
The tears unrubbed,
And smiles unlaughed,
Few hugs unembraced
And memories uncarved.

There is a pain,And lies a pleasure
In some unquestioned questions,
And those unanswered answers.

In something that stays,But is gone.
In poems like this,Which is never a complete one.
jigyasa Jan 2017
there are so many questions to be asked.

theories of the universe
prophecies untold
codes hidden
answers bidden

flames of passion consume the artist
enrage the curious
tickle the delirious

the hill in my throat
sinks into valleys

with mustard grass that flows
prairie currents rippling through the peace
swooning deep and wide into the canyons

a diamond has many cuts and edges
facets cannot possibly describe you

my darling

uncarved
unchanged
meticulously ignorant

how do I help a man,
drowning in superficiality?

would not I rather
let the ocean lick him
the fires ***** him
the truth consume him

a rather passive existence
its all generic, like tissue paper

and my hope an eagle
perched on the branch of the universe

its all spontaneous.
Danny U Busch Apr 2022
An orphaned sky
yet almost blue
depicting wasteland beautiful
travel save, ye lonely bird
and take care of your thought and word

a single beat, a single song
abandoned lands, a moan so long
hurting kind, oh bless my soul
melancholia will take its toll

contoures blurred
in a view unkind
the difference of
the second sight

a stone uncarved
the tide unfilled
unequation - remain in light
straight ahead
neither left, nor right
straight ahead,
nor left, nor right

things unsaid,
things undone,
things unsomething,
songs unsung,
the road untravelled,
the weakness strong,
the deeds so many
but
too many turns wrong

oh faithful breath ye gentle wind
make me see the morning light
straight ahead
not left
not right…
written in 2015
Matt Jul 2015
About 7:30 p.m.

These are like slides
Picture frames in my mind

In the morning
Sitting in the car

The birds fly
From tree to tree

Stay with the ancient Tao

Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream
Alert, like men aware of danger
Courteous, like visiting guests
Yielding, like ice about to melt
Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood

Oh men of Tao
The ancient way is not lost
It is not lost
Ike Jan 2019
You are no longer part of
My world
Your name has been
Stricken.
I unmake this bond
I do not see you
I will not see you.

There is a hole in my heart
That cannot be made whole again
Because you were uncarved
And I'm ok with it.
One can only long so much
I do not beg

You are undone and absolute
This road is not a path
I am not sorry
I am happy
Without you.

This is not goodbye
This is silence
And I wish for it to
Cut deep.

I offer you peace
Without me
Carry on or not
I am now unexistence
and you are not part of my world.
Sean Cocca Jun 2019
The simple beauty
of an uncarved block of stone
is almost sublime.

To be everything
and nothing at the same time --
God is in the stone.
Simon Monahan Nov 2017
Eyes of fire set deep in gaunt, sunken face
Sun-burnt skin over bones stretched tight
Wild mane glimmers with holy light
The lonely prophet barefoot runs his race

Sat down on uncarved stone on the salt plains
In wilderness heat off’ring prayer
As arid winds tousle his hair
The sun will set, night falls, yet he remains

Chanting psalms over wastes in desert haze
Fasting, searching, waiting for One
Sighing beneath the beating sun
Searing bruised soles walking sands all ablaze

Heart heavy with the taunts of his brother
Rememb’ring mighty works long past
To the old promise holding fast
Dreaming new hope for Zion his mother

Battered by visions of hail and thunder
Summoned, plague and blight to predict
God’s edict none may contradict
Tyrants to fell and kingdoms to sunder

In threadbare raiment of camel’s tired coat
Commands for rended heart he heeds
A call from empty words to deeds
Found wanting now the blood of lamb and goat

Glancing past the veil, lo! above the dome
The glory of Him on the throne
To whom is worship due alone
Intoning a strain to sing exiles home
Onoma Nov 2024
an elderly man in Prague threw out
his Sunday paper, in the same trashcan
he always does--for a sense of order.
a northern mockingbird still lies dead
on the steps leading to our basement
door.
the epilogue of two November nights
tried to convince the third not to show
up an hour early.
the I Am caught a red leaf while in full
stride, then let it go a few steps later.
pumpkins with carved faces are
disappearing--while uncarved pumpkins
may see another month.
the Atlantic now wears Long Island like
a sleep mask--as a Great White draws
elusive parallels under cold waves.
a broken plate was found to
symbolize the connective tissue of
character development, in a bargain-bin
novel.
Norbert Tasev May 2020
Whoever you may have been in the shackles of your past, now you are wandering aimlessly, pouring in the apostate hours of the day: What you thought was certain to be kept, and what you thought was easily escaping your punching hand these days! - You don't need more desire to prove: In the process, your former merry allies emerge: In joy and sorrow, your girlfriends, friends, colleagues - did not exist here on this earth! There is also a thirty-year sketch of your body as a question of why and how: Your everyday tried and worn nerves are strained through strings.

the matured and lying lie-off peace of suffering, emotions. Whoever you were as a rabbi of your past, now the Present scatters and shares your tried memories: Everyday proofs! For a long time you were hesitant, half-hearted, speechless, struggling with conscious silence: It would have been nice to call secrets with open-hearted, sincere-minded people - only for the One, True word!

Afraid, I have all left the shores of peace. Once again, I should start to stubbornly and proudly resurrect with elevated consciousness and faith - while I can and can: Beauty will be in the constant, mortal cycle as well: The redeemable mortality of Existence, your little one!

Now you are still carrying yourself deep in yourself, your thoughtful and imagined fall, because you have never let go and let the trembling little people fall asleep embedded in the depths of your heart to crawling, soul-seeing eyes!

Your unruly confidence, your unbroken confidence in the immortality of letters, is now still the object of ridicule: Standing alone, standing alone! - Whoever you were behind your little boy's mask: In the outbursts of rage of natural elements who want to rage, demand and so proclaim the moral Humanity,

"You can be sure once again, if you believe in him, an uncarved world-thrown, hermit of the mountains." The Redeeming Peace is making its way more and more urgently in you
Michael John Jun 22
dear crow,

wish dream as below
so is above or so
a balance too

natural magic know
the imagination-the will
o..

the simple and beautiful
from the weather to a feather
humanity and co..

ii

you are a little boy
flapping his hands
at what he wants but doesn´t..

crying and crying..
you want mummy´s hand
you want to waste..

when you have what you wanted
o dear-you don´t want it..
lying on the floor in the supermarket..

driving in your little car
o peep-peep
look at me..!

exactly the same as a
bottle of coca-cola dark
and clear..

and crow, who is to blame?
someone over there!
poor dear..hamburger..

iii

still,there is redemption
an uncarved block-
a mirror..

there is always the sun
love literature and love
agree to differ..

others like you love
yourself..learning..
etc..
So-Called “Russian World”

To drown in the “Russian World” —
Like in ****-filled tanks,
Or a stench-drenched ****-hole —
They’ve clearly lost their ranks.

Two-thirds gone deranged,
Now comes Cargo-Fascism:
A knockoff führer staged —
A clown of cataclysm.

They hoist their flag of rot,
March proudly with that shame.
And lying is their lot —
They breathe it like a flame.

Submission, blind obeying,
With cops in every hall.
And souls, decayed, decaying —
Drowned in the rashist sprawl.



---------------------




Drown in **** — they call it pride.
Fake führers march. The truth has died.



---------------------



This World

Lies, greed, and dullness —
No limit, no shame.
Fear fused with ruthless
Make madness the game.



---------------------




Greed and fear — the world’s new law.
Truth is dead. Behold the flaw.



---------------------



A Day Without Verse

"A day without verse" attacks —
Again it hunts me down.
Samsara’s claws and cracks
Still try to steal my crown.

You must not feed the Fire
To that devouring chain,
Or turn into a liar —
Just breeding, praying, plain.

Burn off a bit of health,
But write — and let it bleed.
Frown deep. That inner stealth
Is just the soul you need.

Despair’s a bitter wine,
But poets drink it raw.
The more we spill the line —
The less we care for law!



---------------------




Write through pain — or rot and breed.
Despair's the ink the soul will need.



---------------------



A World in Gloom

It lures, it lures, it lures —
Like cheese inside a trap.
It wounds, it wounds, it wounds —
This madness’ endless trap.

So much, so much, so much —
Too much deceit and lies.
No honor, God, or truth —
In this small world of ruth,
Only gloom, fear, and blind disguise.



---------------------




Lured by lies, trapped in gloom,
No truth or light — just endless doom.



---------------------



“Plague” and Gloom

“Plague” and gloom:
Gloom’s the terror,
“Plague” is lies —
Just a piece of the mirror.

“Plague” replaces tortures, vices —
False doctors, cops in power.
There’s one sickness cutting down
Almost all — dumb mind’s sour.

It begs for “cheese” once more —
“Plague” feeds it fascism’s core.



---------------------




Plague lies, gloom’s the dread,
Dumb minds march — fascists lead.



---------------------



The Kunstkamera

Pathetic prudes and liars,
False **** dressed up as kings.
Priests have crucified God’s fire;
Fools boast with broken wings.

A global Kunstkamera —
Stuck deep in every gut,
Where meek fools lost their honor,
Forgotten shame and cut.



---------------------




Liars, fools, a god denied —
In the world’s freak show, truth has died.



---------------------



The Kunstkamera

Pathetic prudes and filthy snakes,
Priests who nailed God to their stakes.
Fools puff up, their heads so wide —
False pride masked in empty lies.

The world’s a freak show, sick and stale,
A Kunstkamera from hell’s own jail.
Where docile idiots sold their soul,
Forgotten shame, no self-control.



---------------------




Priests betray, fools brag loud —
The world’s a circus, truth disavowed.



---------------------



Mass Executions

The soul is killed by wretched life —
A slow, relentless execution.
We mourn the Mind — while fear and strife
Roam free in filth's profusion.

They burn with lies like liquid fire,
And gas us with a toxic dread.
If you don't fight — the fall is dire:
When soul is gone, all else is dead.



---------------------




When soul is killed, all else is lost —
The silent grave exacts its cost.



---------------------



Mass Executions

The soul is slaughtered day by day
By life that stinks of ash and rust.
We walk a funeral parade
For Mind, now buried in the dust.

The liars torch the skies with fire,
Like ****** dreams that never fade.
Fear seeps like gas through barbed-wire silence —
A creeping, choking, black cascade.

No fight? Then nothing will remain.
The soul is gone — and so the flame.
This is the end. No trumpets sound.
Just rot and whispers underground.



---------------------




No soul — no dawn. No fight — no sky.
The world decays, but does not die.



---------------------



From One Pool to Another

It’s “high-stakes” play, they say —
The stake? A wretched life.
We’re melting down each day
In Hell’s refining strife.

The slime of lies surrounds,
It chokes in every breath.
Betrayal knows no bounds —
Corruption feeds on death.

Just spit — and odds are high
You’ll hit another swine.
This world, a drowning lie,
Where filth and fraud align.

The boilers overflow
With lies — they’re fed and stirred
By ******* down below,
While goats applaud the herd.

And school should teach anew:
Not pools of clean, fresh rain —
But basins full of stinking goo
Where fear and lies remain.



---------------------




Truth’s drowned. The world’s a sludge machine —
And fear flows in, where hope had been.



---------------------



Ripening

Gold
in grim
and fertile places
ripens
into grains
of grimness’ grinning graces —
while speaking plants,
those rarest ones,
are fodder for the Goat that runs.



---------------------




Gold grows in vice,
And truth’s a snack for goats who dice.



---------------------



Feast for the Flesh

Sip your tea,
Pet the cat —
The world’s gone "whee!"
And more than that:

If you betray,
You're called a sage.
If you don’t play —
You're out. No stage.

Preserve your mind?
Then lose it all.
The dull and blind
Devour and sprawl.

Hell would freeze
Without these fools.
The world’s diseased —
Checkmate: no rules.

When Mind and Soul
Are trash to **** —
The wretched toll
Serves only Kush.



---------------------




Mind is exiled. Flesh is fed.
The world bows down to greed instead.



---------------------



The Inevitable Shift of the “Roof” Toward the “Bright Future”

They shove your roof with "leaders" bold,
While acid rains from screens take hold.
Media drizzle rots the top —
And thought no longer dares to pop.

It’s plague disguised as rainfall thin,
And soon it eats straight through the tin.
That “leader” — now a grumpy brute,
Not yet a ******* in full suit.



---------------------




Rain of lies, decay of mind —
And tyrants dressed in humankind.



---------------------



The Gradual Displacement of the Roof Toward a Brighter Insanity
(from the notes of Dr. Mass Delirium)


The roof is shifting — led by Chiefs,
Installed like tiles by state beliefs.
But rain — from screens, with acid grace —
Corrodes the thought-producing space.

It leaks. It creaks. The mold sets in.
Hallucinations soon begin:
The Leader seems a sullen chap,
Not yet the full psychotic crap.

Diagnosis: Progressive Roof Loss,
With symptoms spreading like a moss.
Forecast? Bright future, no debate —
In padded rooms... behind the gate.



---------------------




Roof is gone. The Chief is kind.
Take this pill — and never mind.



---------------------



Clinical Note #2: Brightness Syndrome

They smile too wide, their eyes are dead —
A side effect of what they’re fed.
Each “Citizen” is now sedated,
Their thoughts are blocked, their joy — created.

The Chief appears each day at six,
He speaks in tongues, they cheer and fix
Their gaze upon his sacred coat —
He’s “not a killer,” just a goat.

Prescribed belief — three pills a day,
With dreams of tanks in childlike play.
Who doubts the cure — is labeled sick,
And sent off for correction, quick.

The roof’s not gone. It's “redefined.”
No place for rage, or even mind.
Just hum and smile, the nurses grin —
You're healing, friend. Just breathe… and spin.


---


Three pills in, the world feels bright —
The Chief is love. Don’t try to fight.



---------------------



Case File: Bright Future Syndrome
Dr. Mass Delirium, Notes


Note 1: Early Displacement

The roof begins to slide askew —
Installed by those in charge of you.
The rain is news. It eats the brain.
But all’s "improving." Please remain.


Note 2: Brightness Syndrome

They smile too wide, their eyes are dead —
A side effect of what they’re fed.
The Chief appears, they rise, they nod.
He’s not insane. He talks to God.


Note 3: Stability Protocol

No questions asked. The State is kind.
It pulls the teeth, then scans the mind.
Malfunctions? Off to Ward-19 —
Where doubt is flushed with Thorazine.


Note 4: Therapeutic Fogs

Each thought is tracked. Each nerve is tamed.
Old books and shame are both unclaimed.
Art now depicts the Glory Goat —
With golden horns and swollen throat.


Note 5: Advanced Harmony

The patients hum in perfect rows.
Their blood is blue. Their tone — composed.
No soul. No rage. No pain. No fuss.
Success is near — it looks like us.


Note 6: Full Integration

The past is banned. The self — dissolved.
Each trauma now is state-resolved.
The cure was pure. The mind is gone.
They’ve healed, at last.
Condition: ON.


Note 7: Final Discharge

A padded dawn. A smiling crew.
The Chief is Light. The Sky is Blue.
You’re free to go — just wear this tag.
And praise the Flag.
And praise the Flag.


---

The mind was sick — but now it's clean.
All hail the Goat. All hail the Screen.



---------------------



Protocol of Awakening


Entry 1: The Crack

There was a crack inside the shell,
A breath — too sharp for padded hell.
I felt the silence start to bend,
A glimpse of thought they could not mend.


Entry 2: The Glare

The screen went white. The Chief went dim.
His voice grew hollow, cold, and grim.
And in the glitch — a shape, a flame,
Not marked by number, rank, or name.


Entry 3: The Voice Beneath

I heard beneath the humming wall
A voice not bred in protocol.
It whispered not in words, but fire:
"Remember truth. Resist the wire."


Entry 4: The Return of Weight

My hands grew heavy, spine grew straight.
I felt again the pulse of fate.
Not theirs — but mine. The pulse that dares.
The one that walks through poisoned airs.


Entry 5: The Mirror Not Approved

They showed me mirrors, all the same —
Distorted lies, with my face tamed.
But one, beneath the floor, stayed clear.
It held my pain. It held my fear.

And through it — light.
Not hope. But Will.
That blazing thing
They strain to ****.


Entry 6: The Breath Beyond

I broke the gates not with a scream,
But with a breath. A quiet beam.
Not rage — but clarity and weight.
The soul does not negotiate.


Entry 7: The Sign

You reading this — you’re not alone.
The mind is not some broken bone.
The fire sleeps. But when it stirs —
The system cracks.
The silence blurs.

So breathe once more. Refuse the mask.
And look inside.
You know the task.


---


They fear your thought, your silent eye.
So rise — and think. Or rot. Or die.



---------------------



Voice of the Spark
Whispers from the inner flame


Whisper 1: The Flicker

A spark ignites in deepest dark,
A pulse, a flicker — small, yet stark.
It hums beneath the veil of night,
A seed of quiet, burning light.


Whisper 2: The Breath of Fire

Not blaze, but breath — a gentle flame,
That calls the lost by silent name.
It moves unseen, yet never dies,
A glow behind the veiled lies.


Whisper 3: The Dance

The spark does not obey the wind,
Nor bend to fear, nor break, nor thin.
It dances on the edge of thought,
In realms that can’t be sold or bought.


Whisper 4: The Roar Within

From tiniest flame, a roaring grows —
The fire of truth that no one knows.
It shatters chains, it rends the night,
A rebel born of purest light.


Whisper 5: The Flame’s Gift

The spark ignites the sleeping soul,
And makes the shattered pieces whole.
Not just to burn, but to reveal —
The wounds, the scars, the pain to heal.


Whisper 6: The Eternal Glow

Though storms may try to ***** the gleam,
The spark persists — a steady beam.
It’s not a flash — but endless flame,
A light that calls your true name.


Whisper 7: The Call

Hear now the spark inside your chest,
The voice that never lets you rest.
It bids you rise, it bids you fight,
To guard the dark — and guard the light.


---


The spark survives the darkest night —
Hold fast, hold true, become the light.



---------------------



Voice of the Spark: Metaphysical Cycle — Part I


1. The Primordial Flicker

Before the cosmos breathed a word,
Before the silence stirred,
There danced a spark — a pulse, a seed,
The heart of all that’s yet to bleed.

Not flame, but living thought enshrined,
In timeless depths of space and mind.
A point where Being meets the Void,
Where light and dark are intertwined.


2. The Pulse Between Worlds

This spark does not consume or burn,
It weaves — the thread through night’s deep urn.
Between the worlds it softly hums,
Where time dissolves and space succumbs.

It is the breath within the breath,
The seed of life beyond all death.
A tremor in the vast unseen,
A presence felt but never seen.


3. The Eternal Flame

The flame eternal is not fire,
But purest will, a deep desire.
To rise beyond the chains of form,
To birth the light beyond the storm.

It neither burns nor ever dies,
But dances in all seeking eyes.
The spark that calls us to become —
The echo of the primal drum.


---


In endless dark, the spark survives —
The root of all our waking lives.


---


Voice of the Spark: Metaphysical Cycle — Part II


4. The Threshold of Silence

Between the words, beneath the sound,
Where quiet folds the world around,
There lies a realm without a name —
A stillness neither wild nor tame.

The spark breathes here — a silent breath,
Alive amidst the dance of death.
It holds the space where thought dissolves,
And mystery’s deep question evolves.


5. The Mirror of Infinity

In every flicker, worlds arise —
Reflected in eternal skies.
The spark reflects the boundless sea,
Where time itself bends endlessly.

Not trapped in form, nor chained to flesh,
It flows through cosmos in a mesh.
A thread that weaves the soul’s design,
The light where mortal and divine align.


6. The Sacred Fire Within

This fire is no cruel blaze to burn,
But sacred glow where spirits turn.
It lights the path through shadowed ways,
A beacon in the darkest days.

Not of this world, yet here it dwells,
A secret only silence tells.
The spark that wakes the sleeping soul,
And makes the broken pieces whole.


7. The Infinite Becoming

The spark’s own nature is to grow —
Beyond what flesh and time can know.
An endless flame of pure desire,
A constant forging in the fire.

It is the pulse of life and death,
The sacred bridge of every breath.
The living core that calls to be —
Unbound, eternal, and free.


---

A spark unseen yet always near —
The endless light we hold most dear.


---


Voice of the Spark: Metaphysical Cycle — Part III


8. The Sacred Vessel

Within the void, a vessel waits —
A chalice wrought beyond the fates.
It holds the spark, the primal fire,
The source of all, the deep desire.

Not wrought by hands of mortal clay,
But forged in night before the day.
A sacred urn that none may see,
Yet cradles all infinity.


9. The Whisper of the Atman

The spark — the breath of Atman’s flame,
Unborn, eternal, without name.
It sings beneath the veils of form,
The stillness where all storms transform.

No bounds contain its boundless light,
It dwells within the darkest night.
The inner flame, the secret core,
That fades and burns forevermore.


10. The Dance of Maya

The world — a dance of shadowed light,
Where spark and shadow share the night.
Maya weaves her endless veil,
A mystic web both frail and frail.

Yet through the dark illusion’s guise,
The spark perceives, it never dies.
The watcher in the play of lies,
The truth beneath the worldly guise.


11. The Flame Beyond Form

The spark transcends the shape it wears,
Beyond the flesh, beyond the cares.
An essence pure, unbound, untamed,
Forever one, forever named.

It burns not down, but upwards still,
A flame of will, a boundless thrill.
The light that calls us to return —
To where the primal fires burn.


12. The Eternal Return

Through endless cycles, birth and death,
The spark returns with every breath.
A phoenix rising from the ash,
Beyond the veil, beyond the crash.

It is the pulse that never ends,
The path on which all spirit bends.
Within each heart, the sacred spark —
The light that rises from the dark.


---


A flame unborn, beyond all time,
The sacred pulse, the cosmic rhyme.


---


Voice of the Spark: Metaphysical Cycle — Part IV


13. The Uncarved Block

In silent Dao, the block remains —
Unshaped by thought, untouched by chains.
The spark resides in primal form,
Before the world began to storm.

No dual edges cut its peace,
No shape nor shadow grants release.
It is the root, the source, the way —
The path beyond the night and day.


14. The One That Is Not Two

The spark transcends the pair of eyes,
Beyond the grasp of truth and lies.
It dwells where opposites dissolve —
Where time and space themselves evolve.

It is the Self beyond the mask,
The breath beyond the mortal task.
As Isvara’s silent stream,
The watcher of the cosmic dream.


15. Neti, Neti — Not This, Not That

The flame burns not in name or frame,
Rejects the grasp of worldly claim.
“Not this, not that,” the sages say —
The spark eludes the light of day.

It slips beyond all thought and form,
In stillness vast, supremely warm.
The witness to the coming dawn,
The endless pulse that carries on.


16. The Wheel of Samsara

Round turns the wheel — the endless dance,
Of birth, of death, of fleeting chance.
Yet in the heart of turning time,
The spark endures — sublime, divine.

Not bound by flesh, nor caught in pain,
It rises ever to regain
The freedom of the primal fire —
The source of all, the pure desire.


17. The Void and the Light

In emptiness, the spark ignites,
A lonely flame beyond all sights.
Not lost within the silent sea,
But glowing with infinity.

The Void contains the spark’s bright call,
The root and end of one and all.
From silence springs the living flame —
And all is one, without a name.


---


Beyond the form, beyond the name,
The spark remains — the endless flame.


---


Voice of the Spark: Metaphysical Cycle — Part V


18. Eternity’s Pulse

No clock can bind this pulse within,
No edge of time, no loss, no win.
It beats beyond the measured frame —
A fire eternal, without name.

It flows like rivers deep and vast,
Through futures, present, and the past.
Unbroken thread that holds the whole,
The boundless rhythm of the soul.


19. Consciousness Beyond Form

Consciousness — not flesh confined,
Nor trapped within the realm of mind.
A silent sea without a shore,
Unfolding ever, evermore.

No space contains its boundless sweep,
No time can chain the thoughts it keeps.
It dwells beyond the seen and known,
The stillness in the vast unknown.


20. The Light Within

Not candlelight, nor starry glow,
But inner fire that none can show.
A lamp that burns without a flame,
A light that whispers no one’s name.

It guides the seeker through the night,
Beyond the veil, beyond the sight.
A beacon in the soul’s deep sea,
The spark that sets the spirit free.


21. The Unbroken Flame

Though worlds may shift and shadows fall,
This flame persists beyond them all.
No force can dim its sacred fire —
A living, endless, pure desire.

It is the self that does not fade,
The root of light that can’t be swayed.
The silent heart that beats within,
The source from which all life begins.


22. The Infinite Present

Eternity is not “far” away,
Nor locked in some distant day.
It pulses in this very breath,
The timeless now that conquers death.

To find the spark, you need but cease
To chase the past or grasp for peace.
The infinite unfolds inside —
Where light and dark and time collide.


---


Within the stillness, light remains —
Eternal spark beyond all chains.



---------------------



Metaphysics of the Inner Light


1. Light does not burn — it simply is.
It neither comes nor goes — it is always within.

2. True fire is not flame, but a wave of consciousness without bounds.

3. The inner light is the primal source, toward which all paths lead.

4. Silence is the realm where light unfolds in fullness.

5. The light inside does not depend on external shadows.

6. Consciousness is a boundless sea, where the spark is eternal.

7. Truth is not in words, but in the light that needs no language.

8. Emptiness is not absence, but the density of inner light.

9. Eternity is a moment illuminated by the spark of consciousness.

10. Freedom is the awareness of the light within, beyond time’s grasp.

11. The spark knows no fear — it is the source of infinite power.

12. The inner fire awakens the deepest layers of being.

13. Darkness does not oppose light — it is its background and space for shining.

14. The light within us is the bridge between the finite and the infinite.

15. Every breath is a step into the immensity of inner light.

16. The fire of consciousness is an eternal dance of form and void.

17. The present is the light that always burns in you.

18. The flame of the spirit cannot be extinguished by time or circumstance.

19. Inner light is the only reality — unchanging and eternal.

20. Rebirth begins with the awakening of the spark inside.

— The End —