Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora’s fan,
Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwakened Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest:  He, on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus.  Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven’s last best gift, my ever new delight!
Awake:  The morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake.
O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,
My glory, my perfection! glad I see
Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night
(Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed,
If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee,
Works of day past, or morrow’s next design,
But of offence and trouble, which my mind
Knew never till this irksome night:  Methought,
Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk
With gentle voice;  I thought it thine: It said,
‘Why sleepest thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time,
‘The cool, the silent, save where silence yields
‘To the night-warbling bird, that now awake
‘Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns
‘Full-orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light
‘Shadowy sets off the face of things; in vain,
‘If none regard; Heaven wakes with all his eyes,
‘Whom to behold but thee, Nature’s desire?
‘In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment
‘Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze.’
I rose as at thy call, but found thee not;
To find thee I directed then my walk;
And on, methought, alone I passed through ways
That brought me on a sudden to the tree
Of interdicted knowledge: fair it seemed,
Much fairer to my fancy than by day:
And, as I wondering looked, beside it stood
One shaped and winged like one of those from Heaven
By us oft seen; his dewy locks distilled
Ambrosia; on that tree he also gazed;
And ‘O fair plant,’ said he, ‘with fruit surcharged,
‘Deigns none to ease thy load, and taste thy sweet,
‘Nor God, nor Man?  Is knowledge so despised?
‘Or envy, or what reserve forbids to taste?
‘Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold
‘Longer thy offered good; why else set here?
This said, he paused not, but with venturous arm
He plucked, he tasted; me damp horrour chilled
At such bold words vouched with a deed so bold:
But he thus, overjoyed; ‘O fruit divine,
‘Sweet of thyself, but much more sweet thus cropt,
‘Forbidden here, it seems, as only fit
‘For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men:
‘And why not Gods of Men; since good, the more
‘Communicated, more abundant grows,
‘The author not impaired, but honoured more?
‘Here, happy creature, fair angelick Eve!
‘Partake thou also; happy though thou art,
‘Happier thou mayest be, worthier canst not be:
‘Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods
‘Thyself a Goddess, not to earth confined,
‘But sometimes in the air, as we, sometimes
‘Ascend to Heaven, by merit thine, and see
‘What life the Gods live there, and such live thou!’
So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held,
Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part
Which he had plucked; the pleasant savoury smell
So quickened appetite, that I, methought,
Could not but taste.  Forthwith up to the clouds
With him I flew, and underneath beheld
The earth outstretched immense, a prospect wide
And various:  Wondering at my flight and change
To this high exaltation; suddenly
My guide was gone, and I, methought, sunk down,
And fell asleep; but O, how glad I waked
To find this but a dream!  Thus Eve her night
Related, and thus Adam answered sad.
Best image of myself, and dearer half,
The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep
Affects me equally; nor can I like
This uncouth dream, of evil sprung, I fear;
Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none,
Created pure.  But know that in the soul
Are many lesser faculties, that serve
Reason as chief; among these Fancy next
Her office holds; of all external things
Which the five watchful senses represent,
She forms imaginations, aery shapes,
Which Reason, joining or disjoining, frames
All what we affirm or what deny, and call
Our knowledge or opinion; then retires
Into her private cell, when nature rests.
Oft in her absence mimick Fancy wakes
To imitate her; but, misjoining shapes,
Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams;
Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.
Some such resemblances, methinks, I find
Of our last evening’s talk, in this thy dream,
But with addition strange; yet be not sad.
Evil into the mind of God or Man
May come and go, so unreproved, and leave
No spot or blame behind:  Which gives me hope
That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream,
Waking thou never will consent to do.
Be not disheartened then, nor cloud those looks,
That wont to be more cheerful and serene,
Than when fair morning first smiles on the world;
And let us to our fresh employments rise
Among the groves, the fountains, and the flowers
That open now their choisest bosomed smells,
Reserved from night, and kept for thee in store.
So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered;
But silently a gentle tear let fall
From either eye, and wiped them with her hair;
Two other precious drops that ready stood,
Each in their crystal sluice, he ere they fell
Kissed, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
And pious awe, that feared to have offended.
So all was cleared, and to the field they haste.
But first, from under shady arborous roof
Soon as they forth were come to open sight
Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce up-risen,
With wheels yet hovering o’er the ocean-brim,
Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray,
Discovering in wide landskip all the east
Of Paradise and Eden’s happy plains,
Lowly they bowed adoring, and began
Their orisons, each morning duly paid
In various style; for neither various style
Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung
Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence
Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse,
More tuneable than needed lute or harp
To add more sweetness; and they thus began.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty!  Thine this universal frame,
Thus wonderous fair;  Thyself how wonderous then!
Unspeakable, who sitst above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven
On Earth join all ye Creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest.
Moon, that now meetest the orient sun, now flyest,
With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering Fires, that move
In mystick dance not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world’s great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and, wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls:  Ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!
So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts
Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.
On to their morning’s rural work they haste,
Among sweet dews and flowers; where any row
Of fruit-trees over-woody reached too far
Their pampered boughs, and needed hands to check
Fruitless embraces: or they led the vine
To wed her elm; she, spoused, about him twines
Her marriageable arms, and with him brings
Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn
His barren leaves.  Them thus employed beheld
With pity Heaven’s high King, and to him called
Raphael, the sociable Spirit, that deigned
To travel with Tobias, and secured
His marriage with the seventimes-wedded maid.
Raphael, said he, thou hearest what stir on Earth
Satan, from Hell ’scaped through the darksome gulf,
Hath raised in Paradise; and how disturbed
This night the human pair; how he designs
In them at once to ruin all mankind.
Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend
Converse with Adam, in what bower or shade
Thou findest him from the heat of noon retired,
To respite his day-labour with repast,
Or with repose; and such discourse bring on,
As may advise him of his happy state,
Happiness in his power left free to will,
Left to his own free will, his will though free,
Yet mutable; whence warn him to beware
He swerve not, too secure:  Tell him withal
His danger, and from whom; what enemy,
Late fallen himself from Heaven, is plotting now
The fall of others from like state of bliss;
By violence? no, for that shall be withstood;
But by deceit and lies:  This let him know,
Lest, wilfully transgressing, he pretend
Surprisal, unadmonished, unforewarned.
So spake the Eternal Father, and fulfilled
All justice:  Nor delayed the winged Saint
After his charge received; but from among
Thousand celestial Ardours, where he stood
Veiled with his gorgeous wings, up springing light,
Flew through the midst of Heaven; the angelick quires,
On each hand parting, to his speed gave way
Through all the empyreal road; till, at the gate
Of Heaven arrived, the gate self-opened wide
On golden hinges turning, as by work
Divine the sovran Architect had framed.
From hence no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight,
Star interposed, however small he sees,
Not unconformed to other shining globes,
Earth, and the garden of God, with cedars crowned
Above all hills.  As when by night the glass
Of Galileo, less assured, observes
Imagined lands and regions in the moon:
Or pilot, from amidst the Cyclades
Delos or Samos first appearing, kens
A cloudy spot.  Down thither prone in flight
He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing
Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
Winnows the buxom air; till, within soar
Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
A phoenix, gazed by all as that sole bird,
When, to enshrine his reliques in the Sun’s
Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.
At once on the eastern cliff of Paradise
He lights, and to his proper shape returns
A Seraph winged:  Six wings he wore, to shade
His lineaments divine; the pair that clad
Each shoulder broad, came mantling o’er his breast
With regal ornament; the middle pair
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round
Skirted his ***** and thighs with downy gold
And colours dipt in Heaven; the third his feet
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail,
Sky-tinctured grain.  Like Maia’s son he stood,
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
The circuit wide.  Straight knew him all the bands
Of Angels under watch; and to his state,
And to his message high, in honour rise;
For on some message high they guessed him bound.
Their glittering tents he passed, and now is come
Into the blissful field, through groves of myrrh,
And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm;
A wilderness of sweets; for Nature here
Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will
Her ****** fancies pouring forth more sweet,
Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.
Him through the spicy forest onward come
Adam discerned, as in the door he sat
Of his cool bower, while now the mounted sun
Shot down direct his fervid rays to warm
Earth’s inmost womb, more warmth than Adam needs:
And Eve within, due at her hour prepared
For dinner savoury fruits, of taste to please
True appetite, and not disrelish thirst
Of nectarous draughts between, from milky stream,
Berry or grape:  To whom thus Adam called.
Haste hither, Eve, and worth thy sight behold
Eastward among those trees, what glorious shape
Comes this way moving; seems another morn
Risen on mid-noon; some great behest from Heaven
To us perhaps he brings, and will vouchsafe
This day to be our guest.  But go with speed,
And, what thy stores contain, bring forth, and pour
Abundance, fit to honour and receive
Our heavenly stranger:  Well we may afford
Our givers their own gifts, and large bestow
From large bestowed, where Nature multiplies
Her fertile growth, and by disburthening grows
More fruitful, which instructs us not to spare.
To whom thus Eve.  Adam, earth’s hallowed mould,
Of God inspired! small store will serve, where store,
All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk;
Save what by frugal storing firmness gains
To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes:
But I will haste, and from each bough and brake,
Each plant and juciest gourd, will pluck such choice
To entertain our Angel-guest, as he
Beholding shall confess, that here on Earth
God hath dispensed his bounties as in Heaven.
So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste
She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent
What choice to choose for delicacy best,
What order, so contrived as not to mix
Tastes, not well joined, inelegant, but bring
Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change;
Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk
Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields
In India East or West, or middle shore
In Pontus or the Punick coast, or where
Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat
Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell,
She gathers, tribute large, and on the board
Heaps with unsparing hand; for drink the grape
She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths
From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed
She tempers dulcet creams; nor these to hold
Wants her fit vessels pure; then strows the ground
With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.
Mean while our primitive great sire, to meet
His God-like guest, walks forth, without more train
Accompanied than with his own complete
Perfections; in himself was all his state,
More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits
On princes, when their rich retinue long
Of horses led, and gro

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!

to the girl who wrote me asking
me for advice at four o'clock in the
morning when her brain was high
off of an ashy heart: stop
******* around with toxins, and
no, i don't mean the drugs
turning your life into
unwholesome chaos. i mean
your ******* friends who told
you that
your problems are nothing
your demons are nothing
you are nothing. stop
it. you're better than
them.

to the friend who asked
for advice on how to turn
herself into a walking
skeleton: get over
yourself. anorexia and
bulimia will not fill
some hole in your tragic
past, they will ravage everything
good in you until you
are nothing but the flesh
you have despised. do
not ask me how to "become
an anorexic" because all you
are asking me is how
to die.

to the boy who i have
dedicated so many poems
to: god, you are so oblivious
to everything. to the soulless
"i love you"s spoken out of
pity, to the feigned grins, to
the fact that you are ripping
me apart. i was always told
to not love someone
who was sad because they would
drag me to the pit of the ocean
with them, and i should
have listened. there isn't
enough of me left
to share.

Faulkner's comment, I imagine him
tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games
of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso
has no real control, is going to feel
unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun
swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation.
When I think of my death, I think of returning
the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed.
If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground
fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if
in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I realize I have a religion, a science fiction
the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small:
Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks
and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch -
conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim
the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

These trees cannot feed me.
Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community,
      economy.
Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants,
tools and shelter are ore.
A tincture, infusion, decoction, a ******, a compress,
      poultice, a salve, a syrup.
A war president needs war.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

5 a.m., first of Spring.
Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows
mating on the sky - two couples dating
a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about.
8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents
but history and the naming of things extend our vision.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted.
And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested
in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him,
probably. I keep wanting to go back
to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos,
FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness,
      God-seeking.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically
compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits
for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president
by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and
      free
air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the
      governed
before governments can sit in global councils.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

No greater tragedy than the death of your children.
Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old,
you make plans. To know the names of every flower
in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song.
Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point
comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I do believe all poets must not only read a lot of poetry but read a lot about poetry. Of my 50 favorite poets, there is not one who has not written about poetry, the philosophy of their work and of the craft. That in itself is fascinating- and difficult, like the depth you find in NY Review of Books. I do about 2/3 (poems) to 1/3 (being books about poetry) From the most philosophic works of archetypes by Northrop Frye to the most public and basic questions of Zupruders good seller "Why Poetry?" .
That last book opened up a new reality for me, to I ask myself all the time who am I writing for, in context to all this reading...I realized I was really trying to communicate the poetic truths of living, of my own small life in the world so full of beauty, horror, paradox and death. I realized to do this I had to make compromises, to not try to impress or amuse myself with poems that could only be understood by me. The craft and presentation became as important as the message. That is currently my direction, I'm writing "collections" of poems with themes so a reader could enjoy a concrete theme. (The last book I just read, a signed collection by Ferlinghetti ( nice and cheap in a used bookstore) was just that- the theme of light in "How to Paint Sunlight." Accessible and very full of several poems about light)
So you are stating two different issues:
I don't like being not understood, Having people throw up there hands perplexed, I'd rather be popular.... Its lonely
But I cant write for others because than it would be feeling like a commercial venture My motivation would be destroyed.
Id rather be desolated and write for those few who get the twinge...
Well, first of all, we poets are possibly lucky because we ain't making beans for our poems. Forgetaboutit. Even our most lauded poets end up teaching to get the health care and severance. I suppose there may be 3 poets in Amerika that make a living on just writing poetry....if that many. Who's buying? I didn't see much word "poetry" once in this weeks NY Times review of books. Only some letters crashing last weeks review of Leonard Cohen, who the critic called a wonderful lyricist and performer, but an awful poet. These dialogues are important to me, but really, quite a small audience. Either way, lyrics and song paid the rent, not Cohen's books of just poetry.
I'm sure there is no immediate cure for your paradox. If you want to be popular you have to make compromises. If you don't want to alter your vision, you can get the joy of a smaller readership and forget the rest. You have to manage expectations is a world that hardly notices our craft.
It's hard to be both, I suppose you should stay true to your motivation. And if readers like me don't get it, **** em. Let it suffice we acknowledge the craft, and that we will get closer to some poems more than others be enough. For me, accessibility, the ability to engage a reader into whatever poetic truth I am feeling, is more important than in any way hiding the meaning in the poem in which I alone can understand it.
I want people who never read poetry, which is most people, pick up a poem by me and feel the poetry power without feeling intimidation which is what most people feel when they read most poems published today. For me its that fine line between letting the imagination do the work, and the poem setting up the narrative to allow it by inviting a reader into it. I get great joy reading my poems to non poets who are scared by even the idea of it, and get them to feel something new, that wonderful way Aristotle put it- that poetry provides an ultimate truth that is found beyond the boundary of philosophy.
Best Mark
…………………...

Admittedly I have gone off the rails focusing on the meta or man as dreamer. Are we not dreamers first before descending into the material, deadening the faculty of imagination or as the I Ching says "a darkening of the light"
I want to bring the reader up and when I read I want to have the sensation of ascending I try to give what I like to receive which is to be brought into greater fluency and light
Have we abandoned our inner life to such an extent that when confronted with it we find our selves strangers to it; reinforcing and amplifying a kind of cognitive dissidence?
Are we in a sense a stranger to our selves having lost the lucidity of our magical youth
Do we see the world as vacant utilitarian stuff and other humans predictable lusterless cogs in a wheel like cued robots?
Witches Seers, Voodoons , Hermeticists, Kabbalists and Occultists of very stripe know and use objects as essential to their operations and craft because they have hidden meaning and power.
Has the life of fantastical creative cognition been sacrificed to inveterate congenital pragmatism?
"Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality".
Andre Breton
To transgress is to process ones madness as opposed to the customary botched behaviors of repressive modalities we hide behind . It seems to me that poetry is a great ground for that exploration.
Perhaps Its a good thing for a reader to think about what the writer means, albeit a difficult pleasure as opposed to the instantaneous and facile modes of naming and claiming Reading towards the abstract can be a mystical experience Most people who read are shallow readers Shall I than aspire to be a shallow writer?
What surrealism (Detailed descriptive language unmoored from linear rationality) affords the writer like pure abstraction to the visual artist is a great opportunity to explore the musicality of language ie the musicality of form i.e. the energetic configurations of architypes.
Part of our craft that makes things crackle as you know well remains sound play ie the strategy of syllables ... Long vowels / short vowels...the length of words and sound of words in relationship to one another
As you know Mark to analyze the subtle abstraction of sounds i.e. words to the ear is just like music and like music although not wholly translatable has an undertow of non verbal meaning especially if exploited out side the linguistic necessity of linear prose like poems i.e. a device that most never use consciously and strategically or certainly to its fullest potential.
So when we say a poem is beautiful do we impart mean its those amazing tintinnabulating sounds that ****** with their musicality? Poems that do that well stand out to me.
Further I think we are in error when we confuse the realistic with the materialistic. It seems to me realism has magnitudinal underlying meta elements that need to be felt in poetry and to think other wise in my opinion would be a dull conceit
A good example is thought itself
When we speak our ideas thoughts impulses we have no real sense of where they emerge from The processes are so meta their incomprehensible even to neuro science and scientists have little if any understanding of consciousness or its meaning as far as I know
So perhaps the surrealist has a place of worth too; and that is to remind people of their inner life out side the cage of end product think and commodification. After all what is a life and what is a poem?
Best Z

I planted a cherry tree
Four seasons back
In a morose rain
Pelting sharp upon nimble naked boughs
And rows, of wild berries
Running amuck in an unruly strain.

The tree is a full bloom now
Of white satin flowers
Swirling against a beaming blue

Tonight, as night keeps a vigil over my eyes
I get under my squally Cherry Tree
And suddenly I see it ailing
Sick old moon peeps through its branches
And I hear them crackle, not clear though
Moaning unobtrusive, through a wicked grin.
The moon lingers on long
Shining painfully in the womb of night.

I feel the stiffening wood coagulate in my veins
As blackness suffuses unbridled
In the cold wilderness of mind.

April never was summer in Kashmir
Look unto these dark skies
Those pierce the ether yet once more
Pelting mercilessly upon
The ailing, armourless beings
Whereby the cruel moon grins
And my heart wilts with each withering flower
Knocked down in the mud by
The unsparing shower.

Tears trickle down the smeared petals
And I collect them into my eyes
Till the plethora can no longer be contained
I let them fall
Into the capacious ***** of earth

And in this cruel April rain
My Cherry Tree shivers.
Moans. Weeps. Over me.

Tu semper amoris
  Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.

  VAL. FLAC. ‘Argonaut’, iv. 36.


Friend of my youth! when young we rov’d,
Like striplings, mutually belov’d,
  With Friendship’s purest glow;
The bliss, which wing’d those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
  On mortals here below.

The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I’ve known,
  When distant far from you:
Though pain, ’tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
  And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive mem’ry lingers o’er,
Those scenes to be enjoy’d no more,
  Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life’s evening dream is dark and dull,
  And we may meet—ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
  Together join’d in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
  Till mingled in the Main!

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
  Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death’s unfathom’d gulph appear,
  And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
  Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
’Tis yours to mix in polish’d courts,
  And shine in Fashion’s annals;

’Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
  Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
  Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem’d it monstrous hard
  That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
  As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty’s praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
  Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution’s arm is dead,
  And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
  Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
  I really will not fight them.

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
  Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
  A very harden’d sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:
  Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy’s flight
I soar along from left to right;
  My Muse admires digression.

I think I said ’twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;—
  May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
  If worth can recommend you.

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
  From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne’er
From any claim a kindred care,
  But those who best deserve you!

Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth’s secure, unerring way!
  May no delights decoy!
O’er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
  Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
  And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you’ve been known to me,—
  Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
  To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I’d waive at once a Poet’s fame,
  To prove a Prophet here.

Me, sometimes too slow
sometimes raring to go.
And you? like a ray of sunshine
that walked into my room,
Oh! my room full of my lonely
tumbled gloom.

Like a star that lost her moon,
like these rains that makes frozen
doors, inside my caged rooms.
I always saw myself, mostly through
the window, of my dark uneven mind.
Many of those characters I made
in my narratives could have been me!
But were never me for a reason.
Oh! did you ever know that
my beautiful silent vamp?

I usually sit down in my room
unsparing my mind, body and soul
sometimes in relentless pain,
but that was a story lost long back.
Now, in rosy curvy overture
you need to wake me up
with a sweet little pen lamp!
Read my vulpine runes
which I pen late nights
and then wake me up
to my own chorus tunes!
Also please use
my mystic crafty hands,
to give fire to your words
everywhere you wish to write!
But then again let me ask
with my mystic cryptic voice
where were you all this while?
Oh! my invisible little pen lamp.

To keep the lamp alive,
With oil we fill the bowl;
'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.

The Lord's unsparing hand
Supplies the living stream;
It is not at our own command,
But still derived from Him.

Beware of Peter's word,
Nor confidently say,
"I never will deny Thee, Lord," --
But, -- "Grant I never may."

Man's wisdom is to seek
His strength in God alone;
And e'en an angel would be weak,
Who trusted in his own.

Retreat beneath his wings,
And in His gace confide!
This more exalts the King of kings
Than all your works beside.

In Jesus is our store,
Grace issues from His throne;
Whoever says, "I want no more,"
Confesses he has done.

It would be vivid orange because that is her favorite color.
The color of her; Always bold and sometimes jubilant with laughter.
I'd make my baby sister a blanket to lay on her bed and keep her warm throughout winter.

Her room is always coldest.

On the ends their would be tassels.
Some black, bright blues, vivid greens and pinks. Everything to represent her many sides.
She can be anywhere from caring baby blue
to frank and
unsparing

Black.

I am always the cold one in the family.

Yet, even when she doesn't show it, she is the one who always needs a hug and something--
or someone
to hold her.

When I am off to college the orange blanket can keep her company at night, like I have so many times before.

I'd leave it on her bed,
folded,
with a note that told her to call when the blanket wasn't enough.

Sometimes she would still feel alone,

But I hope it could hold at least the representation
of
     a
         friend.

When she hurts, it's soft sides can hug her.
When she is happy, almost unknowingly,
It can still rest upon her unweighted shoulders.

~a unconscious commissioned poem~

<>

La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur

advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede

we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those,  we are
best at
confessing in

first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams

Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end

the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding

is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations

morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness

Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…

and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)

<>
commissioned by Pradip

7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds

<>

music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion

I do not know what it feels like to live in someone else’s dream.
Outside the house, the moon, like a mistress, slits its throat
and bleeds white. The nature of all things around me has its way
of heaving out the wrongness, as if a drunkard staggering for words,
floundering in a curt reply after being asked where’s the nearest station
towards nowhere. I remember in 4th grade, they asked me what I
wanted to do with my life. All I ever wanted was the same clichéd response,
without knowing the appropriate punishment the desire coming with it.
I am not culpable. I wanted to be a bird stirring in a plainsong: free.
Whatever that meant. In a room where cross-sections of you tender me
margins I cannot cross. When I was young, whenever my mother would
leave me for the marketplace, she told me to always lock the doors
and never let anybody inside. The sound of the gears resembled your hand
in mine when we held hands, securing each finger into place the way
the night tucked us to sleep. It is still something the unforgettable, with
its feigned urgency, its ersatz summer days indoors spent on nothing but
gibberish and luxuriously lounging at nothing, looking at blank spaces
as though they were naked women the first time and the last. In a place like
this that selfishly spires with thoughtless hum, it’s conversations with the smallest
details that cover such distance, revealing weight I cannot solder.
Freedom to me is as bizarre as any other feeling that pushes one person
over to the next one. I have its wobbling sense scattered all around like a crushed
scent of bougainvillea. What we have to give in exchange for it, and what we
are to acquire after trying to weave out denotations that would make us swill
over like muck over the city that we selfishly breathe in, and our almost
ridiculous misunderstanding of the word riddled with unsparing details.
  I had myself mull over it, passing your decrepit house. Freedom,
the wind, or a bird, or anything unloosened like a waning volume from a stereo,
a readying tip of fire awakened ready to catch the corners of your fingers,
a basket of fruits in the morning from a remote bazaar, the peeled off and pared skin
  of an orange, some November night that burnt auburn, anything that may take place
     anytime in our hands – something that does not break in it, but holds still, waiting
to take place, forming names, sliding away from fingers. Freedom, to have a shadow
engraved on an architrave and a cornice, and to have your name in my heart
  like a frieze ornamenting some entablature, or that long dream of striding past
the Metropolitan, knowing how erroneous it was to feel so immense at that cosmic moment
of sizable smallness: the perpetual dialogue between a host and a barfly,
  mellifluously woven striking in sense, a farce raiding meaning all afternoon, like the close
eye of the Sun inspecting furniture, or your nosy neighbor taking time to stop watering the
  plants and watch you dance from your window, to a music that he has no knowledge of,
               but I do. I do. If it wasn’t plainsong, then I was wrong, writhing and alive
still, leaning in the air of a dream – free, wandering,
                      *wind,   passing of figures, clenched fingers, nothing.

An obscene, sickly beautiful scene
Met me with a ***** sheen
It dulled the tightness in my chest:
The butterflies when I misstep.
Like the second-guessed ache of paranoia
that left me curled at the foot of the sequoias
waiting still and tense, for your voice to fade.
Never for a moment dropping my charade
as I paraded proudly back inside declaring
my true innocence; I found you unsparing.
You swallowed my word and I found you even
Requesting repetition, so you could believe in
the obvious lies leaking my lips,
and you know what they say: loose lips sink ships.
So when you come to grips,
I’ll still be installing microchips
Inside that open wound of yours.
While you’re hugging porcelain on all fours
I won’t be sympathizing with all the ******
Who leave their lipstick napkins on your lap;
Who fall into your egocentric death trap.
I was never one of those,
To be used and then disposed…
So while you’re trying so hard to make me jealous;
I’ll just tell you your method is overzealous.
You had your chance before;
You’ll have no chances anymore.
You can finally stop trying to request the help of cupid,
I promise you I only ever loved you young and stupid.

Burning coal glows in the no-food zone
Are they too cold and dead and alone?
It's said they're loyal but they can't boast
Are they too hungry and shadows of ghost?
Ignore them people drunk in their fest
Are they so useless as vermin and pest?
Night's peace shatters as they whine and roar
Are they without sleep and closed is your door?
It all seems so cruel our heart is stained steel
Are they too trifle and don't deserve a feel?
The night is so unsparing so long and cold
Are they still hopeful of the emerging gold?
The sun gives reason to celebrate the morn
They're still asleep they were rather not born.

One more hit is all I need
Then I promise I am done.
For without it reality
Really does weighs a tonne.
Crushing my ribcage
Which used to home roses
But now is bruised
From fists, He stands amused
As he puts his
Hands back around my neck
Without even looking to check
If marks are visible this time.
He is long past caring
My body no longer unsparing
For he has destroyed each part
Making me look like a childs colour chart.
Maybe I am to blame
For why he torments my fragile frame.
One more hit to numb my pain
Though these thoughts I can never tame
In my new found biological remedy
As I blackout I find my serenity
Longing for a new identity
For my body is an empty shell
Storing secrets I will never tell
For fears the words will only spill out.
So I sew my lips together
As my skin looks like worn leather.
When I finally come back through
My body is an array of black, purple and blue.
I take my final hit
Hoping finally this might be it
As the world before me turns to grey.
For now is my time
As I leave the wind chimes
Bringing me into a brand new day.

My prime example of love
Stemmed from intensity
Is not a once size fits all glove

The found each other- destiny
In the midst of a celebration
In highschool unintentionally

Born with high expectations
Maybe my soul mate is nearing
I'm just waiting for my invitation

The truth is it's unsparing
Waiting around for 'the one'
Takes away my caring

I'll peer through the flaxen strand
   of night

with your color that excites,

and think myself the blue pither of fire
  or a flummoxed stone left unturned.

it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
   beast or the common grip
   of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.

it's the way the queen moves to all
    corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,

and then like a child with almond eyes
  spruced up, spritzed this morning's
  incandescent dye,

the lapping of strange tides revealing
    fish with dreams of brine

or that one moment when you had
   at first light, the hot flush of coming
      into, recognizing insatiable appetite,

  whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
        we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of    once and  never looking back
      at mirrors.

The Bear emerged
from the wildfire

a smoldering, wheezing ruin.
His paws had been

nearly completely seared off
by the superheated

forest floor
of the Sierra Nevada foothills.

His coat was singed and maimed
by ash and ember.

His eyes and nostrils burned
from the unsparing smoke he had breathed.

The Bear felt
the slightest pinch

behind his shoulder,
and his eyes grew heavy.

When he opened them again,
he was in a new place—

an incomprehensible place—
a place of straight lines

and unfathomable
mathematical precision and artificiality.

He had heard rumor
that such places existed—

the forest spoke of them
hurriedly but indirectly.

He had seen other bears return
with foreign things

inserted through their ears or ringing
their necks, inescapable and alien signifiers

of having encountered
an otherworldly form of existence.

The Bear had lost his strength and could
no longer walk. His paws were wrapped

in linen. He smelled fish skin
just beneath it.

Apes
came and went—just like

the ones he had
seen and smelled before in the woods.

But these apes were much quieter,
and less afraid.

They only visited when he was
half-asleep or having trouble breathing.

The Bear drifted in and out
of consciousness like this

until he lost track of day
and night and time.

After one long but fitful sleep
he came to.

He smelled the forest again
before he had even opened his eyes.

His paws were no longer wrapped,
although they still smelled of fish.

He braced his massive frame
against the warm, dry earth and pushed.

His strength had returned
at last.

Three of the apes were standing
just a short distance away.

The Bear did not fully understand
why they had intervened,

or why they abducted him as he was making
peace with his own death.

He thought that they could be divine.
But he decided to stay wary of them, as bears do.

The Bear walked back into the forest,
scorched but now healing.

He wondered who or what would intervene
to help the ones who had saved him,

wondered whether they, too,
have some incomprehensible celestial stewards

that wait to rescue them
as they themselves wheeze and smolder

and shamble, unknowingly,
toward death’s door.

That bright light
between those mountains
fell on her radiant face.
Then it just got reflected back
to the innermost nerve of my heart.
Unsparing any approval of the mind
so into, so straight.
Everything here,
the sun , the mountains,
the river, the heaven
and the space is all about her, now.
All of these makes me too lost, now.
Well, if I would land back here
then it would be her eyes
that would be glittering everywhere
detaching me, from the life I'm into.
May I, ask this please?
Are those diamond blue eyes
that I saw, that day
on those mountains?  
May be, yes.
But to my less fortune
I shall live in silence
and utter no words
cause I'm weak for any disapproval
and I don't want to deprive
myself from the little attention
and love that you might show or spare....

CORTÉS
            But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
            I think I have an inkling. Sandoval,
            Bring me that Díaz from the footmen’s ranks-
            A proud alumnus of this school of vice.                     Exit Sandoval.
            Young Sandoval shows promise of promotion,
            But, Alvarado, you’re my confidante,
            As well as in effect my deputy.
            We must concur about these Indians.
            They are not possibly the “natural slaves”
            Of which the pagan Aristotle spoke,
            And can be raised to all the dignity
            Of sons of Christ.

ALVARADO                         I’ll take your word.

CORTÉS                                                            Take God’s.

                                          Enter DÍAZ.

DÍAZ      God save you, captain! What mighty business of state pulls my
rare proficiencies away from tent-tying?

CORTÉS
            So Díaz,
            Twice now have you arrived in Cozumel
            With this old villain, who reveals to me,
            When last you pitched your tents, a year ago,
            Your fleet encountered awestruck Indians,
            Who nodded at the whiteness of your hides
            And uttered, “Castilán . . . Castilán.”
            Who came before, that they knew you by face?

DÍAZ
            Some say that eight years past, lost in the fog,
             A Spanish galleon shattered on these reefs.
            Her ribs discharged a dash of castaways
            That disappeared into these gloomy woods.

ALVARADO
            And thus within hide our interpreters.

DÍAZ
            So: Castellano . . . Castilán.

CORTÉS                                             Well done.
            Commune with these glad-handed Indians,
            And sleuth it out through means of pantomime
            If any of our cast-off countrymen
            Might swelter yet in this unsparing clime.                      Exit Díaz.

ALVARADO
            And as regards your noble savages?

CORTÉS
            I shall induct them to the host of Christ.
            I’ll give them scissors, candles, silver mirrors,
            With tops and kites to cheer their little ones.
            As your bombastic threats have scattered them,
            I must so kindly call to coax them back.

ALVARADO
            With prayer and kindness- Save us all! Kind words!

CORTÉS
            Speak now, or hold your peace. . .

Eyes like the river,
smile of a fox,
beauty unsparing,
my heart stops.

Moles on his neck
grin on his face,
tall as a mountain
strong arms to embrace.

Laugh like the wind
wheat coloured hair,
funny and happy
without a care.

Boy does he have me
caught on a hook,
butterflies take off
just with one look.

Wakes me up
takes my hand,
kiss and tell
ladies man.

Has a girl
back at home,
blonde hair, little waist,
draws me in with his sweet words
patiently she waits.

He was never mine
I was never his,
nothing to bind us
not even a kiss.

A loss at first
my heart may bleed,
but I know God
my soul will feed.

Uphold me and strengthen
my weak tired wings,
and after a winter  
my heart starts to sing.

No longer a prey
caught in a net,
swim little fish
run far away.

History they sometimes say,
Doesn't repeat, but nay,
It rhymes and reminds,
and sometimes chimes.

[gong]

I can look back now and know
that I confused love with the flow
of life and parenthood and family
as Zorba said, the whole catastrophe!

[long gong]

There was caring and sharing
but life was so unsparing
The dings and dents of life
Did not soften but increased strife.

[wrong gong]

The kids' braces, the cars' repairs, the house
caused resentment in the spouse
And I was grasping at a solution
for what I thought should be the resolution.

[sad song]

Trying too hard for what is not
Can carry your soul into a spot
Where what life is becomes a chore
Rather than the secret to more.

[gong]

And so with my new ode
I think I've found the code.
The challenges are not to be resolved
for living is itself so involved.

[gong]

Each challenge or task
Is an echo of the ask
That life has in its incarnation
to feel and understand the demarcation.

[gong]

So as you go through time
Pay attention to the rhyme
For the small and tiresome tasks
can be brushstrokes for what lacks.

[gong]

And when it's time make a new edition
You'll be enriched by all the addition
Of lessons you learned while living
that the world is giving.

[belong]

*****-Nation








How the rich has lost its luster,
   the well-to-do become doom!
The sanctity gents are scattered
   at the gates of all peaceful loop.



Even jackals offer their *******
   to nurse their offspring,
But my people have become unsparing
    like ostriches in the desert crest.



Those who once ate pure delicacies
     are bad destitute in the streets.
Those nurtured in pink and purple
     now lie on dust and ash heaps.



How the precious sons of Nigeria,
   once their weight in silver and gold,
are now measured as pots of clay,
    the work of a potter's hands; clay ?



The punishment of my Nation
   is greater than that of Gomorrah,
which was overthrown in a moment
   without a hand turned to help her.







©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
>> 11/07/2017
⊙ 06:56PM

Love is that heartbeat that quickens to a roar and then slows to a comfortable, affordable compromise.
Hate is burning white and pure with vengeful conceit and the will to smash something to smithereens.

Religion is the need to belong, the desire to ignore mortality, the comfort in community and its restrictions.
Atheism is that cold sweat in the night, the reclusive hideout, the dark vision of humanity cruising toward its end.

Noise is what we crave as proof of our existence. Music, chatter, drilling, birds,  the couple screaming next door.
Silence has no echo. It makes us feel small. We turn inward and feed on ourselves. A remedy or a curse.

Freedom is a welcome mirage, a nod to our participation in an already stacked deck of cards. But we persist.
Suppression from within or without is the human condition writ large. Players on the stage, if I may be so bold.

Life comes cheap, handed to us without our permission. Moving from one goalpost to the next, suffering and exalted.
Death is a conception beyond our perception. It is an unsparing one-way trip without a backward glance or a goodbye.

Good and bad. Black and white. Who’s to say? It’s a poet’s decision.
Take the trip, pratfalls and all. Passion is the driver for all ordained passengers.

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.

*****-Nation








How the rich has lost its luster,
   the well-to-do become doom!
The sanctity gents are scattered
   at the gates of all peaceful loop.



Even jackals offer their *******
   to nurse their offspring,
But my people have become unsparing
    like ostriches in the desert crest.



Those who once ate pure delicacies
     are bad destitute in the streets.
Those nurtured in pink and purple
     now lie on dust and ash heaps.



How the precious sons of Nigeria,
   once their weight in silver and gold,
are now measured as pots of clay,
    the work of a potter's hands; clay ?



The punishment of my Nation
   is greater than that of Gomorrah,
which was overthrown in a moment
   without a hand turned to help her.







©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
>> 11/07/2017
⊙ 06:56PM