"unvarying" poems
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
O Thou, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh !
Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in simplst vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd
To bless my longing sight ;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell ;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
Thy modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.
There Health, thro' whose calm ***** glide
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow ;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh Nymph retir'd and coy !
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy simple tale ;
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss rose, and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
O say what soft propitious hour
I best may chuse to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway ?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid ;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering thro' the shade.
2.1k
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
2k
451
The Outer—from the Inner
Derives its Magnitude—
’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according
As is the Central Mood—
The fine—unvarying Axis
That regulates the Wheel—
Though Spokes—spin—more conspicuous
And fling a dust—the while.
The Inner—paints the Outer—
The Brush without the Hand—
Its Picture publishes—precise—
As is the inner Brand—
On fine—Arterial Canvas—
A Cheek—perchance a Brow—
The Star’s whole Secret—in the Lake—
Eyes were not meant to know.
1.8k
722
Sweet Mountains—Ye tell Me no lie—
Never deny Me—Never fly—
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain—
Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—
My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—
The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—
Whose service—is to You—
Her latest Worship—When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away—
To lift Her Brows on You—
1.6k
My heart went fluttering with fear
Lest you should go, and leave me here
To beat my breast and rock my head
And stretch me sleepless on my bed.
Ah, clear they see and true they say
That one shall weep, and one shall stray
For such is Love's unvarying law....
I never thought, I never saw
That I should be the first to go;
How pleasant that it happened so!
1.5k
As an IU Bloomington student,
I frequently made the drive back to
the fraying rusty fringe of Chicagoland,
the land of greasy-dappled gyro joints,
of Italian Beef, and Italian Sausage,
and Italian Beef and Sausage.
Some described it as one of the most boring drives
in America, lamenting the flatness and unvarying
scenery, but I always drove it under the shroud of darkness.
Nine Inch Nails, My Life With the Thrill **** Kult, and
the Revolting ***** spilled through the stereo.
Al Jourgensen growled his strange Rod Stewart cover,
his ode to crack-cocaine, and his heavy industrial soundtrack
that makes you feel tense, like a prime time victim show.
As the aggressive beats and resonant past washed over me,
I realized my cozy hometown offered comfort
but could sustain no credible
fantasies of the future.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
Can't sleep
These dizzy thoughts
spinning ceaslessly
relentless
in a cup
Half empty,
Half full?
Who knows,
But in the end
the mad hatter will
still wish you had
never been born--
A very Merry Unbirthday to you
to me?
Indeed
Round and Round
they go
mixing colors, textures
emotions, thought
into this smear of humanity
A stain on the background of my mind
as it clicks and whirs and calculates
the options, the weighted possibilities
the electrical impulses zipping past
the smear of confused, muttled anguish
through it, around it,
but the shock cannot
seperate the colors
the textures, the emotions,
the thoughts
The colors melt into grey
various shades of unvarying
reluctant gestures
As the cheshire cat
smiles and laughs like
the cookie crisp mascot
cukoo for coooookie crisp
I hear its laughter
Chuckling madly
at the mad hatter and myself
the mad hatter sipping
out of the cup of grey
as he sings about my unborn nature
Unborn into the world of reality
of sensibility, of responsibility
WAKE UP
I snap back
I look around
and do not recognize
anything at all
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
The rising sun crushes his soul
and the night devours his dreams
lost in his own obsessions, relief is the only thing he seeks.
misguided love pulls him further in
and each and every day will be his last struggle
that smile that comforts and eases his pains
drives him closer each and every day
alone in his world, he pities all others
secretly desires their simple and seemingly misguided lives
he sees the dark truth in others
their ignorance and happiness in the little unimportant things
surprisingly perceptive, he sees other from an untouchable and safe distance
his self-proclaimed superiority saves him the blatant wanting
his drive is for recognition
and someone to end his twisted course
that has turned his life into a undesired and unremitting ritual
endlessly searching
he finds the one
his demure and unassuming savior
he clings with all thats left
hoping with each breath
but his fate is lined with misfortune
and partnered with disillusioned sentiment
a pair not even she can render
their story ends the same
he goes on in secluded shame
a failure he has realized, destined to be his life’s legacy
a lighted piece in the unvarying end
the once hopefulness which guided him
now dissolved into a resentful dissatisfaction
but, that is life, the way it has been, a fool he was to think she would bring along its end.
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
It was the
Bewitching hour
And my shadow was
Not more than adumbrated
By the meager light light
In no time
I would reach an interstellar place
The ocean of emptiness
And would destroy myself.
Each atom would disintegrate
As it fell on the cosmic rays
Unvarying
But the umbrage of the banyan tree
Caught me
Captured my soul
For it was as sacred
As the Greek mythology
And the sins
I had committed
Were forgiven.
Thankfully.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
for so long
time felt long
the world felt smaller
and continuously getting smaller
scarier
tinier
to the point where under a microscope we were non-existent
all of us
our intricate lives
layed out on a map
unvarying and predictable
shapes and blocks
moving around
perpetually abiding by a broken system
a broken record
spinning
repeating the same words
same stories
differences and nuances blurred
things are only what they seem
lenses turned only to one dial
afraid to look further
in fear that its only imagination
or fear that imagination
is a waste of time even
after a lifetime
of passion
of poetry
the world became passionless
dull
and i believed
that is how it was
and how it ought to be
if we were going to
"get anything done"
now i see
or am starting to
that life isn't about doing things
it's about the feelings
the little nuances
the little notes
the little faces
the little smiles
i forgot to smile at strangers
or i tried
but i couldn't
it all seemed so pointless
drowning in the world's sorrow
is a serious endeavor
one that requires another type of imagination
one that imagines
the pain in everyones life
and in every ****** expression
detecting scorn and contempt
could not to love too much
unable to be enthusiastic
the world seemed
too sad
my heart
had no energy for beautiful things
i cant deny that i saw those beautiful gems
in people helping each other
in an animals' eyes
in a book or a speech
in a person's kindness
but all the muchness was gone
and for every sadness
i couldn't be the change
i didn't believe that i could
that i was powerful
even if i wanted to
believe that i was beautiful
or that i was important
or that anything was
and maybe i will never know
based on a scientific proof
or spiritual realization
but i will know some truth
from somewhere deep inside me
so i will keep on searching
in the world that is now expanding
opening up to me like a flower
spreading it's arms open wide to a big hug
taking off its layers for me so i can see the blossoms inside
the intricate details of life
my lens is shifting and changes are coming
changes
i am looking for the changes
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
I've got this feeling
That we are shifting
Through our decisions
They're never ending
If all weight is lifted
Carry me out in an instant
I'm not who you expected
My love is sometimes banished
It hurts me, punishes me
Shredded in pieces, my mind
All this time, you sang well
My eyes green, not with envy
But with holy, a white spirit
Down the hallway, I see you
You're the one in danger
Jumpstart my heart as it revs up
And revamps itself from reverie
My feet have been through a lot
But as long as I'm breathing
They'll float above the flood
Suddenly it's not so deep anymore
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
I’m over here spending twelve stupid years
Becoming a parrot who repeats what she hears
It’s not for the learning, it is for the grade
So I turn off my brain seven hours a day.
I’m wasting, I’m wasting, I’m wasting my time
Even that phrase is a waste of a line
And I’m sick of all of these definitions
Pressing on in, getting marked in red pen—
What am I doing here?
You convinced me there’s answers for everything,
Unvarying, black-and-white lettering,
Supposedly bettering, more like you’re fettering
Me like a prisoner, mental inhibitor
Wish you were valuable, you little swindler,
I’ll play your game, ‘cause that’s all that it is,
A paper to frame, that is all that I get
But if I’m wasting away at this desk,
Forced in the system, then I’ll be the best.
Sep 4, 2024
Sep 4, 2024 at 3:35 PM UTC