Scarriet

The secret society met secretly,

Their stupidity to hide.

The vow to be secret, the only

Accomplishment inside.

A secret isn’t worthy

Unless the ivy covered wall

Of its secrecy remains silent, and never falls.

If any holy secret

Be found along the path,

And you stoop to examine it,

You can’t help but laugh.

Can this be what high symbolism means?

Unpleasant music of moral disorder?

Calculating hearts with empty dreams?

A wet cave, which goes no further?

The machine can do many things

And the poets are frankly scared that the machine,

Stocked with “tears, stars, berries, woods,”

Can now write poems

And can say, with just the right anger, “I hate Trump.”

The machine does work and that’s fine

But when the machine’s work extends to love,

We are horrified.

We are machines when we work—

But are we machines when we love?

What are humans? Machines emerging from nature,

The writing ruining the writing,

The memory of a sun blocking the memory of a moon,

The moon, human, the human comparing itself to the moon,

The trifle that is the universe sorry for its complexity and its size.

The poem unable to manifest itself in the beloved’s searching eyes.

And when, at last, the whimpering animal dies,

The touch of what feels like a metallic hand on your shoulder.

Maybe this time my love will be

About this poem, instead of this

Poem being about my love. Poetry

Can do two things; first, find bliss

In how the poet manages to convey

What anyone in love would like to say,

But cannot. Since poetry isn’t painting,

The poem needs to be a kind of fainting

Rather than the eyes of the love seen.

The poem says where love has been;

This telling reveals the beloved, unseen,

The eyes in all their glory hinted at;

The reader feeling what the poet feels.

A poem cannot do much more than that.

But maybe this time my poem will be

Love itself—the origin of all poetry.

The beloved will not only make the reader weak—

She will open her mouth—oh God!—and speak.

Too much loving, too much poetry

Has consumed my days. We don’t want to be free.

We want to be trapped by love. We want to hear poetry by the sea.

But today I do want to be free,

I want one ordinary morning in a café,

The boredom of those who work here. “A large coffee,” is all I say.

The customers are older couples, softly talking. Of course poems are insane,

I always knew that, and songs,

Like films, exist because of adultery; the poetry of sexual wrongs

I’m deeply sick of; the sensitive singer strumming the guitar

On in the café, please stay in the background. I know who you are.

Silent nature: cliffs and hills, the military, stoic pursuits

Will not save me, because I will think of love in the silences.

A second cup of coffee is about all I can do.

I need to take a walk.  And think about you.

I really don’t know what to do. Maybe I’ll buy a suit,

A good fitting suit; I’ll get a good haircut, very subtle cologne,

And then maybe I’ll run into you, and you will be alone.

I had the best time of my life an hour ago—
But this elevator is dark and slow.
She sleeps a pleasant sleep. I’m not sure who to call—
Now it seems the elevator isn’t moving at all.
I entered the elevator at the top floor,
After kissing her one last time—I couldn’t kiss her anymore.
She loved me. The protests died in our room,
And we loved. Has this elevator become a tomb?
Just a short time ago, I left the highest bliss—
In the cold and dark, I remember the kiss.
The building is tall, and down below, the sun rises.
Next time I’ll take the stairs. And do all that love advises.

Everything changes you as you listen to it,

Whether the music is good or bad.

A music or a speech has something going for it

Even if it makes no sense, and drives you mad.

Madness improves the economy—mad, you will dare

To do all kinds of things.

Cures are sought, love is made, things are bought—if you care.

The best entertainer half-talks, half-sings.

You think I have bad musical taste,

Or don’t like something I said?

What can you do about it? What do I care?

I put myself in your head.

I will stay there—and now you are thinking of me.

It’s what we want to remove that we think about the most.

How can one person change the universe? You have to let it be.

No one knows what you are thinking. You don’t boast.

I’ve noticed what is popular is exactly what you hate.

You and the universe are at odds,

It’s the sensitive person’s fate.

Darling, do you remember when we took time

And leisurely lay in each other’s arms, and let a whole Beethoven piece play?

When we loved? When I wrote about you in rhyme?

That was bliss. That was us. And it simply faded away.

We don’t know the color of the moon.

I’ve seen her dreaming yellow in the beginning of the evening

As if she were the sun.

I’ve seen her sad, mute and blue in the morning

In love: O what have I done?

I’ve seen the moon change color with the changing clouds,

Clouds the swift night wind is forming,

Clouds which escape, but barely, from the sea.

You didn’t think there was desperation, did you,

In the still evening sky? Maybe you do know,

For your sadness always moves,

Almost escaping, almost happy.

The color of the moon. Is it a voice or a mood?

The painters are in despair, for the moon is always nude.

I despaired, until one day I saw a white moon,

Faint, like my heart, in the bright noon.

These are your men.

Since I love you, I can’t give this lesson again.

Couples retain pride

No matter how much they confide.

I will show you the moves

As decorously as sensitivity loves.

I am white. I move first.

This means I should win.

Where losing is cursed,

Lack of focus is the only sin.

Control the center of the board.

Push pawns forward, defending them

With the larger pieces, hidden.

Hiding happens gradually

In the growing number of possible moves;

Castles and knights are easy to see,

But where they move in the future is all.

Protect the king. The king cannot fall.

Hold the smooth piece in your hand

And note the temperature of the squares—

The hottest, where the most pieces are able to land.

Gather the assembled army where

The exchange, the battle, favors you.

Love? No. Plan. So every move seems new.

Take your man. Don’t listen to what you

Think the player who plays black is saying.

Do you love me? Will you read this poem?

The metaphor is all. You cannot win without playing.

Beauty is just a word we use to describe women.

Imams use beauty to mean temptation which should be hidden away,

But those who love beauty say why should we hide it away?

As soon as we mention beauty comes the request that beauty should stay.

The star is beautiful, but more beautiful, the beautiful ray.

When we see a group of brothers and sisters, in a free society,

Freely entering a room, smiling, we see beauty over time.

Beauty, hold still. I am grateful. My arrogance is cured by rhyme.

We want the dreamy candlelight not to blur too much. Loving

Should remain, like candles in a row, burning. I drank too much and the room is moving.

Beauty, remain. Don’t be the candle flame which moves.

Beauty means fidelity—which always loves.

We are wise, we know advanced physics, by what the poet Wordsworth said:

The living flower is you; the examined flower is dead.

The words of the poem could be said to disappoint, but this isn’t quite true;

If I don’t like the poem you wrote—I won’t like you.

How’s that for hyper-criticism? Don’t cry

Because your poem fails—in your poem’s death, you die.

The secret is out: the poetry degree isn’t worth a penny.

A poem succeeds—or not—for reasons far too many

And unique—good beside a good in a poem may be bad;

There’s no method but madness—the best poets are mad.

You are hurt, love can’t help—still there’s something you can do.

But remember: if your poem fails, I won’t be pleased by you.

When I swim in the sea,

Holding me up, thinking the water is me,

I do not fear drowning. I have no fears at all,

Living, being so big, I, being so small.

I am exactly the sea.

The sea is exactly me.

The sea wants me to be a part

Of the sea. The lungs and heart

Were already built to thrive,

So I never not was. I have always been alive.

When you see me vanish in a sea of error,

Mere fears cannot conquer your terror,

Thinking you will lose me,

As if I never existed, or was the sea.

I would love you in your house by the sea.

I would love you and you would love me.

We would dine on a meal I cooked.

And then we would kiss, after we looked.

We would have wine, but not too much,

Saving each other to taste and touch.

There would be sigh and there would be rub.

There would be caress. But most of all, love.

There would be work and love between play.

And if my manners were bad, you would send me away.

I couldn’t understand why our love had to die.

Mystery unsolvable! You loved me

Madly even as you said goodbye.

I had to know the answer to the mystery.

Love is not a part of life, but everything, and so

Love makes us feel, and makes us want to know.

Solving a problem which is simple and small

Can be impossible, but love is the greatest problem of all:

So most give up; it is the brain—

What the timid fear, what the bold lose by going insane—

The brain, not the heart, kills love—the loveless are ignorant, at last.

The unloved finally view love as a hurtful, confused, failure in the past.

I love as I think, and think as I love,

Because love is a mystery—and there’s the rub;

Love is a mystery, a mystery to be solved—

So everyone has cried since the world revolved.

You had feelings, the mystery hurt, you cried,

You wept away your thoughts—first, thoughts, then feelings are denied.

I solved the mystery: our love was strong,

So the small goodbyes were always too long;

Love was always saying goodbye

To us. To you. Your sorrow was love’s.

You left because of love. And love has told me why.

Now that I’m gone,

She can go to a beauty salon.

She can try a dress on

When she goes to a store.

She can pick out wines

And buy wine, and buy more

Than when I was there,

And she can be at ease when she dines;

In her kitchen let her count tines;

Let her oven be off or on,

Now that I’m gone.

She can take long walks by lakes

And she can go on the internet,

And if she senses the offers are fakes

She can smile, and think of me, or, forget.

Let her write memos and fret,

Let her  vacation message be off or on,

Now that I’m gone.

She can make a batch of cookies

While she talks on the phone,

She can watch a movie with a friend, or alone,

She can watch a nature show on bees,

She can visit historical houses,

Or stay in and sleep, and have wonderful dreams,

She can throw out old blouses

And bras and when someone blames

Her for something she didn’t do,

She can explain patiently

And not lose her temper. The madness grew

When I lay with her by the lawn

And that was because she was a beauty.

Today she does what she needs to do

Now that I’m gone.

She can laugh. She can laugh.

She can laugh and laugh and laugh

And fall asleep with the television on

Now that I’m gone.

She will leave early, but not too early.

She will surely

Never be hopeful at dawn

Now that I’m gone.

But dread or hope—

Who knows their scope?

In a mad moment or two, hope may really turn her on.

She can go to a beauty salon,

Now that I’m gone.

You go to me, as if I’m there,
Though I’m not—but aren’t I always there?
Seeing the flowers, even when flowery love’s not there?
The flowers are there because you are aware.
When I do not, it’s you who stare.
It’s you who look around, and look,
At the world, as if the world were your only book,
And I am in there; yes, you look,
You look at the emptiness of my stare,
And don’t see the flowers, but the flowers are there.
Once I looked at you, and now you’re blind.
And you complained. But never mind.
When I’m not there, it’s you who stare.

Poetry is the soundtrack to this sea of prose,

The noise made in the boat. You better get one of those.

Stupidity is silent and hasn’t made a sound

Since it grew so heavy it can’t get around.

Thought and feeling don’t come alive until articulate

And heard patterns come alive in the lantern of wit.

Intention walks into the light to be heard

When poetry is poetry. Anything else is absurd.

You make it clear to me,

With groans, you like creativity.

You make your love certain with your cries

That cry into music. Don’t open your eyes

Until the feeling inside becomes too much.

Smile. Write poetry. Keep in touch.

Poetry overpowers the weak—

So they will never read poetry again.

Poetry even kills poetry when poetry attempts to speak

In a valley with eleven hundred starving men,

And the wind starts up, to make even worse the snow,

Now flying sideways, the world with no place to go.

Poetry isn’t needed here, so you better be quiet,

Or bring out this menacing guy, if you don’t want a riot.

The poetry in this gun will not fire,

The poetry you loaded onto the bus

Will get old before it gets to where it’s going,

And at some bus stop, by a drug store, will sigh, and retire.

The poems like a trumpet you heard in books which roar

Like the sound of Tennyson don’t roar anymore.

Remove your wind-breaker, get wet, scream, implore.

That’s not poetry. Maybe blood will do it.  Or a pricier store.

So much poetry is lying around,

In casual speech, in the accidental sound

Of overheard music and trains.

Your poetry in the sun will never compete

With what this imbecile smells when it rains.

When pictures, noble, inspiring wonder and fear,

Swim into your sight, but do not respond when you speak to them,

These, like movies and books, are dead, like ghosts, their nobility

A rumor, a shadow, a reflection of anything which happens to move

In front of the mirror, even your own image, which you naturally love

Because it is you, though you may hate the way it looks

Because it is not beautiful enough to inspire movies and books,

And further, there you are, it is you looking at you, it is you

But it cannot tell you anything you want to know

Even as you stare meaningfully alone in the cinema at the glow,

The light and meaning of all light and meaning, but when you think

Of a question, it will not answer; it doesn’t know, it can only blink

With its noble eyes

And from its lips, anything—even lies.

When the noble Horatio heard the wild rumor, it was clear

How Hamlet’s friend felt: “Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.”

But when his thick reason saw the cheat, he turned pale with fear.

Who’s there? The rumored video, ghost, history, life, is near.

He’s naive about drinking

And that’s good,

He’s naive about drugs

And that’s good.

Monks are wise from ignorance.

You can’t say how much good divinity brings

When you are ignorant of all bad things.

He never ages. He eats food raw.

He is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.

He is not addicted to sex or drink.

He has peace and ease and knows how to think.

He’s addicted to nothing. He will play

His flute quietly a few minutes a day.

He has no desires and this is good.

But one thing is never understood:

Even as he glories in being naive:

He wants the rest to believe.

He’s addicted to talk. He has to share.

As soon as he speaks, we don’t care.

As soon as he whispers, “Do you know what I think?”

I roll my eyes. I reach for a drink.

If he were silent when he looked at me

My thoughts would drown and I would be free.

I hear these sounds when these sounds stop.

When the shouting ends I hear these soft voices drop.

When you begin to love and no longer pretend,

All doubts in the woods and mountains will end.

The hawk will keep deadly silence above.

Let her. As long as you love.

That is crazy that you went that far!

I’m lazy. I listen for the car.

When the cats stop coming around

My cat will drop from the tree to the ground.

When Cynthia says she can come by,

All sounds will cease. Even my sigh.

Houses are comfortable and comforting.

Things have their uses,

But I love her because she looks like a witch.

I look forward to her abuses.

People are cruelly physical

And not theoretical at all.

She loved me for my blue eyes and because I was tall.

She loved me because I cleaned my teeth and cut my hair.

If you are beautiful, or walk with a limp, people will stare.

The human is physical more than any other thing.

Theory cannot punish. Theory cannot sing.

Houses are comforting; objects are more human than human.

We want silent pictures in our room.

We want artistic lamplight in the gloom.

We don’t want the human.

We want a good bed to sleep in.

In that good bed, we dream,

And maybe there’s a kind face in a stream.

But people outside of dreams are physical, and that’s all they are.

Do you remember when the eye looked at a distant star?

You have been working hard and making money
And the rabbits are running in your flowers
As dandelions droop here and there and the hours
Fall as they always fall when shadows cover the hill
And the sun bathes the hill, by turns, cloudy and blue,
And night settles down, with dwindling sunlight and moonlight, too.
Always making it, with your thoughts of me,
To where I am, and me kissing you, finally,
And you indifferent, as the women always are,
Unless the big act of the porn star.
Hey it’s about time we agree.
You better give that to me.

You have been aging, and trying hard not to age,
Putting in new plants, the basil and the sage,
The things you are able to do, always ready to do;
Sometimes with tree trunks it’s difficult to tell false from true.
The soil is ready, and you are purposeful, not quite soiled,
Trying to keep your health and another cookie, or two,
Leaving the fermenting alone, so it doesn’t get spoiled.
It’s impossible to know what women really are.
Children are the best. But they only take you so far.
Of course. It was expected. We couldn’t agree.
You better give that to me.

The far-flung hasn’t made it here yet, but it will,
They are working on something new,
Hear the sounds of the workers on the other side of the hill?
The rabbits are coming out more in the evenings.
Look at them sitting there, with those eyes.
It makes you want to renounce the human race, sometimes,
The innocence and plainness of these animals.
And all the poems heaped up and not rhyming.
It’s not my business, really, to ask who you are.
A little can be found out. A telescope. A star.
I’ll be peering into the night. Maybe we’ll agree.
You better give that to me.

This towering tree creates a thick, deep shade

So one thinks gloom is a thing God made.

Underneath this gargantuan tree

Cool spring days fade quietly

Where lilacs and ferns sit around

A small stream making a small sound.

We talk upon outdoor furniture here

In the middle of the year,

Until the day’s shade turns into night.

We go indoors and have a little food,

And rest under music to remain in a good mood.

Before we sleep, I kiss her face

And the poem vanishes, without a trace.

To our tryst be quick,

For you seem to be in love,

And I am love-sick.

To our tryst don’t be slow,

You sense already

What I don’t know.

To our tryst be fast,

You seem to understand

Trysts won’t last.

To our tryst hurry please,

I’m already waiting

Upon my knees.

To our tryst run,

For being there

Will be more fun.

To our tryst the night

Plans to come,

If that’s alright.

To our tryst the sun

Will keep his tryst,

When we are done.

To our tryst give

All we can give,

So we can live.

To our tryst don’t delay

And then hurrying love

At last can stay.

We are one; love’s impossible;
We never let anyone into our circle;
The circle of the self is immaculate, inviolate—
You cannot enter it.

Why did I think there could be love?
My whole life I searched for it,
And the idea of blending with another was heaven!
But now I find
Circles defended by the blind.
“Who’s there? Who’s entering my circle?”
It is I, the yearning and the beautiful.

I put my hand in someone’s hand.
While it happened, it was grand.
I thought love was making us one.
Two cannot be one.
Why did I think that was possible?
I cannot be in your circle.
Was never in there.
We say things. But we cannot care.

Is the circle good?  Is love at the center?
I feel it is. Until the blind blindly enter.

Weather destroyed fashion.
Love destroyed porn.
Who you are today
Gazed at you when you were born.
You’re more loving than you know.
But you’re in my circle. And you will have to go.

Now, from this island,

I see where I was wrong.

I thought there was an ocean.

I believed storms on this ocean were strong.

Rocks and paths were hidden—double

Uncertainties of blue mist appeared like ocean trouble.

It seemed to me the jungle slope

Was steep, and further into the rain, I lost hope.

My mind was a gusty unknown

As I traveled the island alone.

I didn’t know she was on the land

Attached to the island; we could stand

Anywhere. I could apologize.

Sand was in my eye.

There’s no island.

Wit’s relationship with me

Is my relationship with you

In poetry; this is what poetry

Is; this defines what I do.

Poetry I do all alone,

But with it, I can play any tone.

I can be more myself with it than with you.

I heard of someone, today, who,

Worked all his life, and, at the age of seventy two,

Had no one—no one!—to leave his money to.

So I am going to write this poem to you.

We can’t live naked; Wallace Stevens doesn’t  fit

In nature; we need a roof—and wit.

Labor is necessary all the time.

The sun is hot, and into the sun we have to climb.

This tragedy of commuting we cannot share

With anyone, and if we should so much as stare

At someone else with desire, it’s called a crime.

But most desires are passing; only wit

Saves us. This poem is my gift which wraps it.

The artist wants to own what he sees,

The poet wants to own what he hears,

Like I wanted to own you,

You, and all your fears.

But the painter and the poet find

There is too much to own—none of it will be owned.

Ownership, in creation, is the first thing that is barred.

Poetry is not war. In poetry, peace and forgetting are.

Put the painting away. Whatever is wanted is marred.

Of course I want to own all this.

But who owns the last moment’s kiss?

Do you remember when I held you and every living flight of your face was mine?

Do you remember when I loved you in the flowers, and we drank the shadowy wine?

The mind wants to own the body.

The body wants to own the mind.

Why are the more than loving always the less than kind?

I can have this, but only if it doesn’t do anything and it’s blind.

We find there is too much to lose,

So much to lose—that nothing is finally lost.

The body is immense and the mind doesn’t know what to choose.

Take my hand! It’s mine, but now it belongs to you.

I am gone. The distant mountains are blue.

Did you miss me? I’ll find something else to do.

Of course I want.

Do you remember when I held you and every living flight of your face was mine?

Do you remember when I loved you in the flowers, and we drank the shadowy wine?

God, you must be hiding a lover somewhere.

God, tell me the truth, I’m in despair,

Tell me, tell me, what did you create?

The human? I am one. But look at this template.

I thought the human was the creation, but no;

People? Am I a person? With eyes and words? I don’t know.

You are hiding a lover. Can I say this? I think I can.

The template isn’t human. It’s woman and man.

People don’t exist. We are one of two.

And I want the other one. Tell me what to do.

They are all the same: they surrender with a sigh.

And before that and after that they coldly go by.

Madness is caused by too much goodness.

When I was bad, I relaxed and loved.

Too much goodness is madness.

The thesis may be difficult to prove,

But it’s true: sanity is when you don’t give a fuck:

I’m still in love with her; she’s moved on.

Years later I still obsess about her, because

She doesn’t give a fuck. I was her pawn.

I was afraid to make her angry. She was always angry.

I was loving and good and never let myself be angry with her,

Until one day, I got really angry at her

Because I never let myself be angry with her,

And I did something stupid and lost her forever.

I’m the crazy one because I still love her

And she’s sane, because she doesn’t give a fuck.

She didn’t give a fuck about anything.

She wanted to be anonymous. Kissing her

Was like kissing water. I knew her

Not to want anything: kids, career,

Art, she didn’t want to make anything,

Didn’t want to leave a mark.

Smile or frown, she liked to disappear into the dark.

Not giving a fuck is why she’s sane—

She continues with her pretty life.

She’s gone, and yet I love her—my caring is my pain.

I never knew someone so sane, so beautiful.

And this was because she didn’t give a fuck,

And I was expendable, another source of her rage;

She cared, like the rest, about looks, about age,

But to care that we care is what makes us insane;

And everyone knows love is the worst madness of all.

The good care, and this defines madness.

Not caring protects one’s happiness and gladness.

The bad can fall into ruin, it’s true,

But they ruin their body, and don’t lose their mind when they do.

The self-centered are sane—the things they care about are few.

The proof is seen in religion—don’t religions seem completely mad?

Fanciful, superstitious, yet strict, sadly seeking to make people less bad?

The good find it difficult to reconcile

The bad with the religious desire for good—since the world is bad all the while;

The world, which doesn’t give a fuck,

Makes those who care too much—simply out of luck.

By all that’s sane and beautiful! If only she would kiss me again!

Exactly as before! When she seemed to give a fuck, back then.

“I’m just a jealous guy”–John Lennon

~

The trouble with jealousy is that it loves,

Holds on sweetly, sweetly as it loves,

Finds grace in the small spaces where it loves,

But it holds onto pictures, and spies

On things it should not spy on; who loves

Without jealousy, or looks into just one pair of eyes?

The trouble with jealousy is that it knows

Love is not love; love constantly pretends

Love loves, love is loyal, and loyalty never ends.

Jealousy loves, even as it looks

Into homes, gardening tools, trash compactors, books.

Jealousy holds aloft the pulled weed,

Calculating necessity and speed

Of putting gardens in order; nature’s high need

Is thick in the margins of every property,

Where jealousy looks, as far as the eye can see.

Feelings, such as jealousy and fear, are extremely common, and those who say all sorts of negative feelings don’t exist in their heart from time to time are lying.

There has been a tendency in our day to give subjective feelings a great deal more importance than they deserve. 1. We sometimes get so worked up about our feelings about feelings, we make them more important than actual crime—slander, for instance. 2. We work up such a hatred for negative feelings, which are nonetheless very common, we often mistake negative feelings for negative actions; we mistakenly believe feelings permanently mark someone’s character—they do not.

Feelings are ephemeral—they only have the potential to influence our actions; and negative feelings are common; they belong to everyone. So why do we assume feelings are more important than they are? Ironically, if you believe the falsehood that negative feelings are highly influential and corrupt, you give feelings more influence, just with your belief.

But here’s the truth.

Laws—rules which govern and punish negative actions—form the essence of a fair and just society.

And laws are based on facts, not feelings.

Hard evidence is necessary to convict.

If you hate X, this is not proof that you have harmed X.

Negative feelings—let’s take the most obvious one—hate:

Hate is not only common feeling, but it may reflect a good: as when we hate what is bad or disgusting.

Let’s look at a typical example using a negative emotion: jealousy. We are all jealous, and, depending on information, vague or otherwise, which may come our way, we all can be very jealous from time to time. Feelings of jealousy, however, like hate, or other negative feelings, are just feelings. It is not a crime to feel jealousy, and, if you have jealous feelings, this does not mean that you are a “jealous person.” Someone may be making you jealous. The only thing which feeling jealous means, is that you are having jealous feelings. It does not mean you will harm or attack or stalk or harass anyone.

And further, if anyone accuses you of harassment, simply because you express feelings of jealousy, the feelings of jealousy which you express are not proof of anything.

The accusation of harassment, however, is actually something far worse—it is a crime. Slander.

Laws—based on actions, hard evidence, investigated and proven—have nothing to do with feelings. The phrase, “cold-blooded killer” comes to mind. In a just society ruled by “laws, not men,” facts are observed, and arguments are based on facts; feelings have little importance. A jealous lover can make an accusation, and the jealousy of the accuser is not the issue; only the facts surrounding the accusation matter. And if the accused is jealous? This doesn’t matter, either. In the law, subjective feelings do not count.

Ideologies which pre-judge—feminism, for example—increase the tendency to radically over-estimate feelings as signs of truth. Men who happen to have negative feelings for a certain amount of time are tagged negatively forever, as the ideology “proves” its case, as generalized, unexamined slander expands and grows. Another example (gaslighting) would be if a man were cheating on his wife and he made her feel like a jealous person, simply because she had jealous feelings.

Feelings can be very powerful things. When people begin to believe that having a few jealous thoughts is proof that one is a permanently “jealous person,” one can easily see the potential for mass psychological harm.

Can a poem be happy, and tell the truth, too?

Love, there is no truth except as it relates to you.

So this poem must find a way to make you happy

And praise is what love loves; the world, flattery.

So I’ll ask love how to praise you best

Before my eastern poem travels sadly to the west.

A poet only praises if the poet has seen, or heard,

A sensory delight, and can turn it into a word.

A poet praises—so happiness can also be true;

The sun, light, word, earth—turning in you.

A poet can only praise what love in love has done.

Love, tell me, as the horizon in the west ascends to the sun,

How does love look to you? Look! Cloudy, hungry, skies

Cover the sun. Mother! Accept what’s seen by your child’s eyes.

Praising mother cannot be done.

The origin of love and words are hers.

I saw the folly of others—

And said what I saw.

I hated law breakers.

I loved the law.

I rebuked the folly

Of others drinking wine.

I was perfect.

But now the folly is mine.

I fly to folly, and sing with folly.

And all the times I couldn’t,

I could, with Molly.

Molly showed me folly.

Molly showed me wine.

I break laws with Molly,

And folly and Molly are mine.

Poetry makes me unhappy.

It makes me not me.

It’s easy to imagine and say

Night lives in the beautiful day.

Like a hypnotist, poetry can tell

Me I’m sleeping, and things are not well,

And I should remain sleeping

And in my imagination end all horror and end all weeping.

I’m happy after the poem is done;

I slept beneath a sleeping sun.

I danced—and the people saw

The poem and its poet are a law

Unto themselves. I still dance.

I still love. I still laugh. In a trance.

Honor the best.

The best saves us all.

It appalls you to experience it?

Let it hypnotize you and appall.

Let it murder your pride, individual.

The best saves us all.

I was forced to admit she was beautiful,

Breasts, hips, large; oh! waist small;

A face unparalleled; I cannot turn away,

Ashamed to know a sight wins my heart,

A truth unable to admit, and only in a poem, say.

We only live because of the best.

It kills the pride in all the rest,

Making them run to the banal,

Which has its place, like the beautiful.

The king of kings made me see

I’m not that great. And now I’m free.

I never give out my true love’s name.

Is love my god? My god is shame.

In the dreaming garden I walked along,

Too ashamed to sing a song.

Love may be the moon, smooth and bright.

But shame rules the details of the night.

All I whisper when no one’s there

From my true heart? Shame doesn’t care.

The sad images which lie in my heart

Belong to love. But shame rules my art.

Shame rules all I see and hear.

Love hides. Never spoken. Though here.

Shame lives with millions. Do I blame

Love? Shame is not afraid of love. Shame

Is an army of poetry. Shame is not afraid.

Do not love your love, he said. And I obeyed.

This poem needs music,

Beautiful and new,

If this poem would say

All it wants to say to you.

A melody is what it wants—

A melody that haunts,

A melody making sure

Thought is profound and pure

In presentation and intent,

Like a meadow harmonized with a tent.

There is food within,

And water and wine

And in birdsong and shadow you and I may dine.

The harmony of melody

And words, saying

“I love you,” needs a quartet playing.

The scene I paint might be

A shore with trees, to aid the melody,

As you and I speak of the beach

(Love, sweetly, just out of reach)

Where figures of betrayal stand. Do we stay?

And leave Shelley where he lay?

I’ve changed my mind—I don’t need all the freedom I had.
I wanted fun, but why is fun always seen as bad?
I’ve changed my mind—I don’t need all the freedom I had.

I guess I don’t want to go out and see everybody there.
I made one little joke—and now everyone has to stare?
I guess I don’t want to go out and see everybody there.

I really don’t like him now; I thought he was funny at first,
But now I see humor which turns ugly is absolutely the worst.
I really don’t like him now; I thought he was funny at first.

Love will upset you if it lives in your mind, even if it goes in peace.
If I dump my boyfriend and he still loves me I will call the police.
Love will upset you if it lives in your mind, even if it goes in peace.

I want to get out of this but I love him so much.
I have trouble with words. I have trouble with touch.
I want to get out of this but I love him so much.

I think I love winter. I don’t want it to be spring.
I want this color, and I want to say this thing.
I think I love winter. I don’t want it to be spring.

I’ve been a little unsure since he removed his hat.
I wanted to take from this hour and I wanted to give to that.
I’ve been a little unsure since he removed his hat.

I need to leave. This scene is too urban and loud.
Thinking of safety in numbers, I selected this crowd.
I need to leave. This scene is too urban and loud.

I had a chance to take off my clothes. But now I want them on.
I followed him into the clouds. Now the mountain and the sun are gone.
I had a chance to take off my clothes. But now I want them on.

I was gentle and true.

But she was not.

So pardon me that I’m not as gentle with you.

She was untruthful and unkind

So I’m not saying what’s exactly on my mind.

She was someone I cannot forget

So I’m not able to love you yet.

I was upright and true.

I don’t know if I can be so with you.

Through her love I learned

To hate. I would perish if I burned;

Feeling love again with that fire,

I would only mock my highest desire

With that which never loves as it should,

Because she was bad—and I was good.

If I love you, I will not call her,

I will only call out your name,

But it can never, never be the same,

And our love will be a little smaller.

Our love will have an understanding

And, when under the trees we kiss,

It will be a yearning for love both of us miss,

And the kiss for that will be the kiss for this.

Under those scented trees, will a great love stir,

When you kiss madly what is gone, and I think of her?

What will you feel as I lean in to kiss you?

That love is sad? And can never be new?

You can’t defeat the patriarchy.

It takes too many forms, it lives

In too many ways, the forms

Zeus used invade you innocently enough,

Crowning your sight with objects and vistas,

Animals, scenes, sunsets, infinite,

A funeral pyre’s burning death

Closing your eyes, shortening your breath,

The empty ache of all desire never

Satisfied, except when hate and fear

Run you far away from here

Where never-ending change

Decides how far desire may range,

Which otherwise remains in bed

Curled up with flesh, sleepy and fed.

Why did you love me once, and never again?

Love should be like the sun and send

Light interminable. First you loved me as a friend,

And friendship is so close to love, love

Thinks friendship is what love is, but if it was,

I did not know. A thief is called a thief because he steals,

But I wanted you to take from me. The lover feels

Everything is stolen, as light steals away from the sun,

The orb of all light giving out its light to only one,

Giving, giving, giving. And still it is the sun.

But add to this blind burning, one belief,

The sun becomes responsible. And you became a thief.

They told me you missed my light when you were in your bed.

In the knowledge of your window you saw the moon instead.

They said as you were walking down the avenue

You smiled. To be speaking. And the speaking wasn’t you.

The sun can be everywhere, but I was asleep.

Love can be everywhere. Lights into the libraries creep.

As friends, our next step was love—love is when friends touch

Out of their friendship—light isn’t light so much

As something slower and more solid, the mortal hit,

A palpable hit. We did this once, and then you quit.

You wanted the dark earth to be once more, the sun,

A light, only, a light, too light, shining its light on everyone.

Reality becomes a play

As soon as you say

Anything about it. In that room

Is the consciousness of war, death, the doom

Of innocents, all in that room.

As soon as you take a picture of the ape,

You can say the human is just something on tape.

The rumor of the image

Is true, once you film the mirage.

The moment Cleopatra hated a man

Who loved her, map-making began.

Isn’t this poem true?

Now that it’s been read by you?

By the time you see the video, sorrow

Will exist, or not exist, tomorrow.

Here is the building. Now you can prove

Anything can be built. Even love.

Why do I think of you
When I am dead to you,
Having done something terribly wrong?
Why does this fetid pond keep singing a song?
Why do I keep thinking of you,
My thoughts as numerous as drops of dew?
Your kisses were fresh water to me, but now I get nothing from you.
How is this swamp living?
My love is a spring which keeps giving,
And you, who hate,
Will love me again, just wait.
What I did wasn’t really that wrong.
You think of me, I know you do, and my song.
Away from each other, our love festers,
Or maybe it ages, like wine.
And one day, we’ll get massively drunk—
And you and I will be fine.

The looked at never look;

For looking is a lonely thing.

If you are looked at, you have friends,

Awards come after you, and a ring.

But the eyes look on horror when you are trapped and only see.

Looking is a trapped state. It isn’t free.

The looked at are blessed, and it’s why

You take so long at the mirror and even your eye

Is looked at—even your eye doesn’t look.

Your eye is beautiful. And blind words grace this book,

Triumphant, for every reader looks this way:

Into night’s book, which posits lovers in the day.

Now that I’ve told you everything,
I presume you will use more care.
No need to thank me. I informed you because I trust you.
You seem to understand by now the transfer of information
Is as important as the information,
And I’m happy to see you coming to that understanding.
I think we can be happy, because as important as our jobs are,
Happiness is still important, and I mean that sincerely.
We have many important things to accomplish,
But the burden need not kill us; we can occasionally have a drink,
And I promise I’ll always be as honest with you as I can.
You don’t have to share everything you’re thinking,
But I hope you’ll share what’s important,
And I pray you’ll try to understand my eccentricities;
I promise to keep it as simple as I can when I tell you what makes me happy.
I don’t have anything more to say. Do you?  Cool.

~

[note: this is not a “found poem,” but entirely original—the reader may find it vaguely corporate or evil—or funny]