THE GUY WITH POETRY BOOKS

Image result for boarding a train abstract painting

The guy with poetry books

Gets on last,

Dreaming of—but not learning from—the past,

Finding everything which came before

Interesting, even the painful incidents—

Thank God they didn’t last!—

Made vague with the passing of time,

So even the pain

He contemplates dreamily

As he slowly boards the train.

If there is wisdom, or rhyme,

A good melancholy refrain,

Stretched out in a book,

It makes him excited to an extreme degree.

It is not the jazz

Or the dancing he loves,

Nor me. It is the poems

To statues. At dawn. With doves.

LIKE THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN

Events | Cannon Beach Gallery Group

Like saints in heaven, recalling sorrow
With a sense of relief and delight,
I now smile when I think of you—
A memory of beauty. Hell. Night.
It doesn’t matter what I do,
Or what is done to me tomorrow.
Leaving you behind, I leave behind all sorrow.
Grand expense my verses took!
I would have had revenge in every book
Grave and rich, were my publisher to pay.
People would have seen you. But there was another way.
I did not publish you. Instead, my cost
Is elegiac sweetness, crushed by all that’s lost.
The saints in heaven, immune to sorrow,
Never knew you. And thanks to you
I’ll love those saints tomorrow.

LIFE IS A PORNO MOVIE

Macaroni: John Berryman at 100

Life is a porno movie. We know what’s going to happen,
But we don’t care.
We understand the inevitable.
Surprise is rare.
Knowing love, the game, the vote, is rigged
Doesn’t bother us a bit.
We shrug, we laugh, we gawk.
What can we do about it?
The announcer sounds excited.
We get excited when we choose,
And the decision seems real—
Whether we win, or lose.
Mr. Bones says “life is boring,” and it is.
It’s boring because we know how it ends.
Look at the sunset and say “it’s great!”
Or you won’t have any friends.
Be patient, or become a patient.
Slowly, lift your hand, and place it here,
And murmur something low—
I don’t think I was able to hear it.
The poem is over. Time to go.


WHAT WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU VOTED?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROBERT PLANT!!! | Nights with Alice Cooper

I love watching those YouTube videos where a young fan of rap listens, mesmerized, to Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin for the first time. Don’t we get a thrill watching someone else get a thrill? But then I thought, what’s the lesson here? Of course Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin are good, and why doesn’t everybody know their music? Does this mean we don’t live in a very enlightened age? Why, when so many walls are coming down, do so many  still hem us in? Is living-in-bubbles just the way of the world?

Google, Smart Phones, Video Games, streaming, social media—have they produced a Renaissance?  Or, at best, a vast, compartmentalized, politically fractured, orgy of mind-numbing passivity? Would it embarrass you if I ask you: Do you do things?  Or just watch?

Success on the planet earth still seems to resemble the way the Ayatollah Khomeini was successful—the narrow and the ruthless prevailing in a mass, hysterical manner. Bits of information flying everywhere really doesn’t matter.  In the end, how smart, free, and beautiful is our new computerized world? Will a Zoom meeting ever compete with Shakespeare performed outdoors at London’s Globe theater?  Can knowing a lot of stuff compare to fruitful action?

The Khomeini revolution in 1979 began a mobster mentality trend—radical, uncompromising Islam—the Ayatollah’s brand—which oppresses women, is wildly appealing to oppressed races, especially to the humiliated males in oppressed societies crushed by colonialism. Poverty’s insecurity breeds bullies. Likewise, rap, with its bitches and hoes lyrics, grew by leaps and bounds among the insecure and down-trodden. Anxiety caters to anxiety.  The swaggering victim replaces the mere victim—is this any better?

Khomeini is significant because he was embraced by liberals, who are now—and even liberals are noticing this—turning into censorious meanies. Despite the fact the Ayatollah was a monster, he symbolized a Third World leader taking vengeance, and winning, against the United States. Jimmy Carter is forever linked with Khomeini and the hostage crisis—the hostages came home as Ronald Reagan was sworn in as president, as if nothing about Carter and Reagan could exist in the same world. The left/right divide of Khomeini/Carter versus Shah/Reagan from 1979 is a 19th century Colonial era divide. But Iran 1979, the most important world event between WW II and the end of the Soviet Union, recalled the Crimean War, when the British Empire fought with the Ottoman Empire against the Russian Empire. The Russian Empire did not succumb to the British and Ottoman Empires, nor did the United States succumb—Russia’s fleets sailed into SF and NY harbors in 1860 as a show of support for the United States on the brink of the divisive American Civil War, with imperial France in Mexico, and her ally (not long ago, her enemy) Britain, hungry to take her American colony (the War of 1812 not a distant memory) back. “If you attack a U.S. weakened by a civil war, we will invade India,” Moscow told London.

Russia and the United States against the World. That World included France, the Ottoman Empire, India, Japan, and China, all either conquered, or allied with, the British Empire. The battle-lines may not seem as simple 150 years later but in some ways they are, if we study Iran 1979, and how it still throws its shadow over the world today. The U.S. defeated the British Empire for good in the 20th century, without a fight, and since it was done without a fight, the diminished but still influential John Bull seized its best option—pretending to be America’s confidant. Texas and Pennsylvania had oil—the resource of the century—this is how the U.S. became stronger than Britain—Britain needed Iran’s oil, and when the Shah announced “time was up” on that deal in 1979, MI6 (with the help of the CIA, the junior partner in Anglo-American intelligence) installed Khomeini. The U.S., allied with the Shah, was now on the outs, and a gradually rising China used Iran’s oil to re-establish a new order detrimental to the United States—one that began to resemble the power dynamics of the 1860s, when the U.S. and Russia were allies—but at that time Russia was the Soviet Union, so that was out; no wonder American influence took a dive in the 1970s (recall the disastrous Carter years, capped by the loss of Iran’s friendship). Then came Reagan, and the fall of the Soviet Union, but the Bushes and Bill Clinton brought America to the brink of disaster, again: the invasion of Iraq (which pleased Iran), middle east terror and chaos on the rise, terrible globalist trade deals which would have pleased the British Empire itself. Also, the continued march of Marxism/Maoism through American institutions, both government and academic. And finally, a political culture featuring Democrats pandering to racial division, and Republicans selling out to globalism with the Democrats—a one party system with one voice in the media more and more Americans no longer trusted. Khomeini taught the Left a wonderful lesson:  During the hostage crisis, the Ayatollah freed blacks and women. A cunning monster with a heart of gold. All U.S. contemporary literature and respectable media outlets, by the 1970s, in a fit of rock music excitement, turned Left, (Nixon had helped to make sure of that—you were either Washington Post or an uncool neanderthal) so most immigrants to the U.S. arrived as leftists, since Letters was Left—and that’s what the immigrant, learning the language, and learning the political culture, learned on the path to their new country, even if they were escaping a worse country to come to the U.S.  The Democrats were gaining voters.

Meanwhile a new divide, was on the rise in the United States. The colonial, Marxist divide was joined by an ancient, Biblical one.

The wedge that really divides the U.S. more than anything else, more than race, more than climate change, more than taxes, more than foreign wars, is abortion. On one side, those who want to protect innocent life. On the other?  The rage of millions of females who have had abortions, and don’t wish to be called murderers. This issue cannot, and will not be resolved, and this is why Donald Trump is hated, and Joe Biden, as criminal and creepy as he is, is loved—and abortion—and no other issue—really explains this feverish division. The answer is so obvious and plain, that it may not register among all the other issues and complexities of contemporary politics—but abortion is the one thing which divides us all.

This is the Biblical divide. It is has Civil War implications. Simple origins never stop being significant and true. The U.S. Democrat and Republican parties are contingencies, vote-getting devices, not archetypes, much less truths. The Democrats are sympathetic to Khomeini’s Iran because the Democrats and their corporate, Wall Street allies are now practicing colonialism in disguise—the globalist expansion of America is ironically being waged by the “progressive” Democrats, while the Republicans (not the Bushes, who are corporate Democrats) especially under the leadership of Trump, belong mundanely (despite all the passionate hatred on both sides) to the America of George Washington which stays out of the world’s affairs as much as possible. After all, the British Empire—which America defined itself against, originally—was globalism itself.

The Democrats don’t understand democracy, which is why they are currently destroying it. Democrats think democracy is a noble speaking tool for the Everyman. Or, in a best case scenario, Democrats think democracy is a way to make all our dreams come true—everyone equal, dancing beneath the world’s tree; but democracy itself doesn’t solve, or advance anything. Innovation does that. Democracy is a purely mundane safeguard. Democracy is protection, and that’s all—it protects “we the people;” democracy isn’t a “voice” of the people, or anything corny like that. Democracy, as both idea and process, is simple, and should be kept as transparent as possible. The Biden voter (their candidate deeply flawed in any number of ways) thinks in the following manner: OK, so maybe I’m really voting for hidden elites. But I’d rather have hidden elites run the United States than a bible-thumper with a third-grade education from Tennessee. This seems logical. But it’s wrong, because democracy protects the “deplorable” with a third-grade education—and they should be protected. That’s all democracy does. It doesn’t mean the guy with the third-grade education will be running things. Those who see democracy as protection against elites will vote Republican, but even those who understand this may still vote Democrat—because Democrats don’t fear elites; (and “elites” to Democrats are just rich people who don’t believe in Climate Change) Democrats don’t really think Hitler or Mao can happen here, and laugh off the idea that America can become Venezuela—while the Republicans desperately warn, oh it can. Not only can it, but the Democrats, with globalist big money on their side, are seeing to it that it does, according to the Republicans.

This is why the Republicans are at a moment in time—in despair, deciding whether they will be forced out of their element, and into the street, to become the party of “protest,” in order to save democracy.

The plan was for Trump to win four more years. Peace deals in the middle east, a good economy, law and order, lower taxes, prison reform, energy independence, keeping the Constitution strong, anti-draconian-lock-downs, immigration reform, opposing China and Iran—this should have equaled a Reagan landslide.

Why didn’t it?

Fraud, some say.  Let’s see the evidence. Let’s see what happens.  This is another divisive issue which will never go away.  America’s got a lot of healing to do.  (Forget about outcomes—focus on democracy.) But do the globalists want America to heal? Nah. A divided America is how they roll. A divided everything is how they roll. And, unfortunately, division is a pretty natural state of things. The good is always on the brink of tumbling down.

The Republicans focused on the campaign. Articulating issues. The Democrats focused on the election—how ballots are counted.  On election night, when Trump was said to have a 90% chance of winning, the dollar rose and the yuan fell. When it later flipped to Biden, the dollar fell and the yuan surged.

When I was a kid growing up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, my friends and I created our own comic book heroes. My friend Larry Colbert, who was in my sixth grade class at P.S. 145—I was white, he was black—sat next to me in the front row, because the taller kids sat in the back. The character with rippling muscles he created was Steel Storm (after Iron Man no doubt.) China is currently producing 20 times more steel than the U.S.

Larry Colbert’s super hero may be a winner.

China and Joe Biden aside, there is a simple formula which says the Democrats get more votes. The logic of the average Democrat voter goes like this:  If I vote Democrat, there’s a chance Biden will take money from the rich and give it to me. OK, probably not, the Biden voter thinks. However, if the rich are left alone to “create jobs,” hey, that’s the Republican pitch—and I still may get that if I vote for Biden. Therefore, in the simplest terms possible, it’s win-win to vote Democrat. It’s actually win-win-win, because the rich also tend to support Democrats, since this makes them look kinder and more generous. In fact, it’s a wonder the Republicans get any votes at all.  And if Biden cancels college loan debt, forget it. It’s all over for the Republicans. Come on, Joe! Let’s do this!

In purely pragmatic terms, the Democrats are now too strong—they get votes and they belong to the elites. One party isn’t supposed to be the party of both the elites and the one that scoops up votes—but that is what has happened. The Left gets literature, art, soft-porn music videos, abortion-on-demand, fashion magazines, white-collar jobs, SNL, the NY Times, Twitter, Tik Tok, and intellectual pride.  The Right gets race-car smog, hunting expeditions, and Jesus.  (And everything the Left has, when no one is looking.) But the Right gets one more thing—pride in the United States of America—great when she stopped the British at Yorktown. But now?

 

THESE ALARMS

Ethiopian Sleeping Beauty Grave Discovered - artnet News

“I am not resigned.” –Edna Millay

Alarms make our lives—

The panic when startled by bad news.

What a rich pleasure to be merely sad;

To sit, and guess chords to the blues.

This alarm is too soft—my son will be late for school.

The wise who are lost in thought are often late,

But always late, the fool.

These alarms are too soft, too soft, to wake the dead.

Let’s make noise, instead.

Let’s revel, louder, louder, to wake

Those we loved, now gone,

Who loved—leaving us helpless in their wake—

Who loved, when they didn’t know what was going on.

The chord will not wake the dead.

The chord is the dead.

If there must be an alarm, blast it with audacity

So that, maybe, it will wake me.

I am quietly breathing, half-asleep, writing.

Alarms are in my poems. Thoughts are fighting.

APOLLO: I SLEPT

Image result for aphrodite in renaissance painting

“I slept with one hundred women,

Breaking the hearts of one hundred men.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, “I won’t do that again;

Those men were my brothers.”

But now, Aphrodite,

With a small child behind her, slowly approaches:

“Yes, they were your brothers!

But, silly man, love always causes pain to others.”

The goddess, of course, was right.

He cried by her side for half the night.

CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS POETRY

Amazon.com: Charles Meynier - Apollo, God of Light, Eloquence, Poetry and  The Fine Arts with Urania, Muse of Astronomy, Size 20x24 inch, Poster Art  Print Wall décor: Posters & Prints

Poets are either conscious or unconscious.

When poets are conscious, they generally follow this advice: “Put something in the poem the reader can see. Use your own experience. This will make your poem 1. Natural sounding 2. Unique, since it is your experience, and experiences are nearly infinite. 3. Readers will be able to relate, since we all live in the same world, and feelings about experiences overlap. 4. Experience doesn’t need philosophy—poetry and philosophy should not be confused—good poetry belongs more to experience than philosophy.”  This might be called the modern approach.

I never use this conscious approach. My approach is unconsciously practiced, without method. I write poetry by launching into a dreamy conversation with an ideal reader, and consider experience a kind of enemy. I want my poetry to be a philosophical dream, lit from within by philosophy, not experience. I rely on experience, but it’s different from what we call life experience.  The sound of my speech (meter, rhyme, assonance) is the experience—of and in the poem. Also, the philosophy I convey is the experience.  I revise a lot,  but the bulk of what I write comes immediately. One must use a great deal of sensitivity and care, because the unconscious can be very good, or very bad. The care taken is mostly with revision, which is almost as crucial as the spark. Revision is experience, too. Life experience is absent, or not important—the poem’s sound, philosophy, and revision are the experience of the poet/poem. My approach has no method, cannot be taught, and is completely unconscious. And yet, ironically, the unconscious method requires more time, training, and experience to pull off (or the poet must be an extremely gifted individual). The conscious method pays off quicker and more readily, can be done by almost anyone, and takes far less work (or uncanny genius) to perfect.

WHEN ALL BECOMES MUSIC

Image result for marc chagall

When all becomes music

The math will explain why we are frustrated.

The stomach will sing

And sleep will harmonize with sleep.

She will smile legato, and he will bring

The pictures you wanted. Just. Like. That.

Language will seem funny. A street

Full of people will react at the same instant

To every little sound. One little sound

Will become your favorite.

Your favorite. Your favorite. Your favorite.

Turn yourself up so the rest might hear.

Is everything already

Music? Has the museum already visited

The museum? Am I already here?

Was I meant to love you at first, rashly,

And close up—then, forever at a distance,

Never knowing who you were?

The music gets attached to things:

Music. Lilac. A gaseous star.

We keep having these conversations.

That’s our music. The harmony of far.

When all becomes music, time

Will stop being our enemy. It will be

Nothing. Or what it is, languidly.

THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS

Related image

You’re in a foreign country,

And miserable people of every race, wearing coats,

Are going to work, and you think

This must be typical: the snow, the coats,

But it’s not. This country could be any country.

One tall woman walking past—

You don’t know the cigarette is her first and last.

You think the way the snow is coming down is typical.

It’s not. The snows are worse, and people get more miserable.

And you? You’ll be somewhere else tomorrow.

Typical. You will miss the sunshine, the debate, the sorrow.

If this country were completely unique,

Perhaps the way God molded Roman or Greek,

If this were the way God taught them to speak,

If this were the way God taught them to look,

(The price on a piece of paper, the formula in a book)

Then you could return to a land

Different from all lands, and happy.

But different is never different.

Why are people bored and miserable? Because every day

Is random, not typical, and nothing has to be this way.

MOSS, EMERALD GREEN

Artist's portrait of Kate Moss dazzles

Moss, emerald green,
Behind the purple flower is seen.
The purple flower is my highest delight.
But I’ll rest upon the moss tonight.

Everything is a mixture.
Death plus warmth is temperature.
Outer space would freeze earth’s air
Despite an earth-sized solar flare.

What does nature want? Is she certainty
And science? Remove infinity
From nature, if she’s offended.
Nature on nature is not what I intended.

We happen to be alright, here,
Where stars are few, on this blue sphere.
What’s too hot, on a scale of one to ten?
Are you making nature the answer, again?

Scientists say that nature
Is the purple flower.
But is temperature loss
Like a field of moss?

What is beyond certainty, sir?
Moss? Stone? Her?

COME ON IN

starswaterairdirt: Ghent Altarpiece detail, 1432 Jan Van Eyck | Jan van  eyck, Ghent altarpiece, Renaissance paintings

I’ve decided to welcome another poem
Into my poem, something I never do.
My poems are unified and self-contained,
But for once, let me invite you,
Who hate me. More than once, you blamed
Me for ruining your life.
We were almost husband and wife.
I never knew which you hated more:
The coming close to marrying you,
Or the not marrying you.
But this poem has said enough,
Now it’s time for—no? You don’t wish to speak?
You’re shy. You don’t write poetry.
I didn’t think this would work. You’re aware
This is my poem, and this poem, its only care.

GLINDA THE GOOD HELPS DOROTHY!

80 Years Ago, The Wizard of Oz Invented the Good Witch - The Atlantic

Dorothy, the misunderstood girl from Kansas, was so upset by Trump, that Glinda the Good had to assure Dorothy that everything was going to be OK. Glinda consulted her Great Book of Records to see what was happening in the United States—like the good sorceress she is, Glinda first calmed Dorothy down, and then went into her Magical Laboratory to research the matter.

Glinda: You must calm down, Dorothy. Are there news items, or books, or movies or television programs or other such things which agree with you that Trump is bad?

Dorothy: Oh yes, Glinda. There are very many! In fact, nearly all of these in my country praise and extol those who hate Trump and tell us how we must hate Trump, and how evil and hateful he is. Teachers, counselors, priests, judges, mayors, Adam Schiff, people who wear black and carry baseball bats, witches, warlocks, TV executives, the Chinese Communist Party, everyone who works for Vogue, and Teen Vogue, a million assorted billionaires, Mormon Republicans, Wall Street executives, all hate Trump, and protect me!

Glinda: And the poets, too?

Dorothy: The poets, too! All of them!

Glinda: Then why are you so anxious? I know you’re a very good person, and never do anything wrong!

Dorothy: I’m not really sure, Glinda! I really have no idea!

Glinda:  I see.  (In an extra sweet voice) I fear you’ve been brainwashed!  But more of that later! All you need to do, Dorothy, is curl up with one of these books or newspaper articles or TV programs which hate Trump, and calm yourself down, and I will go to my Magical Laboratory with my Great Book of Records and find out how this evil fairy called Trump was able to make you so upset!  And I’ll see what I can do!  Is that alright, dear?

Dorothy: Thank you, Glinda!  My friends and I don’t know what we’re going to do! We feel the end is near! Experts, in fact, say the world is ending in 10 years, and unless the Green New Deal, which the evil fairy Trump—

Glinda: You’re working yourself up again, Dorothy!  That won’t do.  I promise to calmly research everything and then restore your happiness. Now you say the whole world will end in 10 years? Who told you this?

Dorothy: AOC.

Glinda: Who is AOC?

Dorothy: She’s a very smart bartender from Brooklyn!  And the evil fairy Trump is removing American soldiers from the middle east!  It’s terrible! It feels like we’ll never have another war!

Glinda.  Oh.  It does sound like I’m going to have to do a great deal of research in my Magical Laboratory to get to the bottom of this…

Dorothy: I’m beside myself with anxiety!  Please hurry, Glinda! I will be in my basement with a mask covering my face!  Oh, hurry, Glinda, hurry!  I’m so afraid of the evil fairy, Trump!!

Glinda: Be patient, Dorothy!  I’ll investigate this with my magic and my sorcery as quickly as possible!

OBLIVION, MORE THAN LOVE

The Angelus (painting) - Wikipedia

As you start to grow old, and blind,
A secret, which you always half-knew,
Comes, as you’re half-asleep, to comfort you:
Oblivion, more than love, is kind.
Oblivion, more than love, knows your delicate mind.
Oblivion was the one who held your hand
When at five years old, you were blinded,
In the dream of a deathly fever.
It was nothing. But it would understand
By having no desire to understand.
When you left, thinking about something else,
Thinking about many things, vainly,
Oblivion would be standing there.
When you passionately chose another path,
Oblivion dug the grave for every tender care.
A book, an author, a collection, now on oblivion’s shelf,
Full and ripe for reading, stacked by oblivion,
Reveals, above this poem’s grave,
The wonder you tried to know and hold.
Oblivion was what you truly loved.
And this thought comes to you,
Happy now—as you start to grow old.

POETRY IS EVERYWHERE

Picturing Rape and Revenge in Ovid's Myth of Philomela

Poetry is everywhere, said the poet, a grandfather, sweetly,
And everyone is a poet, he said.
But in Dante’s Inferno, there is no music.
In porn, I hear cries, but not songs.
Nightingale and swallow have no words
On the boughs. What were these sounds once? I only hear
What I thought, for a moment,
Was “God, pity me,” in the sarcasm
I heard once from my lover.
I knew her a long time ago. She is,
No doubt, greatly transformed
From what she was.
Over here, gluttonous poets are ghosts,
Taking the flapping of startled doves as applause.

WHEN I, AT LAST, WAS BY LOVE AFFLICTED

Vintage Candy Store Classic Coca Cola Truck Winter Scene Hockey Art  Canadian Art Carole Spandau Painting by Carole Spandau

When I, at last, was by love afflicted,
And love was not what it was supposed to be,
I was a stranger to my sister
And celebrations of Christmas were not going to be for me.
I was a stranger to my mother,
My father and I are one.
Love was once exciting. Look what love has done.
Love once gave me the entire store,
And the people who worked in it, too.
Nothing changed, except love.
No one changed, except you.

I KEPT ALL THOSE THINGS

Friedrich Artworks & Famous Paintings | TheArtStory

I kept all those things we loved together.
The sharing—without you—didn’t stop.
Without you, I still remember the weather.
In the fog, we would look, and we saw other things gone,
Before we were gone.
When I was ten, and bought eggs, I didn’t let them drop.
Why should I let this fall? I don’t see you.
You don’t look at me. You don’t make a sound.
You’re gone. But wouldn’t the beginning of the world,
Which I laugh at, sometimes,
Break for a long time, if it hit the ground?
Inside the nerve-endings of my memory,
You walk out of the scene; but I want to see;
And even the painful memories, who but I,
Will keep those? And you better believe I try.
The strategy of the bed clothes, the way I sleep,
With my face pressed down on the bed,
Was how my memory almost fled.
So I walk outdoors a lot, and look way off into the blue,
And see you.
I don’t know anything. My memory doesn’t know anything.
Yet my mind is still the greatest museum in the world.
I don’t know music, but I practice it.
I practice seeing your face, every day,
And I remember your face, almost as well,
As when you came to me, that day,
And I knew what you had to tell.

CLEAN

funny epitaphs - Google Search | Halloween headstone, Halloween tombstones,  Scary halloween

For poets, clean is the most mundane idea there is. Not so, for engineers. Here, then, is the essence of that great rift between poetry and science. Science loves a clean formula, a clean laboratory. We don’t mean organized, or clear, necessarily; we mean, with all its mundane moral import, clean. “Clean that up. Please, make sure it’s clean.” Religion, we would think, would favor the clean, and they do. If there is a speck of dust found in the austere interior of a new world, protestant church, it is not there intentionally; and for all the drapery and smoke of the Catholic religion, we don’t expect to find dirt or stains among the folds of the drapery; we want everything holy to be clean.

Are the poets alone, then, separated from the holy priest, as well as the scrutinizing scientist, in hating the clean? Novelists are exempt, for they write about everything—and can’t be accused of being for, or against something; a character in a novel may love cleanliness, or not; this has nothing to do with the theme of the novel, or the temperament of the novelist—prose fiction escapes categorization, just as the essay does; as I write this essay, I too, escape the dye I work in—myself, and what I write, cannot be accused of favoring, or not favoring, the clean: this is completely beside the point.

The poet, however, is different. I was just thinking of the difference between poetry and prose yesterday on my daily walk to the end of the wharf near my house, and I hit upon this formula. As a prose writer, when we think of something interesting pertaining to the theme of our essay or novel, we always wish to add it, and will find, quite easily, a way to add it. In composing a poem, however, we need to exclude interesting things which enter our thoughts on the subject; the poem, just by being what it is, forbids certain things, no matter how interesting, from being added. A poem is ruined when it tells too earnestly what it, the poem, is up to. A poem will always lose its shape, its identity, in the interest of mere interest. Prose is communication. Poetry is tact. Communication has nothing to do with clean, one way, or the other. One would think tact would have everything to do with clean, and it does, since poetry has a visceral dislike of it.

But if poetry equals tact, shouldn’t poetry embrace, rather than reject, cleanliness? No, because tact implies reticence, and the reticent is not clean. A dirty mouth is a silent mouth. A suffering mouth is a silent mouth. The eating mouth is not a lecturing mouth. A stained person is a shy person. A clear-running stream is voluble, and that which speaks too much is never tactful. Mozart’s music gushes, but it has no words, so the genius of Mozart is always tactful. One cannot speak a lot of excited words, however, while being tactful. It’s impossible. Mud which impedes the spring symbolizes the language of poetry. Poems never have anything to do with clean. The sacrifice of Christ is not clean—dirt and blood stains the Savior. Religion, as mentioned before, is clean as a general matter, in terms of presentation and keeping. The scientist may cross out many an idea before arriving at the right one; but the prophet does not cross out a line. The truth comes to the prophet cleanly, and with sacred precision. The disorder of the Sacrifice, however is different. The poets, who belong to the spirit of the Sacrifice, are the exemplars of tact—in terms of what is not clean. The paradox bursts forth in the brief example just cited; the passionate ending of Christ on earth is where poetry breaks from religion—poetry is the crying at the end of all that before was patient and holy. Poetry is more religious than religion—which in fact, belongs to reason. And science, too, becomes dirty at the end—after the theorizing, after the experiment is carefully and methodically conducted, the laboratory might indeed be a mess. In the disorder of the actual experiment is where poetry is found. Most great scientific discoveries are accidents, found inside experimental disarray. When the scientist is messing about, they approach the divine madness of poetry. When the Saviour is most denigrated in the flesh, the passion of poetry, briefly, without wisdom, without order, makes itself known.

Lastly, let us point out: those who fear germs are the most unpoetic individuals of all. Think of persons who never get themselves dirty. They are not poets. They may be engineers, or priests. But they are not poets. The nightingale does not sing in sterility. Stars in religion burn with purity, but stars in poems are filthy balls of gas. The oil-stained painters, who are poets in the pictorial realm, also do not like the clean. What oil painting depicts the clean? No oil painting does. One needs photography to show the clean. The poet hates the clinical. The poet loves the painters and their shadows. The poet hates nothing more than modern pornography. Many a novelist embraces erotic elements, for no other reason than to prove to their audience that they are Modern, rather than Victorian, but as we already said, prose dabbles in everything, and everything is finally its subject, since the essence of prose is communication; poetry, however, belongs to tact, a completely different impulse. And when it comes to clean, who fails to notice that in pornography, the interiors are clean—clean in pornography is so necessary, one may almost ask: is pornography for cleanliness, or is cleanliness for pornography? The clean, and the people who obsess over it, are often at the center of not only dullness, shallowness, and stupidity, but evil itself—since evil tends to spring from the shallow and the bored, more than anything else. The “evil genius” is an oxymoron. Evil is a gang of nitwits, avoiding at all costs the filth they have fallen into—annoyed by the filth all the more, because, in their souls, they are not poetic; they are stringently clean.

WHAT’S NEW? WHAT’S NEXT?

The bohemian submanifold – blinded by geometry, seeking topological truths

for Robert Archambeau

Railroad barons had their damaged egos
Repaired by Robert Louis Stevenson; Sigmund Freud
And Mr. Hyde were only part of the problem. San Francisco
Came into prose poetry in the late 1960s.
Every candidate in the next election
Cries, “Change! Change!” for your protection.
There is something next, but it won’t be new.
I don’t have a very good poem for you;
It was written in opposition to Baudelaire:
The baby is crying, but the prostitute doesn’t care.
She’s reading the New York Times on art;
Her girlfriend, in the unisex bathroom, is coming apart.
Poe said Hegel believed the greatest philosophy is written for its own sake.
Sleep. Dream how it all started. Oh. Oh. Oh! Awake.

ALL LOVE

In Autumn Woods by Winslow Homer | Oil Painting | winslow-homer.com

All love; but if love doesn’t wait,
It isn’t love. She was seen. She was loved. He felt love;
But if she is not allowed to choose?
Her liberty’s lack will seal his fate.
Every leaf in the wood pauses.
When love pursues love, love will always lose,
Even as the pursuer loves. But do not call it hate.
All love; we love, we do love,
And pursue love—but liberty is the liberty to wait.
Do not claim the prize too soon—
It will not be a prize at all.
Will Tara Reade be loved
When spring turns into fall?


FALSE CELEBRATION

Foreign spies could target Australian politicians using 'unwitting' loved  ones, Asio warns | Australian security and counter-terrorism | The Guardian

You are not who you are.
You are a series of mistakes going forward in time.
I can say this with certainty.
I can. You don’t even rhyme.
You have been mistaken by the cheers;
You calculated badly during the applause.
The rush to fill a vacuum isn’t for you—
It’s the lack of one taking the place of other laws.
Your passion has not triumphed in this hour.
This is someone else’s blood, someone else’s breath,
Surging helplessly through you.
Your mistake will be dire, even to its death.
You will be grieved, not blamed.
Your error did not know it was you when it aimed.

LOVE THE HATER, NOT THE LOVER

Among Waves - oil, canvas | Wave art painting, Surf painting, Sea painting

 

Love the hater, not the lover—

The lover is only flattering you.

Flattery is the cover for slander.

The ones we should love are very, very few—

You hate, you hate, but do you dare

To hate in everyone’s view?

I love you, who speak honestly,

And say you admire my song:

We love song, of course we do,

But hate is right to hate wrong.

I will shed tears at hate’s funeral,

Whether she will have my tears, or no.

All we can do is hate wrong.

There’s no other place to go.

What you hate is all you know.

Love is a hopeless redundancy.

From hate, steadily outward we go,

Until we find harmony.

You run from hate. You hate me,

Which I take to heart as flattery.

Your hating is perfect. You don’t need me.

But hate is allowed that luxury.

 

WHERE HAS THE SUN BEEN

Image result for the sun in renaissance religious painting

Where has the sun been, and you—

As if all the golden prophecies of spring were true

In ages and ages past,

So the sunny culmination seems to be coming true at last—

Now I seek, with this truth, and with you,

What lives behind the coin and makes it real.

What are you looking for, besides what you feel?

Is a question we tend to shrug off, each day

Because actual happiness never comes our way.

The legitimacy is always physicality:

The amount of sunbeams in a sunny day,

Mathematics versus rhetoric.

The old opposition: Numbers are sane. Poetry is sick.

The physical is forever legitimate,

A path which travels in opposite ways

And divides our sunny days.

What strikes us, and kisses us, is real.

Far, far more than what we feel,

And actors playing at love

Are more like love than love.

What we plainly see

Destroys our poetry.

Mathematics travels from the physical,

Then back to the physical, becoming beautiful.

Rhetoric goes the other way, towards the physical,

To become like it, seeking to become beautiful,

And, sadly, as it reaches the eye,

This poem here—about anything, it doesn’t matter—

In words attempts to wave goodbye.

PLEASE REFRAIN

I’m insane.

Please refrain.

I’m not good.

Is that understood?

Please refrain,

Be very still.

Let me be. I have no will.

I have been—

But let it go. I will not talk of that again.

I have no energy to say

Why I want you to go away.

You write poetry.

You think is meant for me.

An ordinary accessory.

Be quiet now.

I never loved you, anyhow.

What was it, but chance?

That brief dance.

You loved salaciously.

That bored me.

In the excitement of my brain

I seek the plain.

Please refrain.

In the hurry of the day

I need sleep. Go away.

I know “refrain” has a different meaning.

In song. Oh it would be just like you

To bring up a meaningless clue.

“Refrain” means “repeat.”

Dead ghosts

Will meet before we meet.

I told you. I made it plain.

Please. Please. Please. Refrain.

I WANT TO BE YOUR FATHER

Autumn Paintings by Famous Artists | 1st Art Gallery

I want to be your father,

Whoever you are,

Ultimate love. In those clouds, the hovering star.

But I need to find a mother, first.

Should that be difficult? On earth there is a thirst

For making children. Now that my childhood is gone,

Surely I can find her, one with the same desire?

Be patient, my child, my little one.

I loved Rosalinda—I desired another to have her face,

And I was able, as it happened, to build her a poetry of fire,

So you, infinitely aspiring, and beautiful, might be born.

Won’t beauty pass into the flesh of the child?

Does love want children? Or is love simply wild?

Or can attraction be attractive for the future, too?

I wonder if Rosalinda’s mother was beautiful,

More than any—by poetry so beguiled?

But Rosalinda sneered, and was sarcastic.

She said, “Beautiful parents could have an ugly child!”

I stared at her in silence. I wanted you to be born;

Her moon I wished for you—and yet, the idea of you was hated;

She dismissed you. “My face”—she said—looking at me—“will not be domesticated!”

I accepted this; Rosalinda is my love, my sun, and the most sacred thing;

I bowed my head. I know her summer will never have a spring.

I love Rosalinda. But somewhere in my soul, you are.

Her sunshine drowns me. Yet, in the clouds, I glimpse your star.

 

POETRY NEEDS HELP FROM OTHERS

Wicca | History, Beliefs, & Facts | Britannica

Poetry needs help from others;

It always gets help from others,

The beauty of the poet, her voice,

Her poem which praises you, badly,

Though badly wasn’t her choice.

She has a pleasant voice

And praise shouldn’t be judged.

There is love, and love is best when it comes with praise.

Praise feels infinite. Praise lives in good and bad days.

You feel good. Then poetry has all it needs.

Flowers which face faces. Words on the page which point to deeds.

A VOTE OF BOILING ANXIETY

Chinese painting - Wikipedia

“99.999 Survive” –newspaper headline

She told me that her poetry,
Leaving behind science, brought her infamy,
But such things were not unknown to me.
For instance, Edgar Allan Poe
Believed in a creator, but strove to know,
As a scientist, how the creator created,
Reconciling science and religion. We debated
Only for a little while. Then she and I fell
In love. We avoided jealousy and conflict pretty well.
She told me poetry covered her as in a hood—
All her senses were poetic. She understood
The laws of the universe were necessary, but not particularly good.
She said she had a disease. I kept my distance.
She, the god of soft stealth,
Told me much. I sighed. I asked her, Please,
Tell me, then, how did you get the disease?
“I gave it to myself.”

I AM NOW LIKE HER

Image result for girl in a meadow in renaissance painting

I became like her—

When she denied me access

To conversations, speeches, and yes.

When she blocked me from her private, precious zone,

Unable to love her tenderness,

I decided to love with love I felt alone.

Since I was denied her body stripped bare,

A beauty unbelievable, I found different ways to care.

Since I can no longer intimately commune with her mouth,

I please myself in the wide south.

Unable to ravish her privately, with poems, jokes, and drinks,

I now ignore what everyone blabs about, or thinks.

I have become like a girl,

Protected, quaint, in habits and routines,

Safe from male chemicals and male machines.

I live in comfort, where the weak and protected live,

Comfortable. Safety now, is what I have, and give.

I study, to be, in my mind, a girl,

Where being and becoming are things I miss.

I am a girl; it really is as easy as this:

The velvet cushion, the somersault,

Heavenly calm in the private zone—

Belonging to no one,

Not even love, which now is mine, and mine, alone.

AFTER THE POEM HAS COOLED

Realism Group Exhibition — Mason Fine Art and Events

After the poem has cooled,
The poet sees he’s been fooled.
The passion which filled the nose,
The taking off of the clothes,
The utterances profound,
Litter the cold ground.
The poem-making was hot with desire,
But the poem itself has no fire.
It was the night in the poet’s mind
With the fervent dreams,
But day discovers the poet, blind,
Looking at his poem. Now what seems
To be inspiration is only a poem that was made
In the light, but fell into a shade.

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