Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
When I asked you
"How is your day?"
you said:
"Nothing much is new…when in fact it is precisely new. And it all is happening inward.”
the sound of it is like a clear bell ringing
I can't explain why I understand it
in my own way I comprehend
like shy birds that take flight
when approached
like tire birds alight
on twilight branches
some feelings are inexpressible
thoughts escape languages
It could possibly be like
the nest of birds inside a chimney
we hear it's bird call
each day a little louder and more bird like
then the next
until one day, they find their way out
they flew up the flue
and nothing sings from the
empty fire place.
Friday, March 04, 2011
And all your cronies
yeah newton too
Lagrange
You are strange
you got your rackets going
now i have to rack my brains
oh i'm in pain
you mathematician
drive me to
drink and derive
I've had it up to here
with your limits
they squeeze me tight
until i can't breathe
which sends me
to L'Hôpital
my godmother took me to see a show
before I knew what centrifugal force is
the motorcycles go round and round
in a cylinder
I'm on top looking down
she also took me to see
a magician saw a lady in half
years later, crossing a ferry on Vancouver, BC
In another continent
I saw a whale
bought a book on magic
perhaps I was looking for
my innocence
a believe that magic exists
what I found were rude pentagrams
evil hunger for power
beads and shells from the Caribbean
it never talks about how a letter
could make me cry or angry
never mentioned how two wheels
can travel in a sphere or cylinder
it did not tell me what my dreams meant
when I saw a man whipped a fish into his exact self
and the sparks of live wire
thrashing like eels above a lake.
it never talked about the flood I saw in my dream
and finding myself soaked with tears up on waking
it dare not mention the lost that I would have to suffer
the most incredible disappearing act of you.
2001 Summer
Monday, March 19, 2007
Monday, August 28, 2006
On my monastic pilgrimage to Panonhalma,
the butterflies companied my walk up the hill.
It was a good omen.
Some were sulfur yellow,
the nectar crystal blue.
I know what they did that day,
playing hooky with their buddies.
I offer them cigarettes but they flew away.
Before that they were bland moths.
Now they are dangerous with their beauty,
shimmering caliper wings that makes me
ache for my own.
That’s why I left everyone, to hide in this hill walking towards the abbey, the sweat pouring on a long hot summer
Sacred day on hallow grounds.
when the moon completes
all lunacy will be cured
when the moon completes
Tides pull forward to cover
the coral reefs.
There are the poets that
Tug at the tides
when the moon completes
Compete in verse
Complete in verse
Fulfill the tide
the coral reefs.
There are the poets that
tug at the tides
when the moon completes
compete in verse
complete in verse
fulfill the tide
When the moon completes
The sand cities turn to mud
The tides pulled over
Your tired dead body.
The battlements and
Palisades crumble to
Dust....
When the moon complete
Prophets will speak
Of heresy
Monday, August 14, 2006
August 11, 2006 Friday
Last night I saw poetry in motion a very old film about poets reading and performing their poems. I saw Jim Carroll reciting "Just Visiting". I re-read from 'The Book of Nods' the aforementioned poem and the NY and California Variation. Michael Ondaatje read a poem that he wrote for his niece. It was inspired or an answer to Paul Bowels assertion that Indian people don't have a sense of the musical. I remember just one pretty line about a lady walking into the room with clanking ankle bracelets. It was the last line of the poem.
I stumbled onto audiopoetry.wordpress.com via the tag features of Wordpress. I just listened to a poem by Ondaatje call 'To a Sad Daughter' on audiopoetry.wordpress.com. I don't know if it's read byOndaatje.
6.17.2002
As Far As…
As far as you know
I’m not here
As far as you know
I’m not anywhere near
Your magnetic fields
Of attraction
That makes the filigree
On my arms rise
As far as I can go from here
Not to be anywhere near
As far as you know
I’m nowhere near
Not from fear
Not from here
As far as you go to find
Me here
To find your fears
It’s not anywhere near here
As long as you fear
As long as I fear you near
Monday, August 07, 2006
Friday, May 20, 2005
llast night lisent to terry gross's interview iwth Ted Kooser.
He came to Portland Arts and Lecture reading series and I missed out on it.
Went to see W.S. Merwin instead
Friday, July 30, 2004
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Eleven empty easels sit in a room without
abstract paintings or collages. Let's be
this large empty room painted white
with a shellacked wooden floor. A room
of silence, naked and wanton. A life
without more hiatus. That moment of
vacuum, timeless. Let's be
rivers that run through the middle of houses.
Upwards light buoys us
to surge through cities of clouds, a place
never dreamed, realms of noble terror
and delight where we become brushstrokes.
"Wanting Less" from Sending Messages Over Inconceivable Distances by Karen Braucher. Copyright © 2000 by Karen Braucher. Reprinted by permission of the author.
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