The Genesis of Us.


The first chapter of B'reshit, or Genesis, wri...

Whatever sparked the Genesis of Us,
That primal kiss that brushed our lips,
before the dawn of Man’s conception?

Was it included in  the Father’s breath
upon that humble lump of clay,
the  perception perhaps of a need,
even greater than survival?

Could it be His hunger for poetry
that initiated the thought,
brought it into being?

Two being One,
also without the gift of seeing:
pure sense of utter feeling,
which can no longer be denied?

Was it written
into the very fabric of existence?
To me it matters not one whit.
That thou art is enough!

the common medlar ; forgotten sweetness… (but in my garden)


I love you, rotten,
Delicious rottenness.

I love to suck you out from your skins
So brown and soft and coming suave,
So morbid, as the Italians say.

What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour
Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay:
Stream within stream.

Something of the same flavour as Syracusan muscat wine
Or vulgar Marsala.

Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity
Soon in the pussy-foot West.

What is it?
What is it, in the grape turning raisin,
In the medlar, in the sorb-apple.
Wineskins of brown morbidity,
Autumnal excrementa;
What is it that reminds us of white gods?

Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels.
Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant
As if with sweat,
And drenched with mystery.
Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns.

I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences
Orphic, delicate
Dionysos of the Underworld.

A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment’s orgasm
of rupture.
Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning.
And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing
into twain,
A new gasp of further isolation,
A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold
leaves.

Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more
intensely alone,
The fibres of the heart parting one after the other
And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly
embodied
Like a flame blown whiter and whiter
In a deeper and deeper darkness
Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation.

So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples
The distilled essence of hell.
The exquisite odour of leave-taking.
Jamque vale!
Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell.

Each soul departing with its own isolation.
Strangest of all strange companions,
And best.

Medlars, sorb-apples
More than sweet
Flux of autumn
Sucked out of your empty bladders
And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala
So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its
Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell
And the ego sum of Dionysos
The sono io of perfect drunkenness
Intoxication of final loneliness.

To Sheila


When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.

I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester’s.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch’s life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.

Winter morning


The ice monsters have come to visit me in my sleep
They cuddle with me under my bed covers
No, they hog the bed and push me out
The wooden floorboards creak under my feet
I wrap a wool scarf around my neck

As I push the door open
The breeze rushes in to greet me
While the ice monsters dance at my feet
Stillness and quiet still wrap everyone in their blankets
White mist leaves my mouth at every breath

The ground is damp
Sprinkled with flakes of snow
I look down at my feet
To see the ground washed with the colors of the morning
The clouds in the sky are splashed with blue and gold

I look up staring for as long as I can remember
Walking down the never ending path
Splashed with the colors of the sky
Wondering who else
Whether in this small town
Or across the world
Was looking at the same sky, with me

Slave to the Land.


from China cultural

Born a slave to the land,
will the lord lend a hand?

Born of a long line,
that knows how to kill.
He tells you you’re fine,
go and plow that there hill!

He just plays and he sings
and you think he has wings?
Can afford his own mirth,
by the right of his birth!

That’s just the way o’ things,
’cause we weren’t born Kings!
Us, slaves to this land,
who’ll give us a hand?

I’m on picture :-)


The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light,
The sciences were sucklings at thy breast;
When all the world was young in pregnant night
Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best.
Thou ancient treasure-land, thou modern prize,
New peoples marvel at thy pyramids!
The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes
Watches the mad world with immobile lids.
The Hebrews humbled them at Pharaoh’s name.
Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain!
Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame!
They went. The darkness swallowed thee again.
Thou art the harlot, now thy time is done,
Of all the mighty nations of the sun.

Brew


had spent the night in the watch-house —
My head was the size of three —
So I went and asked the chemist
To fix up a drink for me;
And he brewed it from various bottles
With soda and plenty of ice,
With something that smelt like lemon,
And something that seemed like spice.
It fell on my parching palate
Like the dew on a sunbaked plain,
And my system began to flourish
Like the grass in the soft spring rain;
It wandered throughout my being,
Suffusing my soul with rest,
And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid
That life had a new-found zest.

I have been on the razzle-dazzle
Full many a time since then
But I never could get the chemist
To brew me that drink again.
He says he’s forgotten the notion —
‘Twas only by chance it came —
He’s tried me with various liquids
But oh! they are not the same.

We have sought, but we sought it vainly,
That one lost drink divine;
We have sampled his various bottles,
But somehow they don’t combine:
Yet I know when I cross the River
And stand on the Golden Shore
I shall meet with an angel chemist
To brew me that drink once more.

Do not shop while hungry !


Yup, I did it again;
went shopping while hungry
I even stood at the deli counter,
contemplating whether or not
I should buy a bit, a taste
of Lebanon bologna and liverwurst,
maybe a bit of strong swiss,
a slice or two of dark pumpernickel
a pickle from a barrel
But I didn’t buy those,
for only I would eat them
or so I would guess
A salad would suffice,
rich, bright tastes,
dancing together
soon on my tongue,
after I finish these lines
Oh I went shopping hungry
and the bill was a bit larger;
but I got what I wanted,
not just what was on the list

Only Bird in Town.


from goosehuntinginfo.com

Birds are flyin’ south for winter.
Here’s the Weird-Bird headin’ north,
Wings a-flappin’, beak a-chatterin’,
Cold head bobbin’ back ‘n’ forth.
He says, “It’s not that I like ice
Or freezin’ winds and snowy ground.
It’s just sometimes it’s kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.”

Bent on Soaring High.


English: Turkey vulture, Cathartes aura, soari...

English: Turkey vulture, Cathartes aura, soaring over Thacher Park in New Scotland, New York, United States (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hug your words,

I stroke them gently.

Like winged birds,

so intently…

bent on soaring high,

they needs must fly,

or else wither away.

They’re not meant to stay,

but travel where they may,

ever seeking new encounters

with other lonely founders…

of heartfelt thought,

all come to naught!

Are you one, perhaps?

Hidden Treasures!


"thinking of you: here"

Image by anniebee via Flickr

YES, Lieven is back!

“The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come “

See You Anon!


A "hack" poet desperate for money, f...

Image via Wikipedia

A pining poem waiting to be read,

A hungry poet begging to be fed.

His last money spent on a new pen,

The final draft approved and then…

*

Someone knocking at his door!

Poet spills his ink upon the floor,

in his haste to welcome the reader,

who surely needs must be his feeder.

*

‘t Is just the Reaper come to call,

the poem’s the writing on the wall,

read by a grateful audience of one.

Goodbye poet, don’t try to run!

If’n only I’d knewed!


English: Portrait of Rudyard Kipling from the ...

Image via Wikipedia

 

Here’s an immortal poem that I want to share with you, brought to my attention by my late grandfather, a wise man, if ever there was one:

“If” by Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master,
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

He Smote the Word…


from english-heritage.org.uk

What does a wordsmith

really have to work with?

Vowels, consonants and phrases

and unpublished works in phases.

*

No lurid platitudes allowed,

he has long ago since vowed…

Lovingly crafted spinnings of yearning yarns,

tales of a lone acrobat storming barns!

*

He dreams of plucking heartstrings,

of visions floating on bright wings

and taking on a life of their own,

for the toddlers and the grown.

*

Adding strength to newborn sprouts,

allowing his many doubts,

to flower into adulthood,

but never fully understood.

River of Dreams


Dreams are born

in misty mountains

of somnolence

Trickling streams

of spindled fingered

silver fluid light

Crystalline clear

from rain and dew

untainted by reality

Tributaries of hope

the vapoured trails

flow relentlessly on

Ever downwards

through the haunting

valleys of midnight

Growing, leaping

rippling, stumbling

over rocks of destiny

Through lush gardens

of rich fantasy and

abundant meadows

The river of dreams

disgorges it’s contents

into a sea of tranquility

To be caught and kept

or to be lost forever

in oceans deep

Field of War


I’m stood here in a field of mud

Covered in a comrade’s blood

I wear the soldier’s uniform

But I was not a soldier born

We fight our chosen foe all day

We leave our dead to rot away

We launch attack and then retreat

Blood oozes out beneath our feet

Our backs are up against a wall

I watch another comrade fall

I can not stand this any more

This awful bloody field of war

Bullets fly right past my head

I wish that I was home in bed

Instead of in this foreign field

Knowing neither side will yield

Generals up at high command

Tell us to make another stand

Safe inside their war games room

But we are here in stinking gloom

Alas the entire front rank died

Just one more form of suicide

I can not stand this any more

This awful bloody field of war

Tomorrow it will be the same

A dying voice calls out my name

I see a shattered, severed limb

But nothing can I do for him

Except to end his fearful pain

I shoot a bullet in his brain

And pray that soon it will all end

I just murdered my best friend

I can not stand this any more

This awful bloody field of war 

Kamal


Kamal, soon will come your soul’s creation

From darkness that has ever been your home

Today will mark the end of your frustration

The mortal world will then be yours to roam

Kamal, now is the time for your salvation

Cocooned within your embryonic tomb

The seismic echoes of your incarnation

Are rebounding to guide you from the womb

Kamal, the gates of dawn are opened wide

The path you’ll tread is bathed in golden light

Don’t look down as you bridge the great divide

To seek refuge from the never ending night

Kamal, flames of karma are now burning

Sweet Avalon awaits around the bend

As the windmills of destiny are turning

A weeping violet blooms at journey’s end

Is It Such a Sin?


from PicturesChildren.com

Why do only the winged-ones hear my plea?

Why do only my canine friends see?

Not that I mind conversing with flowers,

it whiles away most dreary hours.

*

But how I long for a woman’s touch.

Is that really asking for too much?

Or just to hug a long-lost friend,

one that I’ve missed for years on end.

*

No children’s laughter to make me smile,

to come and sit with granddad for awhile.

Festive days get lonely without kin.

Is wishing for company such a sin?

The West Wind Whispered


I dreamed I was fighting for my country

I dreamed of the cannon’s mighty roar

A soldier boy in blue, a dream come true

Defending my sweet homeland in a war

I dreamed of a compound on the hillside

And of a flag that fluttered in the breeze

I heard myself cry as the bullets flew by

And the west wind whispered in the trees

I’d heard that the gypsy fortune teller

Could see into the future on demand

With a sense of doom I went to her room

She told me to sit down and took my hand

‘There’s a flag that’s flying on a hillside

It has colours that flutter in the breeze

The year forty two, the soldiers in blue

And the west wind whispers in the trees’

In forty two I fought for my country

And I was proud to wear my uniform

But cried with fright in the heat of the night

As the battle raged like a thunderstorm

Our cannons were roaring on the hillside

The enemy was down upon its knees

But a swift riposte made us count the cost

As the west wind whispered in the trees

We fell back to safety in our compound

With the enemy chasing close behind

We had left it late as we slammed the gate

But we couldn’t shut them out of our mind

And we watched them swarming up the hillside

They had a flag that fluttered in the breeze

Our cannons replied, and many men died

As the west wind whispered in the trees

They prepared to set ablaze the compound

They called to us ‘surrender or you burn’

But we all cheered as our Seventh appeared

It was then that the wind began to turn

And we charged like madmen down the hillside

And we showed them the nature of the beast

When the day was done, the battle was won

As the wind came howling from the east

Midnight Moonlight


Midnight, moonlight, lost in the black night

The headless horseman is coming up the road

You’re shaking, shivering, quivering in fright

He might take you off to Satan’s dark abode

Crouching, creeping, oppression is sweeping

A grey mist encompassing everything around

The sorrowful sound of a young girl weeping

The manic laughter around you does resound

Darkness, lightless, you’re groping sightless

The smell of rotting corpses permeates the air

Fingers touching something cold and lifeless

Bloated maggots crawl all through your hair

Tottering and turning, your flesh is burning

The white hot cinders are blistering your feet

Your nerves are jangling, stomach is churning

There’s no way forward but you can’t retreat

Staggering, stumbling, in blindness fumbling

Cold hand of death is placed upon your knee

Mutations gathering, dark voices grumbling

The Devil invites you ‘Come dance with me’

Squirming, sneaking, the rats are squeaking

Bat wings are flapping all around your head

A coffin lid opens with an ominous creaking

Voices are wailing from the land of the dead

Slithering and slipping, your mind is flipping

The scream of a banshee sounding in your ear

Tentacles entwining you and tightly gripping

It’s hard to breathe, you are frozen with fear

Daylight, nice sight, it makes you feel alright

The dawn brings a refuge and keeps you sane

You made it through the long and black night

In a few more hours it will be darkness again

Midnight, moonlight, lost in the black night

The headless horseman is coming up the road

You’re shaking, shivering, quivering in fright

He might take you off to Satan’s dark abode

Sacred Flowers


SACRED FLOWERS

I walked through the misty forest

Where many sycamore trees grow

I saw the rare shrouded beauty

Of sacred flowers in the snow

She was waiting by the lakeside

There were dewdrops in her hair

Then she told me with a whisper

That we must end our love affair

On a cold november morning

For the final time we kissed

The tears ran down my face

As she walked off into the mist

All that remain are memories

How I stood and watched her go

The bitter tears for a lost love

And sacred flowers in the snow

Jaded Angels


I am knelt in supplication

in a vast cathedral hall

I feel the shards of angst

firing deep into my soul

I raise my eyes to search

for a god of purest love

I see only jaded angels

in the tapestry above

Communion candles burn

and emit a spectral light

casting dancing shadows

in this sacrilegious night

I look up to the crucifix

my destiny to find

the mighty god of dust

has crept inside my mind

I see the twelve apostles

and the holy pentecost

the whore ofbabylon

who is saying all is lost

The father and the son

the bible and the myth

the suffering of christ

has a taste of bitter pith

I can see the rictus smile

of the rider in pale green

harbinger of consequence

who’ll write the final scene

The sycophantic vermin

hear the tolling of the bell

and are deafened by the silence 

coming from the house of hell

The crucifixion shadow

burns my exposed skin

it sears my mortal soul

but cleanses not the sin

Thro the stained glass window

when I look up to the skies

I see only jaded angels

with teardrops in their eyes

A Purple Apple Tree!


Dead tree - by foundmyself.com

What a weird thing to see

Is a purple apple tree!

Methinks it’s frozen solid,

yet it stands there stolid.

*

Not a shiver nor a moan,

Not a sapling this, full-grown!

We could build a bonfire.

Know an arsonist for hire?

*

Let our merry shrieks

Bring colour to its cheeks…

Actually it looks quite dead.

Maybe we should put it to bed?

*

How about a hot toddy?

Work the kinks out of knotty…

Does someone know a spell

To save this tree from hell?