ASEMIC SOUNDS: Poem Without Meaning

drip
drip
.
drop
.
fountains
faucets
skies
.
dripping.
.
~November 9, 2015

__________________________________________
NOTE: This poem originally appeared in the Asemic Writing group of Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/groups/76178850228/ where, I’m pleased to say, it is getting a remarkably good reception. It’s accompanied there by a found photograph that is very integral to the whole poem, but cannot be reproduced here.

Advertisements

PSALM 151: A New Final Doxology

Kaddush Kaddush Kaddush.
Holy Holy Holy.

Lord God, Almighty.

Rocks rumble.
Trees tremble.
Birds fly.

The veil of the temple is rent.

Mothers, behold thy sons.
Sons, behold thy mothers

in the black mirror that shines,
in the obsidian mirror that tells

of death and transmigration
in the cracked voice,
the unspeakable voice,
of the third person
who calls from the ground,

Alleluiah!

_______________________________________________
**NOTES: (1) There are actually only 150 Psalms in the original Hebrew Bible. (2) The word “Kaddush” in Hebrew (קָדוֹשׁ) translates as “holy.”

 

 

 

 

FOUR POEMS ON THE MATTER OF TIME

1. TIME AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT

Time is a coffin.
Light, the speed
at which it travels.

These mountains know it.
The tree stumps know it.

This coffin knows it.

It and I are moving
at the speed of light,
beyond the speed of light,
beyond its silver satin lining

over the mountain tops,
over the trail that never stops
over the foot of Heaven’s Gate.

Where we wait.
.

2. HOMEOSTASIS OF LIGHT
.
“Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future / And time future contained in time past.” ~T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
.
time,

past future,
never present,

always moving

into light
at the speed of light,

static,
trapped in light
by the speed of light
by a stasis of light,

of the light moving
past the present,
past the future,

past what was,
is,
or will be

light past
into
light future,

into the stasis
of light.

Moving.

.
3. TIME & SPACE

The flying boy.
The falling spider.
The crawling eye.

We are all flying,
falling, crawling
to our place in time,

our place in space

where everything’s
a singularity of
time and space

and a black hole
in Shiva’s navel,
in Kali’s yoni

and a cracked bowl
of blood soup
she proffers

in her left hand.

Nothing is a dream.
Everything is real
in a certain point
in time and space

where the cracked bowl
in Kali’s hand
becomes the center

of a singularity.
.

4. FAREWELL TO TIME

Everything is spinning
at the center of a cyclone
in the eye of a salamander

lost on a rock on a dune

in the desert of the heart
in the Sacred Heart of Jesus
in the bleeding heart of darkness

bleeding dust and darkness,
spinning in the center of a darkness,
of a particle, a point,
a second of regret

for an hour lost in passing.

HOMEOSTASIS OF LIGHT

“Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future / And time future contained in time past.” ~T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
.
time,

past future,
never present,

always moving

into light
at the speed of light,

static,
trapped in light
by the speed of light
by a stasis of light,

of the light moving
past the present,
past the future,

past what was,
is,
or will be

light past
into
light future,

into the stasis
of light.

Moving.
.
~ November 22, 2015

BLOWN KISSES

footprints on the ceiling,
handprints on the wall,

kisses on the mirror;
breathing in the hall.

Midnight:

between the dark
and the daylight,
twisting time
into a knot, a pause

neither here nor there,

the moon
blowing kisses to the sun
while shadows slide across the floor
and into bed, under the sheets,

next to the sleeper
gathering dust

from the dusty floors
of death’s other

kingdom.
.

 

 

 

HEXAGRAM 48

  ~ “A city can be moved, but not a well.” ~ I Ching

A worm hole
is deeper than thought,

longer than
the last mile,
the final smoke

hovering
over
a moving city
on a high hill

overlooking, nothing.

Desolation.
Desolation of the second sleep,
the borrowed sleep,

borrowed from behind the eyes
of blind sleepers in the dust

of a dry land on a high hill,
a rock infested hill,
overlooking a dry well

(a short rope
and a cracked jug)

that cannot be moved
like a desolate city,

but neither increases
nor decreases

like an earth worm
wriggling, emerging
from its deep hole
dryer than rock

and deeper than thought.
.
~November 19, 2015

LAST LIGHT

Rock. Stone.
Stone. Rock

Stone. Pebble
Pebble. Sand.

It’s all here
in the palm of my hand,

in the lines of my hand
leading nowhere

from first sight
to last light

in the empty grave
of an empty bed.

and the smooth skin
of a shaved head.
.

THE VELVETEEN RABBIT: A Found Poem

 ~ For Caite Bonham

Spring came,
and they had long days in the garden,
for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too.

He had rides in the wheelbarrow,
and picnics on the grass,
and lovely fairy huts
built for him under the raspberry canes
behind the flower border.

And once,
when the Boy was called away
suddenly to go out to tea,
the Rabbit was left out on the lawn
until long after dusk,

and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle
because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep
unless he was there.

He was wet through with the dew
and quite earthy from diving into the burrows
the Boy had made for him in the flower bed,

and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off
with a corner of her apron.

—————————————————————————–
ORIGINAL TEXT: Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. And once, when the Boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there. He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron. http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/williams/rabbit/rabbit.html

WAITING FOR RAIN

“Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.” ~ T.S. Eliot, “Gerontion”

God, sit on my chest;
shut my mouth with your hand;
hammer me on your anvil,
destroy me in your fire.

(“I am a God of fire,” says the Lord.)

Make me a thing despised,
rejected by men;

a man of sorrow,
familiar with suffering,
despised by men,
struck by God

(brought low by God)

Make me small,
not large;
invisible, unseen,
unnoticed

and ignored

except by the eyes
in Satan’s pockets
as he roams the world

in search of Job.

~November 13, 2015 (starting my 81st year)
.