The Cliff Bird

Red cliffside sing in the bronze morning light
where the small black bird nests calmly
in a crack meandering the stone,
picking through his feathers for a morsel
or two
that previously escaped his beak.

Far up the cliffside, where nothing can touch him
except for the lonely rock climber enjoying red rock blaze,
fire for himself to burn brightly.
The bird, secluded, notes the rising sun
on its lilting path over the sky.
No company save the warmth of red stone
and cool blue distance.
The bird thought he would stay in that crack
picking himself clean, clean
in the red face womb forever.

"A Poison Tree," by William Blake

I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;

And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

"A Finger, Two Dots Then Me" by Derrick Brown

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ZwQJHx615eE

This is a link to one of the most beautiful poem/movies that has ever graced my ears.  It almost brought a tear to my eye.

The Windhover, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


I adore this poem.  I'm not a particularly religious man, but I can still appreciate the depth of these words as they pertain to the ideal that Jesus represents to Hopkins.  Beautiful.  Interesting fact: the poem was not written as a religious poem at first.  Hopkins just saw a falcon and wrote about it.  Only seven years later did he realize that it was perfect as a religious metaphor. 

Command from Hiding

It was years ago that the brain began to form.
At first everything shimmered lucidity that only
pressed upon the organ for a moment, then
withdrew, as it would later imagine
its first kiss to be, fluttering faster than
the brain could possibly retain in memory.
The pleasure lingered in the heat of a sucker
between teeth loosely connected by neurons.
It commanded fingers to guide Mario down the path.
It bade Donkey Kong leave to kill all else
that moved in the forest.
Jump <neuron command://press-the-'a'-button/end command>
Fire <neuron command://press-the-'x'-button/end command>
Slide <neuron command://in.combo/press-the-'y'-button,
trans/press-the-'x'-button, trans/press-the-'L'-button+'a'-button/end command>
Symmetry
Harmony
Then Mario died.  <neuron command://anger/activate-chem-interchange_heart-rate-increase/end command>
Then Donkey Kong took a stinger to the eye.
<neuron comma######ERROR#64758365//overload-frustrate-chem-inducement/
treatment-paddle-smash-on-floor/end command>
Symmetry gone.  The brain cast about the body as it would know
perfection
kept itself from smashing the paddle.

Then a new reaction occurred in the back
rear processors beyond the conscious systems.
<neuron command://initiate-puberty; all-clusters-associated-w/'sex'-activate/end command>
It dreamed of a kiss deep in the night,
didn't understand.  The nerves were discordant
the neurons were confused, consciousness subsided
into a trance while the neurons shifted
the brain screamed through space, the planet turned
and it wallowed confusedly in rushing passion, shames
without name or place, inexorable, implacable.
<neuron command://initiate-curiosity: release-chem/right-lobes-of-neurons & all-systems-
associated w/imagination-complex/end command>

The brain returned storm-tossed and weary
to slow just so in momentum, to a speed
not quite lower than before it all, and after
much thought/interchange of neurons was wasted
in pursuit of slowing: it never managed to stop.
Instead, the brain slipped forward, because
"the sky was hollow and the earth was round."
The brain had knowledge where it once had
a firm wall, a theater, commanding those
characters on the screen for hours on hours.
The brain couldn't see Mario in the bathroom
mirror, and Donkey Kong was a no show.
                        <Then what was the brain?>
                                                                  <What is it?>
<How did I become it?>                                                              <Can it be undone?>
                                         <How would 'undone' feel?>
                    <Big Bang, origin of the universe...>    <Stars, a point in the galaxy, large as a million earths...>          
<Nebulae>                <I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God...>
             <The horses... graze grass under the passing comet...>    <...but only encompassing a space comparable to the Universe as a planet is comparable to a particle...>
                                          <Everything exploded out from one point>
<........singularity.........>                 <the knives in he, cringe>

                    <The realization is better than the anticipation...>
                                                        

                                   <Command: seek the whole way to your hole in the ground.>

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been: Wish Me Luck

This is a wonderful poem a good friend of mine posted on his blog.
What a Long Strange Trip It's Been: Wish Me Luck: Wish Me Luck My soul weepeth and cringe in love’s pure true delight. For today it is realized that I, I have been dug a shallo...

"Helplessly Hoping" by Crosby, Stills and Nash

This is one of the most beautifully sung poems in all of recorded history in my opinion.  It's haunting.  The only unfortunate thing about this song is that CSN didn't actually write it, but merely borrowed it from a small time poet, though the portrayal does more than compensate.  

"Clap Hands" by Tom Waits

I have had a long-standing love of Tom Waits, ever since my uncle (a mighty connoisseur of all things alternative) introduced me to his music when I was twelve.  This is a particularly excellent song quite unlike anything I've heard before.  Waits' voice takes me to some grungy form of New York City, where everything has gone corrupt and people do what they can to get by.  I simply adore it.

Spring

Spring sun beams through the clouds.
Spring run to fling the funeral shrouds.

Rising sun ere falls on Christened buds.
Rising run to pass us on, broken studs.

Railroad sun climbs high and fast.
Railroad run underground as last.

Stud sun loses its place, it must.
Stud run, oh quickly this railroad rust.

Breathe

This morning
finest wet with dew
this morning cool on my heels
chasing me down as the world spins
the cusp of an orb brisk with coming light
shine, shining sun behind the white cumulous
this morning a single rain drop soaring forever ground-ward.                        Breathe.

Tokyo, by The Books

This song can inspire a myriad of wonderful brain sounds.  If you're a poet, just listen to this and freewrite.  Something beautiful is bound to happen.

A Missive

You, spool so kind, find you a substance in
the clothes this humble man weaves. I only
want a windbreaker, for bitter the cold rush
is against bare skin--it can chill a man
until a man becomes a hole, wide but hidden,
with no chance of Alice falling in, nor securing
any white rabbit his timely appointment.
A body of blue is quite useless.
Drip, drip, the gutter of my brother's roof
on my head, will a pillar form, as in caves
of limestone, or will I warm in the soft of you,
string woven so tightly as to deflect the river
over my head? oh sworn spool, relieve me
for my wont is pure white to see. Look, erected I
statue white in the obscured sun's rays as it lay
behind clouds frigidly enjoying the sky.
I wish, thread, that you might hold, bay
the hole of me orange over black.

Aleatoric

Take time, newspaper click, spiral corrosion
cliff face erosion.  Applause disjointed.
The beach, my romance, clear for miles
better sun than can be seen over those
applauding.  Violins, their tone once long, cut
synthetically short, the artificial space between
notes disorienting.  I heard someone walk down
the hall, I watched them with my eyes closed.

Take time.  The guitar strings are fingers.
Fingers vibrate as we tell them to.
My commands in darkness lay claim
over the existing in light, object pressed to move
by me, makes a newspaper.  The events
are disjointed, floundering uncollaboratively,
reporting their absence in phrases of being.
One floating in such space, questioning
what is real--the star so far away,
or the earth only temporarily beneath his feet.

Transparency

Open the doors,

oh dearest of dears,

so that we may be.

Transparency is what

I ask of you.

Draw back those curtains

and let in the light,

for God's sake,

and your own.



Open the doors,

that you may prosper in

the Garden that is yours.

A snake is not present.

Take no heed of doubt,

or those who doubt you.

It is your Garden, after all,

as it is mine.



Open the doors.

The eagle takes wing, and

lands on your shoulder.

In many houses, he

would be an unwanted guest,

and so, he remains outside,

waiting for the call.

He heard you unbolt.



Open the doors.

A shaggy black dog

with floppy lips drawn back in a smile

had been waiting on the

porch, loyal still to

his forgetful master.

Throw a stick and he

will fetch it for you,

and deposit it at your feet,

nudge it with a slimy thick muzzle.

He might have laughed.



Open the doors,

that the orchestra may see

it's conductor for the first time,

outside the warped medium

of an old and dusty window.

Your ballads rain on you,

and then pour out from you.

Lo and behold, the theatre

is part of your house!



Open the doors,

that the waters may equalize,

to take a fine afternoon

swim through deep cobalt seas.

Abandon your short and painful

drowning within the confines of

your unforgiving and personal aquarium.



Open the doors,

and let me in.

You carry a hermit’s backpack,

thick and heavy, dense,

cornucopia of worries.

Let me relieve you.

My heart

grows leaden with love,

and to carry you is to

lessen that burden.



Open the doors,

let us all lift

you into the sky and higher,

together we shift

Mountains.



Open the doors,

come to know yourself.

Love yourself, as I do.

Let life come in.

Thoughts Combusticated

The woods. My grammar.

Damaged goods, I stammer.

Trip over a log stamped with ‘decisions.’

Face plant in the mud of solitude.

What am I doing? Time for revisions

Stuck in the forest with its latitude and longitude.

Oh god, now I’m writing a sonnet.

I see an eagle carrying thirteen berries

On a small vine, heading away from Washington, D.C.

looks like the politicians are on coffee break.

Takin’ a little sip o’ they espresso,

watchin’ the poor people bicker and argue

over who gets the shitty little ghetto apartment

let’s call Judge Judy, we’ll be on T.V.

Forests are green, but not for much longer

here comes the eagle again,

he’s manning a bulldozer, oh god,

run away! Turns out my ‘decisions’

don’t count for shit here!

Abandon

And we can pretend that nobody's been here

for centuries, that the walls are crumbling

I can see through the yellow hall

where the light pours in through the grunge

in the windows high above and filters through the dust,

sickly yellow light glimmers so gently off the uncleaned floor.

There is a stain, small, dark

on the desk, small desk

in the center of the yellow hall.

Beside the desk on the cold floor

is an unfinished pair of panties

grimiest rag I've ever seen

can't even believe someone worked here

her face not yet tarnished by old age

but surely heading for it, her long brown hair

slick with sweat, strong, wrinkled hands vicefully gripping the replacement spool;

she who worked at the speed of

five pairs of panties per minute (ppm.),

sewed her thumb, once, focus, twice,

come on, concentrate, thrice

and she was given the shaft.

Her tearful legacy lost

left only a stain

bits of thumb

and pain.

We can pretend

the funny lookin' dude behind the counter

says, "Your total is $19.45."

Isn't this what you wanted?

Lingerie at its best.

Vicarious, by Tool

This is one of my favorite Tool songs.

Listen well, and embers shall fall

unbidden in sorrow about you,

but just as such, a strange

confidence will settle 

within you.

Sound is Here, by Ariana Nicolosi

There is a secret
There is a sound
Sound of laughter
Sound of weeping
Weeping with joy
Weeping angry
Angry noise
Angry cats
Cats hate dogs
Cats love water
Water is clear
Water is cold
Cold and colder
Cold to touch
Touch the ice
Touch his fur
Fur so soft
Fur so pure
Pure to see
Pure to feel
Feel his anger
Feel his Power
Power to use
Power to control
Control his power
Control the world
World so cold
World so blue
Blue as sky
Blue is right
Right to left
Right and wrong
Wrong way
Wrong turn
Turn there
Turn last
Last day
Last night
Night Light
Night Watch
Watch him
Watch out
Out there
Out of here
Here we are
Here we go
Go away
Go there
There…
Away…

"Poem" by Victoria Santamorena

Surround me in thy imagery,

My sweetest queen Persephone!

And canst thou grace me

With thine sweetest kiss?




The Burden that thou must bear –

Sitting proudly in hell’s chair –

Just a child kind and fair,

Waiting for mine kiss.




The dogs of hell are howling low

They praise thee and thy maiden glow –

The sweet song of the Styx’s flow

Shall grace me with thy kiss.




Thou art the one the fiery god claimed

Lord of the Underworld he is named –

And Hades shall hold thee in his domain

To claim thy sweetest kiss.




But I shall free thee from his spell

And the dogs of howling hell

And the souls thee know so well

To win thine cherished kiss.




O, daughter of Demeter, he did steal thee

His blazing passion unwieldy

Thou ate a fruit from the Underworld tree,

And from the darkness we will flee

And I shall claim thine kiss.




The Fates they say that thou art mine

Thine kiss I long for, of the gods divine

And I shall smite Hades with my cunning mind

To win thine sweetest kiss.




Down into Hell I shall creep

Thine sacred soul I will reap

From the Unseen’s clutches in Tartarus deep

And win thine kindly kiss.




With the blessing of the gods,

And against all deadly odds

Thou art the one that I shall laud

And grace with mine only kiss.

The Busser

I washed off the grease and the gristle.
The clean crate of dishes I carted off.
Another gentleman ordered the juicy steak.
I washed away half of the steak,
the grease and the gristle.
Another woman ordered the fish salad.
I washed away half the salad, the steak,
the grease and the gristle.
Another gentleman ordered the chicken
casadilla, one part for him, four parts
for the floor, all washed away
the clean crate of dishes I carted off.

The restaurant was a live wire:
the people poured in and ordered more;
the forks and knives glistened with perspiration.
The gentleman tore the yielding cow flesh
while the woman in the bathroom puked
away the grease and the gristle.
Maximization to marginalization, the heart
of the gentleman served beating on a tarnished
silver platter, that I had to clean.
Half of a steak, half of a salad, four casadillas
and half of a gentleman's heart foisted into
a trash bag, lifted, jostled, set down untenderly
some fifty miles away from civilization.

The clean crate of dishes I carted off.

Moments Between

Oh me, oh life

of the questions these recurring

of the school building where

I go again and again as so told to,

of the complaints I read online

about how the world should live

as One, and how the complainer

sits idly before his computer

wondering why the bomb doesn’t

fall, oh me, how I too sit complaining

of how the batter lays down his bat

and the impoverished Indian picks

it up, I bat no better nor more

than the next man in his bedroom

playing Call of Duty, oh me,

how do I swing to contact

the ball with steadfast vigor

and feel it between now and

the next moment as between asymptotes-

I slip forward uncontrollably and

awake to find the bat

was not actually in my hands

but I’d only dreamed of holding…

this is that point inexplicable

oh Life, one of these recurring,

            And I must know,

            what should I write

            to myself, complainer

            great and miscalculating

            for my true security?

            How do I swing

            well and why should

            I hit, far or foul?

            Or Out?  What is Out?

            Is the next man succumbed

            for carrion comfort in

            Call of Duty going to be

            me?  Oh me…

            Beneath my reason god

            Stands rudely naked and

            silent in the shade.  I am

            still here, alive, conscious

            In this moment recurring.


(Inspired by Walt Whitman's "Oh Me, Oh Life."  "Carrion Comfort" is the title of a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a poet I do adore.)

"Hounds"

He raised hounds to search out his meat.
He raised hounds to eat his homework, every night.
He raised hounds to starve and attack out rashly.
He raised hounds to capture the setting sun.
He raised hounds to let him flee his country
when worse came to worst.
He raised hounds to fetch the tennis balls he hit
when no one was there to return.
He raised hounds hellishly expounding on his failure.
He raised hounds to bark at the door, never mind who
stood just outside.
He raised hounds for an army ever on his side.
He raised hounds to carry his food, water, and money.
He raised hounds to lick and love him with
steely red tongues sharper than ravens' claws.
He raised hounds bold and unscrupulous, ever hungry.
And in the end, he raised hounds to dine
on he, the master of all these, and more.