In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand
there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see
or the child’s older self, a poet,
a woman dreaming when she should be typing
the last report of the day. If this were a map,
she thinks, a map laid down to memorize
because she might be walking it, it shows
ridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert
here and there a sign of aquifers
and one possible watering-hole. If this were a map
it would be the map of the last age of her life,
not a map of choices but a map of variations
on the one great choice. It would be the map by which
she could see the end of touristic choices,
of distances blued and purpled by romance,
by which she would recognize that poetry
isn’t revolution but a way of knowing
why it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced
wooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co.,
mass-produced yet durable, being here now,
is what it is yet a dream-map
so obdurate, so plain,
she thinks, the material and the dream can join
and that is the poem and that is the late report.
Monday, 24 June 2013
Friday, 21 June 2013
kakfa
From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.
Questions from A Worker Who Reads by Brecht
Who built Thebes of the seven gates?
In the books you will find the name of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?
And Babylon, many times demolished.
Who raised it up so many times? In what houses
Of gold-glittering Lima did the builders live?
Where, the evening that the Wall of China was finished
Did the masons go? Great Rome
Is full of triumphal arches. Who erected them? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Had Byzantium, much praised in song,
Only palaces for its inhabitants? Even in fabled Atlantis
The night the ocean engulfed it
The drowning still bawled for their slaves.
The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Did he not have even a cook with him?
Philip of Spain wept when his armada
Went down. Was he the only one to weep?
Frederick the Second won the Seven Years' War. Who
Else won it?
Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?
Every ten years a great man.
Who paid the bill?
So many reports.
So many questions.
In the books you will find the name of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?
And Babylon, many times demolished.
Who raised it up so many times? In what houses
Of gold-glittering Lima did the builders live?
Where, the evening that the Wall of China was finished
Did the masons go? Great Rome
Is full of triumphal arches. Who erected them? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Had Byzantium, much praised in song,
Only palaces for its inhabitants? Even in fabled Atlantis
The night the ocean engulfed it
The drowning still bawled for their slaves.
The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Did he not have even a cook with him?
Philip of Spain wept when his armada
Went down. Was he the only one to weep?
Frederick the Second won the Seven Years' War. Who
Else won it?
Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?
Every ten years a great man.
Who paid the bill?
So many reports.
So many questions.
Friday, 7 June 2013
Socrates on Gossip
In ancient Greece (469 - 399 BC) Socrates was widely lauded for his wisdom. One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who ran up to him excitedly and said, "Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one of your students?"
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the Triple Filter Test."
"Triple filter?"
"That's right," Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student let's take a moment to filter what you're going to say. The first filter is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me is true?"
"No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it and..."
"All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not. Now let's try the second filter, the filter of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?"
"No, on the contrary..."
"So," Socrates continued, "you want to tell me something bad about him, even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed. Socrates continued. "You may still pass the test though, because there is a third filter - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about my student going to be useful to me?"
"No, not really"
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True nor Good nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?"
The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was a great philosopher and held in such high esteem.
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the Triple Filter Test."
"Triple filter?"
"That's right," Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student let's take a moment to filter what you're going to say. The first filter is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me is true?"
"No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it and..."
"All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not. Now let's try the second filter, the filter of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?"
"No, on the contrary..."
"So," Socrates continued, "you want to tell me something bad about him, even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed. Socrates continued. "You may still pass the test though, because there is a third filter - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about my student going to be useful to me?"
"No, not really"
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True nor Good nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?"
The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was a great philosopher and held in such high esteem.
Monday, 13 May 2013
Still to be Neat by Ben Jonson
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
...
I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Durer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, The Watts Towers, Bocklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet
- Interview with JG Ballard
- Interview with JG Ballard
Friday, 19 April 2013
April Love by Ernest Dowson
We have walked in Love's land a little way,
We have learnt his lesson a little while,
And shall we not part at the end of day,
With a sigh, a smile?
A little while in the shine of the sun,
We were twined together, joined lips, forgot
How the shadows fall when the day is done,
And when Love is not.
We have made no vows--there will none be broke,
Our love was free as the wind on the hill,
There was no word said we need wish unspoke,
We have wrought no ill.
So shall we not part at the end of day,
Who have loved and lingered a little while,
Join lips for the last time, go our way,
With a sigh, a smile?
Thursday, 18 April 2013
Peach Blossom at Dalin Temple by Bai Juyi
You ask for what reason I stay on the green mountain,
I smile, but do not answer, my heart is at leisure.
Peach blossom is carried far off by flowing water,
Apart, I have heaven and earth in the human world.
I smile, but do not answer, my heart is at leisure.
Peach blossom is carried far off by flowing water,
Apart, I have heaven and earth in the human world.
Spring Dawn by Meng Haoran
I slumbered this spring morning, and missed the dawn,
From everywhere I heard the cry of birds.
That night the sound of wind and rain had come,
Who knows how many petals then had fallen?
From everywhere I heard the cry of birds.
That night the sound of wind and rain had come,
Who knows how many petals then had fallen?
Midnight Song of the Seasons: Spring Song by Yue Fu
The spring wind moves a spring heart,
My eye flows to gaze at the mountain forest.
The mountain forest's extraordinarily beautiful,
The bright spring birds are pouring out clear sound.
My eye flows to gaze at the mountain forest.
The mountain forest's extraordinarily beautiful,
The bright spring birds are pouring out clear sound.
To the master Dōen Zenji by Robert Gray
Dōgen came in and sat on the wood platform,
all the people had gathered
like birds upon the lake.
After years, he'd come back from China,
and had brought no scriptures—he showed them
empty hands.
This was in Kyoto
at someone-else's temple. He said, All that's important
is the ordinary things.
Making the fire
to boil some bathwater, pounding rice, pulling the weeds
and knocking dirt from their roots,
or pouring tea—those blown scarves,
a moment, more beautiful than the drapery
in paintings by a Master.
—'It is this world of the dharmas
(the atoms)
which is the Diamond.'
*
Dōgen received, they say, his first insight
from an old cook at some monastery
in China,
who was hanging about on the jetty
where they docked—who had come down
to buy mushrooms,
among the rolled-up straw sails,
the fish-nets and brocade litters,
the geese in baskets.
High sea-going junk,
shuffling and dipping
like an official.
Dōgen could see
and empty shoreline, the pinewood plank of the beach,
the mountains
far-off
and dusty. Standing about
with his new smooth skull.
The horses' lumpy hooves clumped on the planks
of that jetty—they arched their necks
and dipped their heads like swans
manes blown about
like the white threads from off
the falling breakers:;
holding up their hooves as though they were tender,
the sea grabbing at
the timber below.
And the two Buddhists in all the shuffle got to bow,
The old man told him, Up there,
that place—
the monastery a cliff-face
in one of the shadowy hills—
My study is cooking;
no not devotion, not
any of your sacred books (meaning Buddhism). And Dōgen,
irate—
he must have thought
who is his old prick, so ignorant
of the Law,
and it must have shown.
Son, I regret
that you haven't caught on
to where it is one discovers
the Original Nature
of the mind and things
*
Dōgen said, Ideas
from reading, from people, from a personal bias,
toss them all out—
'discolourations.
You shall only discover by looking in
this momentary mind,'
And said, 'The Soto school
isn't one
of the many entities in buddhism,
you should not even use that name',
It is just sitting in mediation;
an awareness, with no
clinging to,
no working on, the mind.
It is a floating. Ever-moving. 'Marvellous emptiness.'
'Such zazen began a long time
before Buddha,
and will continue for ever.'
And upon this leaf one shall cross over
the stormy sea,
among the dragon-like waves.
- Robert Gray, source unknown
all the people had gathered
like birds upon the lake.
After years, he'd come back from China,
and had brought no scriptures—he showed them
empty hands.
This was in Kyoto
at someone-else's temple. He said, All that's important
is the ordinary things.
Making the fire
to boil some bathwater, pounding rice, pulling the weeds
and knocking dirt from their roots,
or pouring tea—those blown scarves,
a moment, more beautiful than the drapery
in paintings by a Master.
—'It is this world of the dharmas
(the atoms)
which is the Diamond.'
*
Dōgen received, they say, his first insight
from an old cook at some monastery
in China,
who was hanging about on the jetty
where they docked—who had come down
to buy mushrooms,
among the rolled-up straw sails,
the fish-nets and brocade litters,
the geese in baskets.
High sea-going junk,
shuffling and dipping
like an official.
Dōgen could see
and empty shoreline, the pinewood plank of the beach,
the mountains
far-off
and dusty. Standing about
with his new smooth skull.
The horses' lumpy hooves clumped on the planks
of that jetty—they arched their necks
and dipped their heads like swans
manes blown about
like the white threads from off
the falling breakers:;
holding up their hooves as though they were tender,
the sea grabbing at
the timber below.
And the two Buddhists in all the shuffle got to bow,
The old man told him, Up there,
that place—
the monastery a cliff-face
in one of the shadowy hills—
My study is cooking;
no not devotion, not
any of your sacred books (meaning Buddhism). And Dōgen,
irate—
he must have thought
who is his old prick, so ignorant
of the Law,
and it must have shown.
Son, I regret
that you haven't caught on
to where it is one discovers
the Original Nature
of the mind and things
*
Dōgen said, Ideas
from reading, from people, from a personal bias,
toss them all out—
'discolourations.
You shall only discover by looking in
this momentary mind,'
And said, 'The Soto school
isn't one
of the many entities in buddhism,
you should not even use that name',
It is just sitting in mediation;
an awareness, with no
clinging to,
no working on, the mind.
It is a floating. Ever-moving. 'Marvellous emptiness.'
'Such zazen began a long time
before Buddha,
and will continue for ever.'
And upon this leaf one shall cross over
the stormy sea,
among the dragon-like waves.
- Robert Gray, source unknown
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
the secret
The secret of Roberto Bolano’s great literary project,
beyond his physical disappearance at the optimum moment, and the spectral
record of his movement, Chile through Mexico City to Spain, was this: poetry is
conspiracy. Poetry is a virus. Poets, sick with pride, chosen and cursed, habitués
of the worst bars, the grimmest cafes, night-birds, defacers of notebooks, feed
on the glamour of truth. Immortality postponed. They are owl heads, hawkers of
mis-remembered quotations. Solitaries jealous of their hard won obscurity.
pp145 Ghost Milk: Calling Time on the Grand Project by Iain Sinclair
Thursday, 21 March 2013
The Invitation
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dreams for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moing to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful be realistic to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes."
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Spring Sleep by Bai Juyi
The pillow's low, the quilt is warm, the body smooth and peaceful,
Sun shines on the door of the room, the curtain not yet open.
Still the youthful taste of spring remains in the air,
Often it will come to you even in your sleep.
Sun shines on the door of the room, the curtain not yet open.
Still the youthful taste of spring remains in the air,
Often it will come to you even in your sleep.
Sunday, 17 February 2013
The Night, The Porch, by Mark Strand
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close
by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they
wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the
comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the
crux
Of the matter. Even now we seem to be waiting for
something
Whose appearance would be its vanishing--the sound, say,
Of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf, or less.
There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells as much, and was never written with us in mind.
Saturday, 9 February 2013
desiderata
Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what
peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good
terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to
others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to
the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and
bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep
interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the
changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world
is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many
persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither
be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is
as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully
surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in
sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many
fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have
a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the
universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever
you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy
confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and
broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Friday, 4 January 2013
Sunday, 30 December 2012
Monday, 24 December 2012
Saturday, 15 December 2012
Various Portents by Alice Oswald
Various stars. Various kings.
Various sunsets, signs, cursory insights.
Many minute attentions, many knowledgeable watchers,
Much cold, much overbearing darkness.
Various long midwinter Glooms.
Various Solitary and Terrible stars.
Many Frosty Nights, many previously Unseen Sky-flowers.
Many people setting out (some of them kings) all clutching at stars.
More than one North star, more than one South star.
Several billion elliptical galaxies, bubble nebulae, binary systems.
Various dust lanes, various routes through varying thickness of Dark,
Many tunnels into deep space, minds going back and forth.
Many visions, many digitally enhanced heavens,
All kinds of glistenings being gathered into telescopes:
Fireworks, gasworks, white-streaked works of Dusk,
Works of wonder and or water, snowflakes, stars of frost …
Various dazed astronomers dilating their eyes,
Various astronauts setting out into laughterless earthlessness,
Various 5,000-year-old moon maps,
Various blindmen feeling across the heavens in Braille.
Various gods making beautiful works in bronze,
Brooches, crowns, triangles, cups and chains,
Various crucifixes, all sorts of nightsky necklaces.
Many Wise Men remarking the irregular weather.
Many exile energies, many low-voiced followers,
Watchers of whisps of various glowing spindles,
Soothsayers, hunters in the High Country of the Zodiac,
Seafarers tossing, tied to a star…
Various people coming home (some of them kings). Various headlights.
Two or three children standing or sitting on the low wall.
Various winds, the Sea Wind, the sound-laden Winds of Evening
Blowing the stars towards them, bringing snow.
Various sunsets, signs, cursory insights.
Many minute attentions, many knowledgeable watchers,
Much cold, much overbearing darkness.
Various long midwinter Glooms.
Various Solitary and Terrible stars.
Many Frosty Nights, many previously Unseen Sky-flowers.
Many people setting out (some of them kings) all clutching at stars.
More than one North star, more than one South star.
Several billion elliptical galaxies, bubble nebulae, binary systems.
Various dust lanes, various routes through varying thickness of Dark,
Many tunnels into deep space, minds going back and forth.
Many visions, many digitally enhanced heavens,
All kinds of glistenings being gathered into telescopes:
Fireworks, gasworks, white-streaked works of Dusk,
Works of wonder and or water, snowflakes, stars of frost …
Various dazed astronomers dilating their eyes,
Various astronauts setting out into laughterless earthlessness,
Various 5,000-year-old moon maps,
Various blindmen feeling across the heavens in Braille.
Various gods making beautiful works in bronze,
Brooches, crowns, triangles, cups and chains,
Various crucifixes, all sorts of nightsky necklaces.
Many Wise Men remarking the irregular weather.
Many exile energies, many low-voiced followers,
Watchers of whisps of various glowing spindles,
Soothsayers, hunters in the High Country of the Zodiac,
Seafarers tossing, tied to a star…
Various people coming home (some of them kings). Various headlights.
Two or three children standing or sitting on the low wall.
Various winds, the Sea Wind, the sound-laden Winds of Evening
Blowing the stars towards them, bringing snow.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
an explanation of 'Within You Without You' by The Beatles from Songmeanings.net
Anybody who doesn't see the relationship between concepts covered in this song, and psychedelic drugs, have either never taken a psychedelic themselves, or did so with a vastly different mindset to what they have now. The link between psychedelics and spirituality, enhanced states of consciousness and many other similar themes is undeniable. A huge amount of people with very deep spiritual connections have also had a lot of experience with psychedelics, and while psychedelics might not be the best, most effective, or even the most reliable way to open yourself up to spirituality and experience life outside of a normal state of conciousness, they are certainly the easiest and most approachable for most people. It gives a lot of people the opportunity to get their "Foot in the door" so to speak, and its a great way to blow away all those barriers and limitations that have been conditioned into you since birth. Psychedelics open you up to a world of wonder, but they also allow you to live for the first time, free of the chains of everyday human life. Psychedelics plant a little idea in your head that everything you think you know, everything that seems so "real" and concrete, might just be not quite what is seems.
Personally, this is by far one of my favourites, George Harrison really is a genius. I think it is about life, spirituality, consciousness, the universe, everything. To me the "Wall of illusion" is referring to the illusion we live in, "Maya", the universe and life as we know it, experiencing a subjective illusion which we know as life. The people who live this life go on day in day out, motivated by basic human instincts of survival, which includes things such as greed and selfishness. "Never glimpse the truth" is them never realising the mistakes they are making, they never find out that its all meaningless, that survival is nothing you can't take your possessions with you. "Then its far too late, when they pass away", in those final moments before you pass away, your individual consciousness begins to dissolve (or so I believe) and people will finally see the truth, whatever it may be, but they'll likely realise how foolish they have been struggling to survive, to "win", when it doesn't really matter and they should have just enjoyed life while it lasted. But its far too late.
The next stanza bounces straight off the back of the last one, this time referring to the people who do begin to perceive this illusion, who do glimpse the truth, and seek to spread love and joy of life rather than wasting it away pointlessly. "the love we all could share" is in my opinion a love of life, a love of everything and everyone, a desire to seize and live every moment to its fullest and just.. live. "With out love, we could save the world, if they only knew" refers to the others, for everybody to truly live in peace, everyone has to participate. Love could save the world, if only everybody realised it.
"Try to realise its all within yourself no one else can make you change". You are in control of your own life, complete control. Nobody else can ever make you do anything, but they'll do a damn good job of convincing you otherwise. You are the master of your own universe, nobody else can change your life but you. "And to see your only very small and life goes on within you and without you". You are insignificant outside of your own life. Time has existed forever, and will forever more, along with space. You are such a small and insignificant part of everything that has ever happened and ever will happen, nothing really matters. Once you realise this you can truly start to live your life, true freedom. Everything is only as important as you perceive it to be.
The final stanza refers back to the themes covered at the beginning of the song. The people who gain the world but lose their soul, all the money in the world won't give you peace of mind, to do that you need to realise the truth, break free of the illusion, experience and live life. Come to the realisation that you are only what you think you are, you are so insignificant outside of your own life, we're all just the same bunch of energy and vibrations experiencing our own life individually, or so we think we are. I really can't possibly put this into words, that's why George Harrison wrote a song.
Life goes on within you and without you. Listen to this song, live life to its fullest, cherish every moment, enjoy yourself, realise everything is only as important as you think it is, and please for the good of humanity and your sanity, try some LSD.
Read more at http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/1209/#QjkXRqBqtb2EiM15.99
Personally, this is by far one of my favourites, George Harrison really is a genius. I think it is about life, spirituality, consciousness, the universe, everything. To me the "Wall of illusion" is referring to the illusion we live in, "Maya", the universe and life as we know it, experiencing a subjective illusion which we know as life. The people who live this life go on day in day out, motivated by basic human instincts of survival, which includes things such as greed and selfishness. "Never glimpse the truth" is them never realising the mistakes they are making, they never find out that its all meaningless, that survival is nothing you can't take your possessions with you. "Then its far too late, when they pass away", in those final moments before you pass away, your individual consciousness begins to dissolve (or so I believe) and people will finally see the truth, whatever it may be, but they'll likely realise how foolish they have been struggling to survive, to "win", when it doesn't really matter and they should have just enjoyed life while it lasted. But its far too late.
The next stanza bounces straight off the back of the last one, this time referring to the people who do begin to perceive this illusion, who do glimpse the truth, and seek to spread love and joy of life rather than wasting it away pointlessly. "the love we all could share" is in my opinion a love of life, a love of everything and everyone, a desire to seize and live every moment to its fullest and just.. live. "With out love, we could save the world, if they only knew" refers to the others, for everybody to truly live in peace, everyone has to participate. Love could save the world, if only everybody realised it.
"Try to realise its all within yourself no one else can make you change". You are in control of your own life, complete control. Nobody else can ever make you do anything, but they'll do a damn good job of convincing you otherwise. You are the master of your own universe, nobody else can change your life but you. "And to see your only very small and life goes on within you and without you". You are insignificant outside of your own life. Time has existed forever, and will forever more, along with space. You are such a small and insignificant part of everything that has ever happened and ever will happen, nothing really matters. Once you realise this you can truly start to live your life, true freedom. Everything is only as important as you perceive it to be.
The final stanza refers back to the themes covered at the beginning of the song. The people who gain the world but lose their soul, all the money in the world won't give you peace of mind, to do that you need to realise the truth, break free of the illusion, experience and live life. Come to the realisation that you are only what you think you are, you are so insignificant outside of your own life, we're all just the same bunch of energy and vibrations experiencing our own life individually, or so we think we are. I really can't possibly put this into words, that's why George Harrison wrote a song.
Life goes on within you and without you. Listen to this song, live life to its fullest, cherish every moment, enjoy yourself, realise everything is only as important as you think it is, and please for the good of humanity and your sanity, try some LSD.
Read more at http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/1209/#QjkXRqBqtb2EiM15.99
A Note From the Outside by Jean Sprackland
Here are the busy streets of fish
dead tower blocks squatted by gulls.
When they dropped me off at the woods edge
I was stammered by green,
I was torn to rags by the silence.
I walked like a bent pin,
stubbing my toes on the emptiness
Remember that library book about the ocean?
You should see the night sky:
it's buoys and lighthouses
it's flares and shipping lanes
dead tower blocks squatted by gulls.
When they dropped me off at the woods edge
I was stammered by green,
I was torn to rags by the silence.
I walked like a bent pin,
stubbing my toes on the emptiness
Remember that library book about the ocean?
You should see the night sky:
it's buoys and lighthouses
it's flares and shipping lanes
Saturday, 24 November 2012
love love love love
The true transgression today is no longer sex, but a dedicated commitment to love.
Sunday, 18 November 2012
Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
From Vineland by Thomas Pynchon (p339-340)
…he saw the screen go blank, bright and prickly, and then heard voices hard, flat, echoing.
"But we don't actually have the orders yet," somebody said.
"It's only a detail," the other voice with a familiar weary edge, a service voice, "just like getting a search warrant." Onto the screen came some Anglo in fatigues, about Hector's age, sitting at a desk against a pale green wall under fluorescent light. He kept looking over to the side, off-camera.
"My name is — what should I say, just name and rank?"
"No names," the other advised.
The man was handed two pieces of paper clipped together, and he read it to the camera. "As commanding officer of state defense forces in this sector, pursuant to the President's NSDD #52 of 6 April 1984 as amended, I am authorized — what?" He started up, sat back down, went in some agitation for the desk drawer, which stuck, or had been locked. Which is when the movie came back on, and continued with no further military interruptions.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
the soul of the white ant
'Beloved, you are going to suffer a great loss. Instead of living in this glowing sunlight, you are going to spend your days in absolute darkness. Instead of the citizenship of the wild veld, instead of the freedom of the air, of mountains, trees and plains, you are going to spend your days as a prisoner in a narrow vault, in whose confines you will be unable to make the least movement...But in place of all this, you yourself will become a far more important and wonderful being...You will become the feeling, the thinking, the seeing of a life a thousand times greater and more important than yours...'
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Soul-White-Eugene-Marais/dp/0980297656/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350841294&sr=8-1
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Soul-White-Eugene-Marais/dp/0980297656/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350841294&sr=8-1
Sunday, 14 October 2012
At first they go for the easiest prey,
With the fewest defenses erected;
With no powerful lobbies to fight for their rights,
People these days who live unprotected.
With no powerful lobbies to fight for their rights,
People these days who live unprotected.
But you're not in this grouping, you've plenty to eat,
Don't frequent food banks at month's close;
So you figure, this really is quite sad, that's true,
But heck, it's no skin off my nose.
Don't frequent food banks at month's close;
So you figure, this really is quite sad, that's true,
But heck, it's no skin off my nose.
Then cuts in health care, for the aged, the poor,
But you're not yet old, nor quite poor;
So you shrug, figure maybe there's no other way,
And such cuts you can safely ignore
But you're not yet old, nor quite poor;
So you shrug, figure maybe there's no other way,
And such cuts you can safely ignore
Next vets take their hits, college student aid falls,
And maybe you're getting to feel,
The axe is beginning to chop down your way,
This reality, though, ain't quite real.
And maybe you're getting to feel,
The axe is beginning to chop down your way,
This reality, though, ain't quite real.
Then finally it's your turn, to share in the pain,
To join with the gang on this queue;
In order the richest can more wealth pile on,
You'll pay for this trickle up, too.
To join with the gang on this queue;
In order the richest can more wealth pile on,
You'll pay for this trickle up, too.
Michael Silverstein.
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
who we are and where we come from
“But that is who we are, that is where we come from. We are the offspring of metropolitan annihilation and destruction, of the war of all against all, of the conflict of each individual with every other individual, of a system governed by fear, of the compulsion to produce, of the profit of one to the detriment of others, of the division of people into men and women, young and old, sick and healthy, foreigners and Germans, and of the struggle for prestige. Where do we come from? From isolation in individual row-houses, from the suburban concrete cities, from prison cells, from the asylums and special units, from media brainwashing, from consumerism, from corporal punishment, from the ideology of nonviolence, from depression, from illness, from degradation, from humiliation, from the debasement of human beings, from all the people exploited by imperialism.”
- Ulrike Meinhof
- Ulrike Meinhof
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Poem in October by Dylan Thomas
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Solitude 1 by Tomas Tranströmer
Right here I was nearly killed one night in February.
My car slewed on the ice, sideways,
into the other lane. The oncoming cars
their headlights came nearer.
My name, my daughters, my job
slipped free and fell behind silently,
farther and farther back, I was anonymous,
like a schoolboy in a lot surrounded by enemies.
The approaching traffic had powerful lights.
They shone on me while I turned and turned
the wheel in a transparent fear that moved like
eggwhite.
The seconds lengthened out making more room
they grew long as hospital buildings.
It felt as if you could just take it easy
and loaf a bit
before the smash came.
Then firm land appeared: a helping sandgrain
or a marvelous gust of wind. The car took hold
and fish-tailed back across the road.
A signpost shot up, snapped off a ringing sound
tossed into the dark.
Came all quiet. I sat there in my seatbelt
and watched someone tramp through the blowing snow
to see what had become of me.
Solitude 2 by Tomas Tranströmer
I have been walking a while
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.
In other parts of the world
people are born, live, and die
in a constant human crush.
To be visible all the time - to live
in a swarm of eyes -
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.
The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grains of sand.
I have to be by myself
Ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
- and nothing to be done!
We all line up to ask each other for help
Millions
One
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.
In other parts of the world
people are born, live, and die
in a constant human crush.
To be visible all the time - to live
in a swarm of eyes -
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.
The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grains of sand.
I have to be by myself
Ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
- and nothing to be done!
We all line up to ask each other for help
Millions
One
Sunday, 16 September 2012
a fragment of Europe! Europe! by Allen Ginsberg
World world world
I sit in my room
imagine the future
sunlight falls on Paris
I am alone there is no
one whose love is perfect
man has been mad man’s
love is not perfect I
have not wept enough
my breast will be heavy
till death the cities
are specters of cranks
of war the cities are
work & brick & iron &
smoke of the furnace of
selfhood makes tearless
eyes red in London but
no eye meets the sun
Friday, 10 August 2012
The Terms in Which I Realize Reality by Allen Ginsberg
Reality is a question
of realizing how real
the world is already.
Time is Eternity,
ultimate and immovable;
everyone's an angel.
It's Heaven's mystery
of changing perfection :
absolute Eternity
changes! Cars are always
going down the street,
lamps go off and on.
It's a great flat plain;
we can see everything
on top of a table.
Clams open on the table,
lambs are eaten by worms
on the plain. The motion
of change is beautiful,
as well as form called
in and out of being.
Next : to distinguish process
in its particularity with
an eye to the initiation
of gratifying new changes
desired in the real world.
Here we're overwhelmed
with such unpleasant detail
we dream again of Heaven.
For the world is a mountain
of shit : if it's going to
be moved at all, it's got
to be taken by handfuls.
Man lives like the unhappy
whore on River Street who
in her Eternity gets only
a couple of bucks and a lot
of snide remarks in return
for seeking physical love
the best way she knows how,
never really heard of a glad
job or joyous marriage or
a difference in the heart :
or thinks it isn't for her,
which is her worst misery.
Five A.M. by Allen Ginsberg
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
CIA Dope Calypso by Allen Ginsberg
In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai Shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way
First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting opium to send to The Man
Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Mai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief's brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA
The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. aid
The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA
He got so sloppy and peddled so loose
He busted himself and cooked his own goose
Took the reward for the opium load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold
Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA
Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & wench
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till opium flowed through the land like a flood
Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA
The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. intelligence came in to Laos
Mary Azarian/Matt Wuerker I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosavan
All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA
And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars
It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA
All through the Sixties the dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshall Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting comfiture for President Thieu
All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA
Operation Haylift Offisir Wm Colby
Saw Marshall Ky fly opium Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of Dirty Tricks
"Hitch-hiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix
Subsidizing the traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA
Friday, 27 July 2012
liberalism, as a philosophical position and ideology, has been bound up with the most illiberal of policies: slavery, colonialism, genocide, racism, support for fascism and systems of ruthless and violent class domination both in the heartlands of the liberal world, Britain and the USA, and in the colonies.
The West develops wonderful new skills
In this as in so many other fields
Its submarines are crocodiles
Its bombers rain destruction from the skies
Its gasses so obscure the sky
They blind the sun's world-seeing eye.
Dispatch this old fool to the West
To learn the art of killing fast – and best.
- Muhammed Iqbal
In this as in so many other fields
Its submarines are crocodiles
Its bombers rain destruction from the skies
Its gasses so obscure the sky
They blind the sun's world-seeing eye.
Dispatch this old fool to the West
To learn the art of killing fast – and best.
- Muhammed Iqbal
Saturday, 16 June 2012
All Nature has a Feeling by John Clare
All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end
my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live in the space of a door
that opens and shuts
- Samuel Beckett
Saturday, 19 May 2012
On Earth by Matthew Dickman
My little sister walks away
from the crash, the black ice, the crushed passenger
side, the eighteen-wheeler that destroyed
the car, and from a ditch on the side of the highway
a white plastic bag floating up
out of the grass
where the worms are working slow and blind beneath
the ants that march
in their single columns of grace like soldiers
before they’re shipped out, before war makes them human
again and scatters them across the fields
and the sands, across stretchers and bodies,
across the universe
of smoke and ash, makes them crouch down
in what’s left of a building
while a tank moves up the street towards the river
where it will stop, turn its engine off, the driver looking
through a window smaller than an envelope,
where he will sweat and think
about how beautiful Kentucky is. On earth
my twin brother gets his cancer cut out
of his forehead after a year of picking at it and me
always saying, ‘Hey! Don’t pick at your cancer!’
but joking because he can never be sick,
not if I want to stay on earth,
and my little sister can never be torn in half, a piece of her
used Subaru separating her torso
from her legs, not if I want to live, not if I want to walk
across the Hawthorne Bridge
with the city ahead of me, the buildings
full of light and elevators, the park full of maples
and benches, the police filling up
the streets like Novocain, numbing
China Town, numbing Old Town, the Willamette
running towards the wild
Pacific, the great hydro-adventure North
still pulling at the blood of New Yorkers and New Englanders,
the logging gone and the Indians gone
but for casinos and fireworks and dream-catchers,
my little sister has to rise from the dead
steel and broken headlights, my twin brother
has to get himself down from the operating table
if I’m going to be able to watch the rainclouds come in
like a family of hippos
from the warm waters of Africa
and dry off in the dust, they have to be here
if I’m going to write a letter
to Marie or Dorianne, Michael and Elizabeth
have to be in their bodies
for me not to cut them
out of my own. They have to answer
the phone when I call for me not to walk into the closet
for ever. Right now I am sitting
on the porch of the house I grew up in. The second place
I was on earth! The porch where Emily sat
in 1994, drinking licorice tea
and reading Rexroth’s translations of Li Po,
some Chinese poetry
in the curve of her foot, the Han River
spilling out of her hair, over the steps,
and into the driveway
where the dandelions grew like white blood
cells. I would pick them in Kelly Park
and I would walk along the street with them
on 92nd. All my wishes, all of them floating out
over a neighbourhood
where I wanted to be in love
with someone, drinking orange sodas on our backs
with the sky unbuttoning our jeans
and pulling off our shirts. There’s nothing
like walking through Northwest Portland
at night, even though it’s sick with money
and doesn’t look like itself. There’s nothing on earth
like the moonlight, lake at night
smell of tall grass and suntan lotion. It’s hard to imagine
not knowing the smell of gas stations or pine,
the smell of socks worn too long and the smell
of someone’s hands
after they have swum through a rosemary bush.
I want them all
and all the time. I need to walk
into Erika’s room, over the piles of clothes on the floor
which I love for their pyramid euphoria. I need to
smell her body on mine
days after we have destroyed the bed or ruined the carpet
she hates unless we are on it. On earth
my older sister can never open another bottle of beer, shoot
another glass of whiskey. She can’t have the monster
of her body go slouching through
the countryside of her family, killing the peasants,
burning the fields along the road to another sobriety
and then be hacked to death by her own pitchforks and spades,
not if I want to brush my teeth
without biting off my tongue. Not if I want to drink coffee
and read the paper and breathe. Oh to be on earth.
To walk barefoot on the cold stone
and know that the woman you love is also walking barefoot
on the cold tile in the kitchen
where you kissed her yesterday, to be standing in a bookstore
and smell the old paper and the glue
in the spines, to look at a map of a strange city
and be able to figure out
where it is you’re going. To swim in the ocean,
to swim in a lake and not know
what’s beneath you. To have two thousand
friends on Facebook you don’t know
but stare at every night because you’re lonely.
To walk through
Laurelhurst and see a blue heron
killing a bright orange fish, lifting it into the suffocating air
and then drowning it again, and then the air,
and back and forth until it feels
the fish is hers completely. To feel how the subway is racing
beneath an avenue
or how the plane that took off from New York is doing
well in the sky over Arizona. To know
how it feels after drinking whiskey or that secretly reading
romance novels has made you
into a kinder, gentler person, walking through
the grocery store in the middle of the night,
in love with avocados and carrots,
standing in front of the frozen fruit
with the glass door open
so the cold frozen-food air can cool your body down
before you walk through the cereal aisle
with its innumerable colours and kinds, how a box of cereal
feels in your hands
like an award you’ve received for some great service, to wait
in line at the checkout and not care that you
have to wait. The feeling of being on a boat
and the feeling of putting on new shoes
with a metal shoehorn. How you feel like you can run
faster than you ever have. To get on a bus in winter
and have your glasses steam up, the bus
taking you down the street you have known all your life
or only just found but love all the same. On earth
my mother is talking to her breasts
because they want to kill her, they have turned against her
like a senate, but in the end
she talks them out of it. She makes them behave like two dogs
or like children playing
too rough with the cat and the cat screaming, her tail almost
pulled off. She has to still be here, taking
the Lloyd Center exit to work
in the rain, if I’m going to live at all. On earth
I have a bed I can’t wait to get into, the clean smell of white
sheets, letting my head fall
onto the soft pillow and worry and pull
the blanket over, like a grave,
and in the morning watch the cold winter light
blowing in through the window. Every night the dark
and every morning the light
and you don’t think Jesus walked out
of his cave, crawled out of his Subaru
and stood on the side of the road for the ambulance to come
and cover him in a white shroud? On earth
I faint in the lobby of the multiplex, pee my pants, go into a seizure
like someone talking in tongues, wrapped
in the flames of belief, my body held in the hands of strangers
above the old shag carpet
while on earth the popcorn is popping wildly
and the licorice is bright red
beneath the glass counter, next to the M&Ms
where the most beautiful girl in the world is standing
in her stiff uniform, her name-tag
pinned tight, her name written on a piece of tape
that covers someone else’s name.
She will never kiss me, never lie in bed with August outside
and whisper my name. On earth
Joe has a heart attack, his pack of unfiltered cigarettes
resting like a hand near his books.
He rides his heart through the three acres of bypass
and then leads it to water. On earth
I steal flowers from the park, roses and star lilies,
I sleep too much. I’m always too slow
or arriving too early, before anything has opened. I keep
dreaming my older brother
has come back like a man returned from a long, exhausting
run. I can’t do this much longer!
And because I don’t have to, I cut an orange
the way athletes do, into perfect
half moons. I peel the pulp away, the skin that looks like
the surface of the moon. I put each one
inside my mouth
and let the sex of it burst into my throat, my lungs
like two black halves of a butterfly
trapped in the net of my chest, I read a poem
Zach wrote about a pond, I’m thinking
about the last time I saw Mike
before he moved into the Zion-air of Utah, I reread
a note Carl wrote that only says
beware. On earth Charlie is cut open
and put back together.
He goes on loving his friends and looking into the mirror,
and maybe the nerves have not grown back
over the river the scar has made, and maybe he is tired
but on earth! He has to get up in the morning
if I’m going to lie on my bed
listening to records with the window open
and the door open and wait
in my boxers for love to enter in her dirty feet
and sweaty hands, if I’m going to pull her near me, my mouth
over a knuckle, my hand beneath her knee, he has to
still be here. On earth
survival is built out of luck and treatment centres
or slow like a planet being born, before
there was anyone to survive,
the gases of the Big Bang just settling, or it’s built
like a skyscraper, by hand, some workmen
falling, and some safe on the scaffold, up above the earth,
unwrapping the sandwiches they have been waiting all day to eat.
from the crash, the black ice, the crushed passenger
side, the eighteen-wheeler that destroyed
the car, and from a ditch on the side of the highway
a white plastic bag floating up
out of the grass
where the worms are working slow and blind beneath
the ants that march
in their single columns of grace like soldiers
before they’re shipped out, before war makes them human
again and scatters them across the fields
and the sands, across stretchers and bodies,
across the universe
of smoke and ash, makes them crouch down
in what’s left of a building
while a tank moves up the street towards the river
where it will stop, turn its engine off, the driver looking
through a window smaller than an envelope,
where he will sweat and think
about how beautiful Kentucky is. On earth
my twin brother gets his cancer cut out
of his forehead after a year of picking at it and me
always saying, ‘Hey! Don’t pick at your cancer!’
but joking because he can never be sick,
not if I want to stay on earth,
and my little sister can never be torn in half, a piece of her
used Subaru separating her torso
from her legs, not if I want to live, not if I want to walk
across the Hawthorne Bridge
with the city ahead of me, the buildings
full of light and elevators, the park full of maples
and benches, the police filling up
the streets like Novocain, numbing
China Town, numbing Old Town, the Willamette
running towards the wild
Pacific, the great hydro-adventure North
still pulling at the blood of New Yorkers and New Englanders,
the logging gone and the Indians gone
but for casinos and fireworks and dream-catchers,
my little sister has to rise from the dead
steel and broken headlights, my twin brother
has to get himself down from the operating table
if I’m going to be able to watch the rainclouds come in
like a family of hippos
from the warm waters of Africa
and dry off in the dust, they have to be here
if I’m going to write a letter
to Marie or Dorianne, Michael and Elizabeth
have to be in their bodies
for me not to cut them
out of my own. They have to answer
the phone when I call for me not to walk into the closet
for ever. Right now I am sitting
on the porch of the house I grew up in. The second place
I was on earth! The porch where Emily sat
in 1994, drinking licorice tea
and reading Rexroth’s translations of Li Po,
some Chinese poetry
in the curve of her foot, the Han River
spilling out of her hair, over the steps,
and into the driveway
where the dandelions grew like white blood
cells. I would pick them in Kelly Park
and I would walk along the street with them
on 92nd. All my wishes, all of them floating out
over a neighbourhood
where I wanted to be in love
with someone, drinking orange sodas on our backs
with the sky unbuttoning our jeans
and pulling off our shirts. There’s nothing
like walking through Northwest Portland
at night, even though it’s sick with money
and doesn’t look like itself. There’s nothing on earth
like the moonlight, lake at night
smell of tall grass and suntan lotion. It’s hard to imagine
not knowing the smell of gas stations or pine,
the smell of socks worn too long and the smell
of someone’s hands
after they have swum through a rosemary bush.
I want them all
and all the time. I need to walk
into Erika’s room, over the piles of clothes on the floor
which I love for their pyramid euphoria. I need to
smell her body on mine
days after we have destroyed the bed or ruined the carpet
she hates unless we are on it. On earth
my older sister can never open another bottle of beer, shoot
another glass of whiskey. She can’t have the monster
of her body go slouching through
the countryside of her family, killing the peasants,
burning the fields along the road to another sobriety
and then be hacked to death by her own pitchforks and spades,
not if I want to brush my teeth
without biting off my tongue. Not if I want to drink coffee
and read the paper and breathe. Oh to be on earth.
To walk barefoot on the cold stone
and know that the woman you love is also walking barefoot
on the cold tile in the kitchen
where you kissed her yesterday, to be standing in a bookstore
and smell the old paper and the glue
in the spines, to look at a map of a strange city
and be able to figure out
where it is you’re going. To swim in the ocean,
to swim in a lake and not know
what’s beneath you. To have two thousand
friends on Facebook you don’t know
but stare at every night because you’re lonely.
To walk through
Laurelhurst and see a blue heron
killing a bright orange fish, lifting it into the suffocating air
and then drowning it again, and then the air,
and back and forth until it feels
the fish is hers completely. To feel how the subway is racing
beneath an avenue
or how the plane that took off from New York is doing
well in the sky over Arizona. To know
how it feels after drinking whiskey or that secretly reading
romance novels has made you
into a kinder, gentler person, walking through
the grocery store in the middle of the night,
in love with avocados and carrots,
standing in front of the frozen fruit
with the glass door open
so the cold frozen-food air can cool your body down
before you walk through the cereal aisle
with its innumerable colours and kinds, how a box of cereal
feels in your hands
like an award you’ve received for some great service, to wait
in line at the checkout and not care that you
have to wait. The feeling of being on a boat
and the feeling of putting on new shoes
with a metal shoehorn. How you feel like you can run
faster than you ever have. To get on a bus in winter
and have your glasses steam up, the bus
taking you down the street you have known all your life
or only just found but love all the same. On earth
my mother is talking to her breasts
because they want to kill her, they have turned against her
like a senate, but in the end
she talks them out of it. She makes them behave like two dogs
or like children playing
too rough with the cat and the cat screaming, her tail almost
pulled off. She has to still be here, taking
the Lloyd Center exit to work
in the rain, if I’m going to live at all. On earth
I have a bed I can’t wait to get into, the clean smell of white
sheets, letting my head fall
onto the soft pillow and worry and pull
the blanket over, like a grave,
and in the morning watch the cold winter light
blowing in through the window. Every night the dark
and every morning the light
and you don’t think Jesus walked out
of his cave, crawled out of his Subaru
and stood on the side of the road for the ambulance to come
and cover him in a white shroud? On earth
I faint in the lobby of the multiplex, pee my pants, go into a seizure
like someone talking in tongues, wrapped
in the flames of belief, my body held in the hands of strangers
above the old shag carpet
while on earth the popcorn is popping wildly
and the licorice is bright red
beneath the glass counter, next to the M&Ms
where the most beautiful girl in the world is standing
in her stiff uniform, her name-tag
pinned tight, her name written on a piece of tape
that covers someone else’s name.
She will never kiss me, never lie in bed with August outside
and whisper my name. On earth
Joe has a heart attack, his pack of unfiltered cigarettes
resting like a hand near his books.
He rides his heart through the three acres of bypass
and then leads it to water. On earth
I steal flowers from the park, roses and star lilies,
I sleep too much. I’m always too slow
or arriving too early, before anything has opened. I keep
dreaming my older brother
has come back like a man returned from a long, exhausting
run. I can’t do this much longer!
And because I don’t have to, I cut an orange
the way athletes do, into perfect
half moons. I peel the pulp away, the skin that looks like
the surface of the moon. I put each one
inside my mouth
and let the sex of it burst into my throat, my lungs
like two black halves of a butterfly
trapped in the net of my chest, I read a poem
Zach wrote about a pond, I’m thinking
about the last time I saw Mike
before he moved into the Zion-air of Utah, I reread
a note Carl wrote that only says
beware. On earth Charlie is cut open
and put back together.
He goes on loving his friends and looking into the mirror,
and maybe the nerves have not grown back
over the river the scar has made, and maybe he is tired
but on earth! He has to get up in the morning
if I’m going to lie on my bed
listening to records with the window open
and the door open and wait
in my boxers for love to enter in her dirty feet
and sweaty hands, if I’m going to pull her near me, my mouth
over a knuckle, my hand beneath her knee, he has to
still be here. On earth
survival is built out of luck and treatment centres
or slow like a planet being born, before
there was anyone to survive,
the gases of the Big Bang just settling, or it’s built
like a skyscraper, by hand, some workmen
falling, and some safe on the scaffold, up above the earth,
unwrapping the sandwiches they have been waiting all day to eat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)