Category Archives: Poetry

Happy

Happy is the One Who Repays

By the rivers of Babylon,
there we sat down,
yea, we wept
when we remembered—

The harper knows forgiveness
as the roaring music
of the river at flood
that owns the speed and speech
of his blood

as he sings down the rain
standing in the dry riverbed.

The god gives the harper a holy chord

his right hand
remembers its cunning,
takes the harp down from the willow.

The harper stands in the opened vein
of an unveiled threat.

Vengeance is mine,

god whispers,
and the harper hears the whisper:

Walk here, this is the way home.
All is forgiven.

The harper sings,
the ghosts dance,
the rain begins,

little craters plopping
in the riverbottom sand,
little drops dashing against the stones.

rain begins 1 top crop

Note: Opening lines are from Psalm 137. “Vengeance is Mine”–Romans 12:19.

The happy weatherman says our local drought will end soon. Happy is the rain that dashes itself against the rock.

Museum of Joy

edith-sitwell-multiple-exposure-cecil-beaton-1962-586x600

Multiple exposure of Edith Sitwell, by Cecil Beaton

The Web of Eros

Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world;
The dire gold of the comet’s wind-blown hair;
The songs that turned to gold the evening air
When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.

The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.
The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth;
The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth
To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower
That came to Danaë in her brazen tower…

Within your magic web of hair lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world.

Edith Sitwell, from The Wooden Pegusus

Hymning to Myself, Letting You Listen

crow puddle tcrop

Some Vedic hymns or chants may possibly have preceded language, originating as something like the human equivalent of birdsong. We sang hymns before we had words. We worshiped before we had God. Worship as a behavior preceded the language and concepts our gods are made of, and may be prehuman.

God, the voice of, heard as form of pareidolia, in the chant, like the phantom phone heard ringing in the running water of the shower.

Per Kepler, we think God’s thoughts for him. Divine apophenia.

Saint Francis preached to the birds, not because men would not listen, but to incite the birds themselves as his fellow creatures to praise.

I know which to prefer:
The terror
of silent innuendo
just after
the blackbird stops whistling.

I rang sonorities on the soft bell
of yelps, sang hosannas
haunted by the glad pains
we took to erase all the psalters
of cacophony, bred crows
under green light
as a sacrifice
to my one bawd of euphony.

Caw, caw.

Broken Cento, Strange Islands

She who loves but a span of air

We have beheld her in her mourning,
the brown, broken ivory

of dendric bridges,
The river of crepuscular blood

rising to erase the ruined algebra,
The broken loops

nailed into her perfect shoulder
she who loves but a span of air,

Her stars, lost in the slant
tunnels of rain, drown as needles in her own waters,

The heavy lift of swollen air
drops wings like anvils

wounding her limbs with prayer
she who loves but a span of air,

Note: This is one several mutant texts resulting from my attempt to construct a cento from poems in Thomas Merton’s The Strange Islands. I found the title searching the online catalog of the local library. It was an original edition from 1957, located in reserve shelving, meaning that it was an orphan, banished from general circulation. “Strange Islands” intrigued, so I ordered it up. (As an aside, I do occasionally wonder if any of the old card catalogs are gathering dust on their blond wood in dark storage rooms, or were all trashed. No more pulling out the long drawers of typed index cards and flipping, flipping, Luddite.) Merton’s poems in this book were a little too much about their serious subjects, so my muse rejected his similes in a straight cento, and began to baroque them up. I’m not sure a reader could find their way back to the original Merton lines from the above. I’m not sure I could. As with almost all the poetry or simulacra thereof I post on the Tent Show, this is not a final version of whatever it’s supposed to be a version of. There are no final versions. All versions become final when abandoned.

 

Ghost Dance

Graceful Ghost

A graceful ghost
plays stumble bum
pianissimo
and shuffles
off the buffalo
his astaire frayed and threadbare.

He lurches with the snap
into a minor key.
The melody wanders like a lost soul
dancing on the ceiling.

Caterwauled and vaulted
into stone heaven,
his echo re-echoes
fanfare and flourish,
percussive steel toes play taps
in remorse code,
a bit of the old soft shoe.

Marleyed Boo Jangles
taxidancing with Madame X
for spare prophecy.

This is the melody I unchained in life…

Walt Whitman, a Kosmos (At 200)

Today is the 200th anniversary of  Walt Whitman’s birth; in today’s parlance, #waltwhitman200. Happy Walt Day, all. Celebrate, or loafe, at least. I wrote and posted the following in observation of the day in 2013, and I find it still “plumb in the uprights”:

Walter Whitman Jr. was born on May 31st, 1819 in West Hills, Long Island. The birth of Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos, disorderly, fleshly, and sensual, no sentimentalist, no stander above men or women or apart from them, no more modest than immodest… is a more uncertain date but was announced to the world from a print shop in Brooklyn in July 1855.

leaves of grass 1855

As you can see from this picture I took of the copy in the National Gallery in Washingtion, D.C., the author’s name does not appear on the title page of the first edition of Leaves of Grass, just an image of his avatar, a word we use very casually in the virtual realm we inhabit these days. The name “Walt Whitman” does not appear until several hundred lines into the text of which this “kosmos” is composed.

young WaltWalt Whitman, 1854

In this picture, taken the year before the publication of Leaves of Grass, you see the poet, the rough kosmos intentionally posed. Previously, Mr. Whitman, sometime journalist and newspaper editor, had been a bit of a dandy, a city slicker…

Walt 1848Walter Whitman, circa 1848

Walter, Sr., did work as a carpenter, but his son, though he worked on occasion as a typesetter, had soft hands. Walt was just the sort of guy you would find today draped over a cup of milky java at the espresso bar. Today Walt would likely have an iPad, rather than the little notebook bound in green, in which he wrote the words

Observing the summer grass…

The slacker with soft hands reinvented himself as “one of the roughs” and found within himself “miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.”

I celebrate myself, 
And what I assume you shall assume, 
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul, 
I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, 
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun . . . . there are millions of suns left, 
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand . . . . nor look through the eyes of the dead . . . . nor feed on the spectres in books, 
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, 
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself. 

I have heard what the talkers were talking . . . . the talk of the beginning and the end, 
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. 

There was never any more inception than there is now, 
Nor any more youth or age than there is now; 
And will never be any more perfection than there is now, 
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. 

Urge and urge and urge, 
Always the procreant urge of the world. 

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance . . . . Always substance and increase, 
Always a knit of identity . . . . always distinction . . . . always a breed of life. 

To elaborate is no avail . . . . Learned and unlearned feel that it is so. 

Sure as the most certain sure . . . . plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, 
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, 
I and this mystery here we stand.

The miracle exploded into ecstasy out of nothing like a one man big bang, and in its inflation became the “kosmos” proclaimed in Leaves of Grass. Walt lived in its afterglow the rest of his life, revising, adding, revising, adding, modifying the vessel of the literary persona as he aged into the “Good Grey Poet.”  Even for poets who don’t read, the body electric of the eidolons of Walt the Kosmos exist as a sort of cosmic background radiation like the cold remnant glow of photon decoupling that suffuses the visible universe.

Copy and paste this in your hearts, poets:

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, reexamine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body. . . . . . . . The poet shall not spend his time in unneeded work. He shall know that the ground is always ready ploughed and manured . . . . others may not know it but he shall. He shall go directly to the creation. His trust shall master the trust of everything he touches . . . . and shall master all attachment.

RESIST OBEY WALT WHITMAN

A Poem for Memorial Day: Flower War

 

flower war collage mr blick twk

Collage by Mr. Blick

Flower War

Tlachinol xochitli
zan iyyo tonequimilol
yahoxochitl

Flowers of fire;
only they can be our garments:
Flowers of war.

Put down your weapons, soldiers.
The flowery god,
the plumed serpent

is gathering spring blossoms
in green meadows
and mountain gorges.

He is gathering fresh fire,
the little flowers
that bloom from spent shell casings.

Put down your death spitters,
ugly and depleted.
The god will give you weapons more beautiful

and honorable—Lances,
tipped not with the dark glitter of obsidian,
but with bright plumes.

Tlachinol xochitli
zan iyyo tonequimilol
yahoxochitl

Flowers of fire;
only they can be our garments:
Flowers of war.

Take off your helmets and armor.
The god will cloth you in fire,
flowers of fire, the bright rainment of flower war.

In the flower war,
you can be heroes,
you can be the champions.

The gods will be nourished,
the people will celebrate your sacrifice,
the glory in your capture.

you are the teotl ixiptla,
the divine images,
the flower warriors.

In flower war,
there is defeat with honor,
death will not sting, death will drink

for you are rich with octli,
the nectar and pollen
of divinity.

iwo jima flower war mr blick

Collage by Mr. Blick