Bibliographies I
Monday, November 15, 2004
4 July 2003
The widespread apathy concerning the passionate struggle for liberty is painted on America’s festive faces 227 years down the road. The initial concentration of revolutionary energy has become dilute having been spread so far and wide for such a long time. There is simply no way to perpetuate the ideal and ensure that education may promote the values of individual transcendence and innate distrust of government.
Just as the toys and materialistic consumerism have replaced the essential meaning of Christ’s birth in December, and the easter bunny has replaced the mystery of resurrection, so too has the waving of flags and the explosion of fireworks substituted for the thick concentrate which stand at the core of the American Revolution’s radical ideal liberty, individualism, religious freedom, absence of tyranny, as well as egalitarianism (there can be no egalitarianism where certain “executive” workers are compensated ten times and more than laborers).
Every “-ism” is a dilution of a human reality, purer and more profound. A mysterious phenomenon is a substantified with a general concept and a word, eg. “freedom,” “patriot” and so on, which stand for the original phenomenon and eventually take its place. This explains how children today celebrate the 4th of July not knowing, or comprehending the significance of the original mysterious events and phenomena which gave rise to the these traditions and concepts. Waving a flag comes to fulfill an original commitment to risking one’s own life and property in order to promote a reality which is embedded in the expression ‘liberty’.
At root, the fact of liberty has never been proven or demonstrated to exist, and requires an authentic act of faith in order to be a participant. To be ‘american’ means to participate in a type of civic religion with faith in these ideals as its proof.
St. Paul has written: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the grasp of things as yet unseen.” Democracy (there is no such thing as a “national” democracy---it is the common legacy of free humanity, the sole possessors of the truths of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness---solely given by a transcendent God) is the object of a specific type of faith. Democracy does not exist outside of such faith. ‘America’ exists in two aspects: one, as an object of faith, the authentic individual participation in democracy, and the other aspect is material, it is the land, the states, the government. It is only in the former sense that America can claim to be ‘democratic’, and in the latter sense is no better than any other government, great or small, plunged in greed, public confessional rituals, conformity and enormous, overwhelming pride.
A great man once said: “Democracy cannot be handed down from father to son like property---it must be earned by each succeeding generation.” The plastic waving flags on the 4th of July, the misuse of words like patriot stripped bare of original significance in The Patriot Act, or even worse, Patriot Missile, such nihilistic metaphor use hides the original meaning of blood spilled for a transcendent ideal. The word ‘education’ likewise has been emptied of its original significance, whose buildings and rituals distill the spirit of slavery, surveillance and suspicion upon youth whose ideals are not formed, while depriving them of the clean milk of democratic ideals such as Plato, Emerson, Franklin, Jefferson, Whitman and Bob Dylan and others all set against government tyranny and Statism, in which the faith in democracy in The United States is presently immured and inundated.
Just as the toys and materialistic consumerism have replaced the essential meaning of Christ’s birth in December, and the easter bunny has replaced the mystery of resurrection, so too has the waving of flags and the explosion of fireworks substituted for the thick concentrate which stand at the core of the American Revolution’s radical ideal liberty, individualism, religious freedom, absence of tyranny, as well as egalitarianism (there can be no egalitarianism where certain “executive” workers are compensated ten times and more than laborers).
Every “-ism” is a dilution of a human reality, purer and more profound. A mysterious phenomenon is a substantified with a general concept and a word, eg. “freedom,” “patriot” and so on, which stand for the original phenomenon and eventually take its place. This explains how children today celebrate the 4th of July not knowing, or comprehending the significance of the original mysterious events and phenomena which gave rise to the these traditions and concepts. Waving a flag comes to fulfill an original commitment to risking one’s own life and property in order to promote a reality which is embedded in the expression ‘liberty’.
At root, the fact of liberty has never been proven or demonstrated to exist, and requires an authentic act of faith in order to be a participant. To be ‘american’ means to participate in a type of civic religion with faith in these ideals as its proof.
St. Paul has written: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the grasp of things as yet unseen.” Democracy (there is no such thing as a “national” democracy---it is the common legacy of free humanity, the sole possessors of the truths of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness---solely given by a transcendent God) is the object of a specific type of faith. Democracy does not exist outside of such faith. ‘America’ exists in two aspects: one, as an object of faith, the authentic individual participation in democracy, and the other aspect is material, it is the land, the states, the government. It is only in the former sense that America can claim to be ‘democratic’, and in the latter sense is no better than any other government, great or small, plunged in greed, public confessional rituals, conformity and enormous, overwhelming pride.
A great man once said: “Democracy cannot be handed down from father to son like property---it must be earned by each succeeding generation.” The plastic waving flags on the 4th of July, the misuse of words like patriot stripped bare of original significance in The Patriot Act, or even worse, Patriot Missile, such nihilistic metaphor use hides the original meaning of blood spilled for a transcendent ideal. The word ‘education’ likewise has been emptied of its original significance, whose buildings and rituals distill the spirit of slavery, surveillance and suspicion upon youth whose ideals are not formed, while depriving them of the clean milk of democratic ideals such as Plato, Emerson, Franklin, Jefferson, Whitman and Bob Dylan and others all set against government tyranny and Statism, in which the faith in democracy in The United States is presently immured and inundated.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Final Poet
The final poet
Is a rocky pier
Who gurgles exclamations---
Bits of things
snatched back and judged by the growling surf.
Jagged edged plastics,
charred branches
broken shells,
an orange sponge
rhythmically slapped into hollows of rocks.
At a stone’s throw in the grip of a tossing wave
A salty tongue licks clean the rusted limbs
Of a shipwreck,
Whose emaciate wrist
clutches down into final grip
naming man’s last thing---
It is the word of the final poet.
The poet startles green life
And crablike---
sideway scurries
From its meaty feast.
The pier calls the step
Beyond comfort and things wrought by man
Beyond descriptive language
And concern for clarification,
Into final words
minerals smashed clean in the mist.
On salty air
he soars
Without concern
For what is left behind
She weeps over broken things
And promises and trusts;
There are no pillars to lean upon
Something in the wine
Rends her mind.
Betraying what is dear.
Silly chalice!
Foolish thirst!
“I cannot bridge every fall of water
and so face a full night of silence
from my tower.
Fickle constellations---
Fickle companions!”
Terrible beauty seizes his mind.
The rocky pier draws a line into the sea
And cradles the jagged pieces
Tossed by crushing surf.
The day has laid down its treasure.
She drifts away on memory,
On long drawn sketches and voices.
The horizon recedes before her confidences,
Scraps of paper litter the tawny field;
poems stripped bare in wild winds and
Sunny bright mornings
This poem, too, is a line drawn between what is tossed up in verbal game
And the crackling of all that is left behind.
Is a rocky pier
Who gurgles exclamations---
Bits of things
snatched back and judged by the growling surf.
Jagged edged plastics,
charred branches
broken shells,
an orange sponge
rhythmically slapped into hollows of rocks.
At a stone’s throw in the grip of a tossing wave
A salty tongue licks clean the rusted limbs
Of a shipwreck,
Whose emaciate wrist
clutches down into final grip
naming man’s last thing---
It is the word of the final poet.
The poet startles green life
And crablike---
sideway scurries
From its meaty feast.
The pier calls the step
Beyond comfort and things wrought by man
Beyond descriptive language
And concern for clarification,
Into final words
minerals smashed clean in the mist.
On salty air
he soars
Without concern
For what is left behind
She weeps over broken things
And promises and trusts;
There are no pillars to lean upon
Something in the wine
Rends her mind.
Betraying what is dear.
Silly chalice!
Foolish thirst!
“I cannot bridge every fall of water
and so face a full night of silence
from my tower.
Fickle constellations---
Fickle companions!”
Terrible beauty seizes his mind.
The rocky pier draws a line into the sea
And cradles the jagged pieces
Tossed by crushing surf.
The day has laid down its treasure.
She drifts away on memory,
On long drawn sketches and voices.
The horizon recedes before her confidences,
Scraps of paper litter the tawny field;
poems stripped bare in wild winds and
Sunny bright mornings
This poem, too, is a line drawn between what is tossed up in verbal game
And the crackling of all that is left behind.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Jesus Wept
It is reported how Jesus before calling to Lazarus: “Arise,”
wept.
And the time when to the centurion’s daughter struck with palsy he cried: “Little maiden, ARISE!”
Skies like tarnished silver butterflies
Weep tears like soft rain
On the Rolling Andes Hills.
To eyes which survey
The endless Dakota plain
Tears of purity
Tears of forgetting;
Rivers of tears.
Tears of hope
Tears of joy.
Tears of family and earth
Tears of friends
So many tears
Jesus wept.
Thunder poured upon the rooftop
I saw the tattered wing of night swoop low
Heard the devil’s diamond claw
Scraping in the stony burrow
Blood filled the furrow
up to the sky
Red and fiery and pink.
On the porch deck
Silver puddles of rain
Dazzle and dance.
Lake Randall rocks leaden and slow
Like a shimmering jewel
The rain shower glistens
The weeds and grasses.
High upon a meadow
I stepped into a pow-wow circle
And was Initiated within the sweat lodge.
On the scorched Indian land
drier than dry
healing rains began to fall,
but the earth doesn’t know why Jesus wept.
This poem is a trail of broken treaties
It is a fence---
A net in the salty sea of Galilee.
I wandered lonely on the streets of man
Where the proud and mighty
Made the low high
And the high low
Like tarnished silver
And broken promise
Howling sirens race into the night
On the streets where
Brown-eyed children with laughing
Eyes dance.
The beggar calls out for love,
And finds no reply
He cannot remember how Jesus wept.
When Jesus wept
Tears like soft rain
Drifted on the Rolling Andes Hills
On big skies where silver clouds
Roll on forever
Silver skies like tarnished butterflies
And clouds like the rolled bundles of sweet smelling alfalfa.
Postscript:
This morning rain showered the rooftop of this world/made glisten the weeds and grasses mada Lake Randall a shimmering jewel. Inn the scorched Indian earth hungry roots reach even deeper into the dry of dry… the earth doesn’t know why… Jesus wept.
And in the mighty forests the tallest oaks were fallen. Thunder roars/the valley shakes/ fires leap up into the sky. Silver clouds roll on forever, but the streams have lost their way.
wept.
And the time when to the centurion’s daughter struck with palsy he cried: “Little maiden, ARISE!”
Skies like tarnished silver butterflies
Weep tears like soft rain
On the Rolling Andes Hills.
To eyes which survey
The endless Dakota plain
Tears of purity
Tears of forgetting;
Rivers of tears.
Tears of hope
Tears of joy.
Tears of family and earth
Tears of friends
So many tears
Jesus wept.
Thunder poured upon the rooftop
I saw the tattered wing of night swoop low
Heard the devil’s diamond claw
Scraping in the stony burrow
Blood filled the furrow
up to the sky
Red and fiery and pink.
On the porch deck
Silver puddles of rain
Dazzle and dance.
Lake Randall rocks leaden and slow
Like a shimmering jewel
The rain shower glistens
The weeds and grasses.
High upon a meadow
I stepped into a pow-wow circle
And was Initiated within the sweat lodge.
On the scorched Indian land
drier than dry
healing rains began to fall,
but the earth doesn’t know why Jesus wept.
This poem is a trail of broken treaties
It is a fence---
A net in the salty sea of Galilee.
I wandered lonely on the streets of man
Where the proud and mighty
Made the low high
And the high low
Like tarnished silver
And broken promise
Howling sirens race into the night
On the streets where
Brown-eyed children with laughing
Eyes dance.
The beggar calls out for love,
And finds no reply
He cannot remember how Jesus wept.
When Jesus wept
Tears like soft rain
Drifted on the Rolling Andes Hills
On big skies where silver clouds
Roll on forever
Silver skies like tarnished butterflies
And clouds like the rolled bundles of sweet smelling alfalfa.
Postscript:
This morning rain showered the rooftop of this world/made glisten the weeds and grasses mada Lake Randall a shimmering jewel. Inn the scorched Indian earth hungry roots reach even deeper into the dry of dry… the earth doesn’t know why… Jesus wept.
And in the mighty forests the tallest oaks were fallen. Thunder roars/the valley shakes/ fires leap up into the sky. Silver clouds roll on forever, but the streams have lost their way.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Thursday, November 04, 2004
A Passion Play
A PASSION PLAY
Praeludium
Now the spring birds have flown
To the full maturity of Summer,
Tender leaves have grown
Like pale yellow shades
Under the service of a green god.
Wild Love’s impassioned draught
Brewed and bottled in Winter and Fall
Warms my breast in broiling mash
Poisoning my blood---
Carving curses
In my softer thought.
And from valve’d gush coursed
On artery, vein, and capillary
To the outermost
Like the great Oak’s sap crying for the sun.
The tree sings wondrous, leafy melody
In the dawn of a Summer day.
Therefore, like a swallow
My tender love has flown
Casting me down aching on my native soil.
Farflung from the intoxicating Provencal sun
Where the Mistral Wind consorts with seven sister winds
To seed souls in fury, color and music.
O, the long days I lament
Wandering the forests
In the Black Mountains’ chest,
Gathering wild berries
And pounds of sweet mushroom
For Winter’s store;
Pouncing on spikely chestnut coats to free the meaty captives.
With my love at my side
I gathered dreams along crystal streams,
Bathing in turquoise pools of dancing weeds.
Yet love fell too hard
And broke his fragile shell.
Act One
Passion is a cruel master
And of my innocence did sport and play
Served me most barbarously
Stealing sweet friendship away.
For friendship bears a noble ring
To glory the wearer’s hand
And blessed be those who never pawn it
To purchase Passion’s land.
The play of Passion is swift and subtle,
Hidden from all but the poet’s eye.
Like the dancing of a marionette
Forging its mechanical lie.
Up goes Passion’s cruel dark hand
And the arms of the lovers dance
Arousing to forage his maiden’s breast
And cast fair caution to chance.
“Victory! Victory!” cries the glowing touch,
“Give me time and I will increase the score,
to win the prize of her bed
and camp inside her door.”
Such is the scene in the singer’s vision
To charm his virgin away.
To all the world
What seems so tender
Is for Master Passion a wicked play.
Out of reach I hear him laughing, mocking and scorning---
Dousing young hearts afire,
Shouting that the lovers court and spark,
“Faster, harder, and higher!”
So it is that the lovers’ tryst
By the stream in the bright forest’s clearing
Becomes a ravenous feast
Of wild beasts
Stomping, munching and tearing.
Of flesh to flesh
And limb to limb
The appetite knows no sate
But to hurl herself over the cliff
Where no soul can bend, glue, or mend
Her broken creature frame.
“Alas, it is a pity,” whispers Passion in cool jest.
“For that’s the end of my game.
AH, but give me ‘til morning
To brew an ale that tastes the same.”
Passion’s Fortress
Such is the dominion of Passion’s play
To whom all lovers grant submission---
And mighty is the stronghold
That Passion’s fortress guards.
The old man’s fort is a merry place…
Come all of you who bid enter
Beware of the open gate
Where no one freely leave.
Regard the treasure keep:
Red ruby, mystic opal, diamonds glitter high and
Glimmer deep.
A small commission
For those who follow Passion’s way.
Smell the simmering stew,
Savoury seasoning in the kitchen
Of Passion’s chef.
Hear the minstrels pleasant song
Describing Passion’s conquests
In melody and rhyme!
Enjoy erotic courtesans
Who dance in Passion’s court
In swift and nimble time.
O, in all the world is there a better master?
Tell me dear friend,
With lifestyle like this,
Who would refrain to be a mere player
In this king’s court?
Surely, freedom is a little price to pay!
Come. Join the merry band!
Passion throws a lawn party
Requesting your presence
To meet all of his famous friends
In Summer soiree.
Come, take up a silver chalice
And offer to Lord Passion,
Savor the sweet bubbly libation.
“Strike up the music minstrels
our guests have reached their destination,”
Passion cries out in a merry voice:
“Let the festivities commence!”
While all the world satisfy themselves
In dance, and drink and play,
The poet roves ever on
To discover beneath the fray
A terrible sight.
I wondered from the fray of the lawn party
Drawn to the sound of a peeping cry
And stumbled upon
Passion’s captive chambers
Beneath the cellar wall.
Deep down in the fortress hidden behind iron gates
Quietly whimper the lovers’ souls
Whom Passion laid to waste.
I chanced to spy upon a most hideous sight..
Passion hooted and hollered, dressed up like a circus master
Demanding all forms of wanton cruelty
That spells out moral disaster.
Round and around he chased the slaves
And cracked them on their backs
And laughed grimacing until he cried
Or lost interest in this sport.
Then up passion went
To stroll about his estate
Puffed up like a peacock
Dancing before its mate.
Sly Lord,
He greets all of his new devotees in this way:
“All that you please, take,
The fruit, taste!
To enjoyment there is no end!”
I observed the old man
As a guest, same as any other,
Yet I must confess
I stole a look to activities undercover.
Deep down in the entrails of the fortress strong,
Dwells Passion’s son,
And he is the cause of no small grief
To his famous father.
The son of Passion must be hidden away
For he refuses to take part in his father’s play.
Gazing solemnly on the spectacle
Causing Passion’s conscience to smart and
Though five fresh virgins should dance in lace before him,
And lay down and declare: “Fair game.”
This young lord casts away his sorrowful gaze
Never leaving his righteous aim.
The reason in short, my friends,
If we cast our glance beyond the festive wall,
We chance to find Passion
In the lonely garden prowling,
Weeping, gnashing teeth and howling.
Passion’s Lament
“My game, O Lord,
Wearies my day,
For ever and ever it is the same.
The innocent fall too easily
At the whisper of my name.
They are like lemmings
Over the cliff’s edge
At the lonely piper’s piping.”
“Pshaw!” Passion spews,
“’Tis a knife with no edge to whittle!
Such weakling morons
When cup’s full of lust’s nutty mead
Are idling pawns
In a stalemate game.
This is dull seasoning
For my dreary hours.
Well any schoolgirl knows
‘tis combat to sharpen
the warring sabre,
and mine is dull
for the weaklings roll over like kittens.
Tension holds the great wall in place,
Yet no one dare challenge old Passion
To his face.
Fair game, without fair match,
Fairly disgusts me---“
So Passion spews and spits.
With a voice like a wounded wolf
He cries:
“O, Lord, I am loathe
to continue in passionate play---
grant me a reprieve
and I shall cease this very day
from terrorizing lovers
and to the hills retire
to rest a season in a cooler clime
and quell my flaming fire.”
“Passion retire?” mocked the Parrot’s wicked cry.
“Aye, Passion retire, indeed!”
leared the mad bird,
Passion’s only pal.
“Fare thee well
may all of your days be foul!”
Then the dark lord rose up and prowled
From lawn to terrace to salon
Taking secret leave
Of his passionate team
Dancing in the foggy evening cool.
Out the gate,
Gathering close a pilgrim’s pack,
And down the lane
Over shoulder glancing back
Did solemnly proclaim:
“Farewell the ivy hanging down the fortress wall
farewell my castle, farewell my all.
Farewell my treasure, farewell my play
Your lord takes a sorry leave
a-roving far away.
Inherit these walls---this false estate
You who dare
Scale the ivy and stone
If this be your dreaded fate.”
Then Passion began to wonder
Far and deep into the forest dark
Besieged by every obstacle along the way;
Hunger and sleepless nights,
Hideous beasts assailed him
As if on higher command
To test his fiber
And weary his trembling hand.
Nearly perished
For the rigors of the way
Famished and grieving
Laying down to offer up his mortal pay.
Here we find Master Passion
Fallen on the roadside,
Ragged, weak and weary
Please succor him who passes
This wanderer fallen dreary.
Who should up the cool path
But a merry pair a-picknicking
Swinging arms in the fresh new forest air.
A young singer
With his virgin fair
Merrily singing songs and dancing.
The wind of their youthful joy
Catches ear of the fallen lord
Hidden in the brush.
Courage rises in his heart
And his voice calls out in a rush:
Passion’s Plea
“Young lovers who wander freely
so far from the village
come and sport and play in the forest dark.
In secret, passionate kisses fall.”
“Whose voice creaks beneath brush and bramble?” cries the tender lad.
All at once, Master Passion resuscitated
As a flowing spring leaping
Shines in dazzling, colorful array.
The Lord in full costume
In sporting passion play!
The fair young maiden
Ventures out a curious, pale hand
Toward Passion’s multicolor cloak:
“Beautiful Lord,
so awesome in display
we have wandered a long day from the village
and seem to have lost the way.”
Passion laughs:
“Lost your way, indeed, fair girl,
with this eager singer at your side;
More likely you have abandoned the village square
For the sweet country air.
Is this the secret you hide?
No need to be coy with Master Musick
As I am known in the forest deep.
I can lead you to a lover’s bower
Safely in the wooded keep.
Fear not and I will lead you safely home.”
Master Passion spoke with laughter in his eyes.
Passion’s Invitation
“Come be guests in my hut this night
and tomorrow I will guide you merrily on your way.
Now the shadows lengthen/
evening’s singer ceases to sing.
Come follow me young wanderers,
Make my camp your home.”
We see the merry threesome
Into the deep thicket trampling into a clearing
Where a lover’s hut appears so cozy and soft.
Passion’s Welcoming Words
“Welcome my friends to this hut in the secret forest.
Everything is allowed,
Bar no desire from its goal;
Nobody of the village can spy on you now,
The fire is set by the bed of eider down.”
The two camp down
For a soft, calm night
When up rises a storm---
The night is terrible,
The young maiden is in terror:
“Where is the man who led us here and seems to have disappeared into the night?”
The musician is enraged by the fury of the storm,
He is inspired and glowing…
This fair girl clings to his breast and beseeches him to sing a song.
A calm descends, Passion prowls
Stopping to Gaze through the hut’s window.
Spying the young virgin in the singer’s arms,
He howls, laughs, mocks and cries in scorn:
Achieve your end my lad,
For swiftly rises the morn.”
The singer sings:
“Your eyes, your cheeks, your breast,”
he can restrain no more
his virgin’s cheeks are all aglow and call to him,
her eyes are dark like a summer pool and ask for him,
and her breast rises in the fire’s glow
in a feather pillow’d canyon.
“I am on fire,” he sings.
“And would sacrifice all and everything,
to enter your mellow womb.”
The Beloved’s Reply
“Come near then, my singer,
promise me all that you possess,
draw nigh up unto my canopy
and to my bosom press.”
Outside Passion is ranting, and choking
Alternating laughter with tears of joy
For never had sport been played
With more honest a pair.
The lover’s tenderly embrace
As Passion in the yard looks on,
When out of the forest wanders Old Wonder
On his nightly stroll.
Old Wonder’s Call
“Hey, who goes there, who rustles about in my forest hut?’ calls Wonder
as Passion cowers away.
“It is Passion,
that depraved and lonely soul,
my long lost brother,
who lost his nerve on his wedding day.
‘Tis a pity, for he never could consummate his union,
or engage in lover’s play.
Just look at him now!
He rants and raves
Driving you ng lovers over the top,
Holding fair virgins captive,
Planting desires they can never stop.
The young lad in madness
Promises his future away
And all for the whim of cruel passion
Whose fair wife ran away.”
Old Wonder drew up a forest nymph
And framed her in the shape of an owl,
And led her over to Passion’s side at the edge of the wood
Where he crawled,
She calls down sweetly from apine limb into Passion’s ear:
The maiden shall be your alone,
And you will lover her well,
You must cast off her lover at once!
Act fast in Passion’s fire,
Her flower has blossomed.”
Passion leaped to the threshold of the hut
Tearing open the oaken door
In one bounding pounce
Lands upon the singer’s shoulders.
Passion’s Rejection
“Away with you, my lad,
and to the forest dark be pressed away,
for I shall keep your maiden fair
until all the days have flown.”
Passion whispered to the lad:
Laddy, be not deceived,
She will be equally happy with either me or you,
Now that her heart is spoiled.
Better that you should fly
To a life of honor
Than for an evening of passion’s play
Squander all.
Go, be free, be away!”
Thus the singer found himself locked out of the hut
Gazing inward
While Passion won the day.
Until he could bear no longer
With fat tears
Teared away in confusion and haste,
Lost in the forest wild
Where old man Wonder
Gathers mushrooms
Beneath the light of the moon’s ceiling.
Old Wonder finds him there
Singing sad songs, sweetly weeping,
And offered him a forest meal to send
His spirit leaping.
Praeludium
Now the spring birds have flown
To the full maturity of Summer,
Tender leaves have grown
Like pale yellow shades
Under the service of a green god.
Wild Love’s impassioned draught
Brewed and bottled in Winter and Fall
Warms my breast in broiling mash
Poisoning my blood---
Carving curses
In my softer thought.
And from valve’d gush coursed
On artery, vein, and capillary
To the outermost
Like the great Oak’s sap crying for the sun.
The tree sings wondrous, leafy melody
In the dawn of a Summer day.
Therefore, like a swallow
My tender love has flown
Casting me down aching on my native soil.
Farflung from the intoxicating Provencal sun
Where the Mistral Wind consorts with seven sister winds
To seed souls in fury, color and music.
O, the long days I lament
Wandering the forests
In the Black Mountains’ chest,
Gathering wild berries
And pounds of sweet mushroom
For Winter’s store;
Pouncing on spikely chestnut coats to free the meaty captives.
With my love at my side
I gathered dreams along crystal streams,
Bathing in turquoise pools of dancing weeds.
Yet love fell too hard
And broke his fragile shell.
Act One
Passion is a cruel master
And of my innocence did sport and play
Served me most barbarously
Stealing sweet friendship away.
For friendship bears a noble ring
To glory the wearer’s hand
And blessed be those who never pawn it
To purchase Passion’s land.
The play of Passion is swift and subtle,
Hidden from all but the poet’s eye.
Like the dancing of a marionette
Forging its mechanical lie.
Up goes Passion’s cruel dark hand
And the arms of the lovers dance
Arousing to forage his maiden’s breast
And cast fair caution to chance.
“Victory! Victory!” cries the glowing touch,
“Give me time and I will increase the score,
to win the prize of her bed
and camp inside her door.”
Such is the scene in the singer’s vision
To charm his virgin away.
To all the world
What seems so tender
Is for Master Passion a wicked play.
Out of reach I hear him laughing, mocking and scorning---
Dousing young hearts afire,
Shouting that the lovers court and spark,
“Faster, harder, and higher!”
So it is that the lovers’ tryst
By the stream in the bright forest’s clearing
Becomes a ravenous feast
Of wild beasts
Stomping, munching and tearing.
Of flesh to flesh
And limb to limb
The appetite knows no sate
But to hurl herself over the cliff
Where no soul can bend, glue, or mend
Her broken creature frame.
“Alas, it is a pity,” whispers Passion in cool jest.
“For that’s the end of my game.
AH, but give me ‘til morning
To brew an ale that tastes the same.”
Passion’s Fortress
Such is the dominion of Passion’s play
To whom all lovers grant submission---
And mighty is the stronghold
That Passion’s fortress guards.
The old man’s fort is a merry place…
Come all of you who bid enter
Beware of the open gate
Where no one freely leave.
Regard the treasure keep:
Red ruby, mystic opal, diamonds glitter high and
Glimmer deep.
A small commission
For those who follow Passion’s way.
Smell the simmering stew,
Savoury seasoning in the kitchen
Of Passion’s chef.
Hear the minstrels pleasant song
Describing Passion’s conquests
In melody and rhyme!
Enjoy erotic courtesans
Who dance in Passion’s court
In swift and nimble time.
O, in all the world is there a better master?
Tell me dear friend,
With lifestyle like this,
Who would refrain to be a mere player
In this king’s court?
Surely, freedom is a little price to pay!
Come. Join the merry band!
Passion throws a lawn party
Requesting your presence
To meet all of his famous friends
In Summer soiree.
Come, take up a silver chalice
And offer to Lord Passion,
Savor the sweet bubbly libation.
“Strike up the music minstrels
our guests have reached their destination,”
Passion cries out in a merry voice:
“Let the festivities commence!”
While all the world satisfy themselves
In dance, and drink and play,
The poet roves ever on
To discover beneath the fray
A terrible sight.
I wondered from the fray of the lawn party
Drawn to the sound of a peeping cry
And stumbled upon
Passion’s captive chambers
Beneath the cellar wall.
Deep down in the fortress hidden behind iron gates
Quietly whimper the lovers’ souls
Whom Passion laid to waste.
I chanced to spy upon a most hideous sight..
Passion hooted and hollered, dressed up like a circus master
Demanding all forms of wanton cruelty
That spells out moral disaster.
Round and around he chased the slaves
And cracked them on their backs
And laughed grimacing until he cried
Or lost interest in this sport.
Then up passion went
To stroll about his estate
Puffed up like a peacock
Dancing before its mate.
Sly Lord,
He greets all of his new devotees in this way:
“All that you please, take,
The fruit, taste!
To enjoyment there is no end!”
I observed the old man
As a guest, same as any other,
Yet I must confess
I stole a look to activities undercover.
Deep down in the entrails of the fortress strong,
Dwells Passion’s son,
And he is the cause of no small grief
To his famous father.
The son of Passion must be hidden away
For he refuses to take part in his father’s play.
Gazing solemnly on the spectacle
Causing Passion’s conscience to smart and
Though five fresh virgins should dance in lace before him,
And lay down and declare: “Fair game.”
This young lord casts away his sorrowful gaze
Never leaving his righteous aim.
The reason in short, my friends,
If we cast our glance beyond the festive wall,
We chance to find Passion
In the lonely garden prowling,
Weeping, gnashing teeth and howling.
Passion’s Lament
“My game, O Lord,
Wearies my day,
For ever and ever it is the same.
The innocent fall too easily
At the whisper of my name.
They are like lemmings
Over the cliff’s edge
At the lonely piper’s piping.”
“Pshaw!” Passion spews,
“’Tis a knife with no edge to whittle!
Such weakling morons
When cup’s full of lust’s nutty mead
Are idling pawns
In a stalemate game.
This is dull seasoning
For my dreary hours.
Well any schoolgirl knows
‘tis combat to sharpen
the warring sabre,
and mine is dull
for the weaklings roll over like kittens.
Tension holds the great wall in place,
Yet no one dare challenge old Passion
To his face.
Fair game, without fair match,
Fairly disgusts me---“
So Passion spews and spits.
With a voice like a wounded wolf
He cries:
“O, Lord, I am loathe
to continue in passionate play---
grant me a reprieve
and I shall cease this very day
from terrorizing lovers
and to the hills retire
to rest a season in a cooler clime
and quell my flaming fire.”
“Passion retire?” mocked the Parrot’s wicked cry.
“Aye, Passion retire, indeed!”
leared the mad bird,
Passion’s only pal.
“Fare thee well
may all of your days be foul!”
Then the dark lord rose up and prowled
From lawn to terrace to salon
Taking secret leave
Of his passionate team
Dancing in the foggy evening cool.
Out the gate,
Gathering close a pilgrim’s pack,
And down the lane
Over shoulder glancing back
Did solemnly proclaim:
“Farewell the ivy hanging down the fortress wall
farewell my castle, farewell my all.
Farewell my treasure, farewell my play
Your lord takes a sorry leave
a-roving far away.
Inherit these walls---this false estate
You who dare
Scale the ivy and stone
If this be your dreaded fate.”
Then Passion began to wonder
Far and deep into the forest dark
Besieged by every obstacle along the way;
Hunger and sleepless nights,
Hideous beasts assailed him
As if on higher command
To test his fiber
And weary his trembling hand.
Nearly perished
For the rigors of the way
Famished and grieving
Laying down to offer up his mortal pay.
Here we find Master Passion
Fallen on the roadside,
Ragged, weak and weary
Please succor him who passes
This wanderer fallen dreary.
Who should up the cool path
But a merry pair a-picknicking
Swinging arms in the fresh new forest air.
A young singer
With his virgin fair
Merrily singing songs and dancing.
The wind of their youthful joy
Catches ear of the fallen lord
Hidden in the brush.
Courage rises in his heart
And his voice calls out in a rush:
Passion’s Plea
“Young lovers who wander freely
so far from the village
come and sport and play in the forest dark.
In secret, passionate kisses fall.”
“Whose voice creaks beneath brush and bramble?” cries the tender lad.
All at once, Master Passion resuscitated
As a flowing spring leaping
Shines in dazzling, colorful array.
The Lord in full costume
In sporting passion play!
The fair young maiden
Ventures out a curious, pale hand
Toward Passion’s multicolor cloak:
“Beautiful Lord,
so awesome in display
we have wandered a long day from the village
and seem to have lost the way.”
Passion laughs:
“Lost your way, indeed, fair girl,
with this eager singer at your side;
More likely you have abandoned the village square
For the sweet country air.
Is this the secret you hide?
No need to be coy with Master Musick
As I am known in the forest deep.
I can lead you to a lover’s bower
Safely in the wooded keep.
Fear not and I will lead you safely home.”
Master Passion spoke with laughter in his eyes.
Passion’s Invitation
“Come be guests in my hut this night
and tomorrow I will guide you merrily on your way.
Now the shadows lengthen/
evening’s singer ceases to sing.
Come follow me young wanderers,
Make my camp your home.”
We see the merry threesome
Into the deep thicket trampling into a clearing
Where a lover’s hut appears so cozy and soft.
Passion’s Welcoming Words
“Welcome my friends to this hut in the secret forest.
Everything is allowed,
Bar no desire from its goal;
Nobody of the village can spy on you now,
The fire is set by the bed of eider down.”
The two camp down
For a soft, calm night
When up rises a storm---
The night is terrible,
The young maiden is in terror:
“Where is the man who led us here and seems to have disappeared into the night?”
The musician is enraged by the fury of the storm,
He is inspired and glowing…
This fair girl clings to his breast and beseeches him to sing a song.
A calm descends, Passion prowls
Stopping to Gaze through the hut’s window.
Spying the young virgin in the singer’s arms,
He howls, laughs, mocks and cries in scorn:
Achieve your end my lad,
For swiftly rises the morn.”
The singer sings:
“Your eyes, your cheeks, your breast,”
he can restrain no more
his virgin’s cheeks are all aglow and call to him,
her eyes are dark like a summer pool and ask for him,
and her breast rises in the fire’s glow
in a feather pillow’d canyon.
“I am on fire,” he sings.
“And would sacrifice all and everything,
to enter your mellow womb.”
The Beloved’s Reply
“Come near then, my singer,
promise me all that you possess,
draw nigh up unto my canopy
and to my bosom press.”
Outside Passion is ranting, and choking
Alternating laughter with tears of joy
For never had sport been played
With more honest a pair.
The lover’s tenderly embrace
As Passion in the yard looks on,
When out of the forest wanders Old Wonder
On his nightly stroll.
Old Wonder’s Call
“Hey, who goes there, who rustles about in my forest hut?’ calls Wonder
as Passion cowers away.
“It is Passion,
that depraved and lonely soul,
my long lost brother,
who lost his nerve on his wedding day.
‘Tis a pity, for he never could consummate his union,
or engage in lover’s play.
Just look at him now!
He rants and raves
Driving you ng lovers over the top,
Holding fair virgins captive,
Planting desires they can never stop.
The young lad in madness
Promises his future away
And all for the whim of cruel passion
Whose fair wife ran away.”
Old Wonder drew up a forest nymph
And framed her in the shape of an owl,
And led her over to Passion’s side at the edge of the wood
Where he crawled,
She calls down sweetly from apine limb into Passion’s ear:
The maiden shall be your alone,
And you will lover her well,
You must cast off her lover at once!
Act fast in Passion’s fire,
Her flower has blossomed.”
Passion leaped to the threshold of the hut
Tearing open the oaken door
In one bounding pounce
Lands upon the singer’s shoulders.
Passion’s Rejection
“Away with you, my lad,
and to the forest dark be pressed away,
for I shall keep your maiden fair
until all the days have flown.”
Passion whispered to the lad:
Laddy, be not deceived,
She will be equally happy with either me or you,
Now that her heart is spoiled.
Better that you should fly
To a life of honor
Than for an evening of passion’s play
Squander all.
Go, be free, be away!”
Thus the singer found himself locked out of the hut
Gazing inward
While Passion won the day.
Until he could bear no longer
With fat tears
Teared away in confusion and haste,
Lost in the forest wild
Where old man Wonder
Gathers mushrooms
Beneath the light of the moon’s ceiling.
Old Wonder finds him there
Singing sad songs, sweetly weeping,
And offered him a forest meal to send
His spirit leaping.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Tribute to Bob Dylan
Dylan Tribute
North Country in the Summer
Fisherman’s paradise
White pines and birches
Ah-Gwah-Ching
Ah-Gwah-Ching State Health Care Facility.
World of Christmas Store
And a Motel 6, beyond that the flickering sun.
What holds this country together makes me wonder…
To hear dialects from a distance
Foreign languages the twang.
Especially in the North Country.
To stand up for each other and take care of each other---
That, in the end is what it comes down to..
Is what Kent meant when he said: “That’s what unity…if there is any unity in this Nation, it’s of this unity that I speak.
169, Rt. 169
north in the North Country
from Hill river up to Grand Rapids, Minnesota
we’re going to Hibbing today
‘ve got the incense burning
I’ve got the radio going.
To distinguish a poet from his birthplace
The motherfed, breastfed images of beauty
Which the poet hammers out in the cities,
Out on the highways,
Hammer down the coasts, into the oceans and across the plains.
Though he had been to Europe and far away lands
Undimmed, his inward view feeds yet upon the maternal images of his youth.
The streams his buddies played in,
The visions he beheld in his innocent and unscathed mind.
Before glamour,
Before fame…
In whose early musical influences
The youthful poet hears on the radio and in jam sessions at Charlie’s Tavern.
Cutting across all of the boundaries
He speaks to the city intellectuals
And his political critiques in the idiot wind.
Speaking to the disenfranchised and the atheists
Who demand a purer, truer, more just government.
Not finding, unable to connect, stranded
We rebel.
Dylan integrates these disparate worlds,
these voices forgotten
Not only the living dead,
But ghosts of electricity.
He speaks to the average Joe in nature poetry,
“If Tomorrow Wasn’t Such a Long Time,”
and sings “Lay, Lady Lay,” in hypnotic trance.
Romance, his love songs: “If Not For You,” “You’re Going to make ME Lonesome When You Go.”
Simple things: every man and woman, trees, grass and sky.
For folk historians his interpretation of Woody Guthrie songs,
“The Grand Coolie Dam.”
“Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie,” one of the greatest oral poems recorded in American history.
Seeking the essential poetic tribute
Looking at the cattails, and the butterflies and the manifold ways
The sun illumines the little birch, fluttering its leaves
And the shadows hanging from the overhanging oak leaves
Falling over onto the highway.
A poet is a unifying voice
Giving voice to an unspoken unity behind the everyday
Even when that unity is hidden, obscured, locked away, denies, questioned,
Thrown in full doubt,
The poet speaks from the heart of the land giving full voice to the word of a nation.
In the voice of the poet we hear all of the dialects, all of the American twang,
The patterns of locutions and crazy speech we call American English.
The gifts the poet brings
Language itself is poetry
But it requires that the poet come forth and shine light
On this language
When the first time you listen and hear, the ear of poetry is born.
Poetry is not something that the poet possesses,
The poet is possessed by poetry
It is not something the people possess,
People are possessed by their language.
Swimming in it
Moving about
Buzzing along
Everything seeping through the radio
All along the ridge to Hibbing
The wayside rests you love so much.
Lakes
Lights
Blue Signs
Trucks
What a day!
Dandelion petals flutter on the breeze
In the heat of summertime
Ice in the cooler.
Like in a Dylan tune: ice when it’s hot and you want to quench your thirst/
Just lift up your glass, and knock back some beverage, iced tea, whatever concoction
May be there in a tribute toast in honor of the great poet
Who deserves all honor
Because he was not afraid to spend it all for the world stage.
He spent it all:
Wife, family, health.
But he is still out there with whomever on the Neverending Tour.
Grand Rapids, The Golden arches, Target,
Every American worth their dalt should make the pilgrimage out to Hibbing.
There’s a Wal-Mart on Pokegama Avenue!
Across the Prairie River, the first signs of Hibbing
University of Minnesota of there in the distance
Smartly bobbed blonde in her little red Skylark
Makes the turn.
When the people stop honoring the poets the nation will fall.
The poets are america’s last hope.
The muchness of it all:
It is all so American---
Wall to wall products, signs, roadstops, radio,
Wild cherry Pepsi ™,
M&M’s™, magazines.
Everything, everywhere.
Whoever would try to stop my pilgrimage speak now.
The pilgrimage: it’s not what you think you know, what you think you’re going to find out, what you think you are going to ask, what you think you will answer.
It is opening up yourself to the revelation of the truth,
Of the moment right now.
This road, this song, this man, this voice.
I am wearing a smile on my face today!
Minnesota,
Every town I pull into feels like the heart of America.
What is America?
Is America in the land?
Is it in the people?
There’s the mighty Northern Burlington.
Rusted red, car after car, tugging through the grey marble.
Each car capped to the brim with wet shale
From the red mining hills, Gill Annex Mine.
“This here is hard working poet’s country,
see the red, barren slopes, the odd scrub tree up top.”
Big trucks whir by
Loads of timber,
Mines steam and wail.
Snowball Lake, a little rest in Dragonfly Summer.
Nashwauk!
“We’ve got a hell of a good time goin’
toastin’ up the air condition a bit,
just cruising out to Hibbing, and
the number one focus is Mr. Dylan, or rather Dr. Dylan.
The Native American is prevalent in this northern country.
The advert jargon, city talk and all that Mickey Mouse.
It gets all heaped up and we call it the American dialect.
And we’re proud of it!…
North Country in the Summer
Fisherman’s paradise
White pines and birches
Ah-Gwah-Ching
Ah-Gwah-Ching State Health Care Facility.
World of Christmas Store
And a Motel 6, beyond that the flickering sun.
What holds this country together makes me wonder…
To hear dialects from a distance
Foreign languages the twang.
Especially in the North Country.
To stand up for each other and take care of each other---
That, in the end is what it comes down to..
Is what Kent meant when he said: “That’s what unity…if there is any unity in this Nation, it’s of this unity that I speak.
169, Rt. 169
north in the North Country
from Hill river up to Grand Rapids, Minnesota
we’re going to Hibbing today
‘ve got the incense burning
I’ve got the radio going.
To distinguish a poet from his birthplace
The motherfed, breastfed images of beauty
Which the poet hammers out in the cities,
Out on the highways,
Hammer down the coasts, into the oceans and across the plains.
Though he had been to Europe and far away lands
Undimmed, his inward view feeds yet upon the maternal images of his youth.
The streams his buddies played in,
The visions he beheld in his innocent and unscathed mind.
Before glamour,
Before fame…
In whose early musical influences
The youthful poet hears on the radio and in jam sessions at Charlie’s Tavern.
Cutting across all of the boundaries
He speaks to the city intellectuals
And his political critiques in the idiot wind.
Speaking to the disenfranchised and the atheists
Who demand a purer, truer, more just government.
Not finding, unable to connect, stranded
We rebel.
Dylan integrates these disparate worlds,
these voices forgotten
Not only the living dead,
But ghosts of electricity.
He speaks to the average Joe in nature poetry,
“If Tomorrow Wasn’t Such a Long Time,”
and sings “Lay, Lady Lay,” in hypnotic trance.
Romance, his love songs: “If Not For You,” “You’re Going to make ME Lonesome When You Go.”
Simple things: every man and woman, trees, grass and sky.
For folk historians his interpretation of Woody Guthrie songs,
“The Grand Coolie Dam.”
“Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie,” one of the greatest oral poems recorded in American history.
Seeking the essential poetic tribute
Looking at the cattails, and the butterflies and the manifold ways
The sun illumines the little birch, fluttering its leaves
And the shadows hanging from the overhanging oak leaves
Falling over onto the highway.
A poet is a unifying voice
Giving voice to an unspoken unity behind the everyday
Even when that unity is hidden, obscured, locked away, denies, questioned,
Thrown in full doubt,
The poet speaks from the heart of the land giving full voice to the word of a nation.
In the voice of the poet we hear all of the dialects, all of the American twang,
The patterns of locutions and crazy speech we call American English.
The gifts the poet brings
Language itself is poetry
But it requires that the poet come forth and shine light
On this language
When the first time you listen and hear, the ear of poetry is born.
Poetry is not something that the poet possesses,
The poet is possessed by poetry
It is not something the people possess,
People are possessed by their language.
Swimming in it
Moving about
Buzzing along
Everything seeping through the radio
All along the ridge to Hibbing
The wayside rests you love so much.
Lakes
Lights
Blue Signs
Trucks
What a day!
Dandelion petals flutter on the breeze
In the heat of summertime
Ice in the cooler.
Like in a Dylan tune: ice when it’s hot and you want to quench your thirst/
Just lift up your glass, and knock back some beverage, iced tea, whatever concoction
May be there in a tribute toast in honor of the great poet
Who deserves all honor
Because he was not afraid to spend it all for the world stage.
He spent it all:
Wife, family, health.
But he is still out there with whomever on the Neverending Tour.
Grand Rapids, The Golden arches, Target,
Every American worth their dalt should make the pilgrimage out to Hibbing.
There’s a Wal-Mart on Pokegama Avenue!
Across the Prairie River, the first signs of Hibbing
University of Minnesota of there in the distance
Smartly bobbed blonde in her little red Skylark
Makes the turn.
When the people stop honoring the poets the nation will fall.
The poets are america’s last hope.
The muchness of it all:
It is all so American---
Wall to wall products, signs, roadstops, radio,
Wild cherry Pepsi ™,
M&M’s™, magazines.
Everything, everywhere.
Whoever would try to stop my pilgrimage speak now.
The pilgrimage: it’s not what you think you know, what you think you’re going to find out, what you think you are going to ask, what you think you will answer.
It is opening up yourself to the revelation of the truth,
Of the moment right now.
This road, this song, this man, this voice.
I am wearing a smile on my face today!
Minnesota,
Every town I pull into feels like the heart of America.
What is America?
Is America in the land?
Is it in the people?
There’s the mighty Northern Burlington.
Rusted red, car after car, tugging through the grey marble.
Each car capped to the brim with wet shale
From the red mining hills, Gill Annex Mine.
“This here is hard working poet’s country,
see the red, barren slopes, the odd scrub tree up top.”
Big trucks whir by
Loads of timber,
Mines steam and wail.
Snowball Lake, a little rest in Dragonfly Summer.
Nashwauk!
“We’ve got a hell of a good time goin’
toastin’ up the air condition a bit,
just cruising out to Hibbing, and
the number one focus is Mr. Dylan, or rather Dr. Dylan.
The Native American is prevalent in this northern country.
The advert jargon, city talk and all that Mickey Mouse.
It gets all heaped up and we call it the American dialect.
And we’re proud of it!…
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Sunday, August 29, 2004
You Don't Owe Me Anything
I look at the telephone and hope that you will ring
In the morning I wonder where you are
But I find other things to do.
Things are going pretty well for me
I don’t expect anything from you.
Birdsongs sound less sweet now
And the cold rain drives harder against my coat
But I make my way home and
You don’t owe me anything.
The coffee tastes less sweet when I am alone;
And I keep my thoughts mainly to myself---
Still the day goes from morning until evening
And after all you don’t owe me anything.
To sleep is more difficult and the night less quiet;
The world still spins but some of its magic is gone
But I am not unhappy.
And you don’t owe me anything.
You don’t owe me anything
Though there are times I wish
I could call out to you or reach for your hand
There are so many more things I would like to show you,
But I don’t expect anything from you.
There are days when I cannot stop thinking of you;
The hills look so dark, and the road is ragged
But I am making my way alone.
Perhaps life is less vivid
And the music not as easy to bear
My memory too easily fills with you
But I am growing stronger day by day
And you don’t owe me anything.
I truly wonder how things are going for you,
Give me a call if you ever get the time,
I would be happy just to hear your voice.
But you don’t owe me anything.
(After Steven Eicher’s ‘Tu m'as doit Rien’)
In the morning I wonder where you are
But I find other things to do.
Things are going pretty well for me
I don’t expect anything from you.
Birdsongs sound less sweet now
And the cold rain drives harder against my coat
But I make my way home and
You don’t owe me anything.
The coffee tastes less sweet when I am alone;
And I keep my thoughts mainly to myself---
Still the day goes from morning until evening
And after all you don’t owe me anything.
To sleep is more difficult and the night less quiet;
The world still spins but some of its magic is gone
But I am not unhappy.
And you don’t owe me anything.
You don’t owe me anything
Though there are times I wish
I could call out to you or reach for your hand
There are so many more things I would like to show you,
But I don’t expect anything from you.
There are days when I cannot stop thinking of you;
The hills look so dark, and the road is ragged
But I am making my way alone.
Perhaps life is less vivid
And the music not as easy to bear
My memory too easily fills with you
But I am growing stronger day by day
And you don’t owe me anything.
I truly wonder how things are going for you,
Give me a call if you ever get the time,
I would be happy just to hear your voice.
But you don’t owe me anything.
(After Steven Eicher’s ‘Tu m'as doit Rien’)
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