Archives for posts with tag: poetry

postmodernlogo_pmd1

Still Genesis 4: 1- 25

Cain Destabled

“Nod” — a tuneless song (thanks, JC)

Well, you wonder why I’m marked and walk this way,
Why I never work a job more than a day,
And why my laughter sounds like someone else’s moan
Well, there’s a history to the scars that I have borne.

I wear my marks for the poor and beaten down,
Living in the hopeless, hungry victims’ side of town,
I have them for the prisoner who misunderstood her crime,
But stays because she’s a consort of her times.

I wear the mark for those who never read,
Or listened to the words the Maker said,
But I heard the words he spoke with love and charity,
Back then, you know, He was talking straight to me!

And I’m doing what I can in tattered clothes,
As I walk on rocks and feel them in my toes
Though I’m haunted by the wicked sound of skull bone being cracked
Every time a person shouts at me “Get back!”

I wonder if my questions will get old,
Unworthy me or a universe so cold?
I wander Nod just fixed on what there might have been
If a judgment never came to Mom or two young men.

So, I wander for the women who have died,
Believing that the Lord was on their side,
I wander for another hundred thousand castes who cry,
Never told or knowing why they’re cast aside.

But words won’t make things right, that much I know,
Like Mother’s ambushed innocence or Abel brought so low,
And not until I justify what is wrong and what is right
Will I ever see my shadow as my light.

Oh, I’d love to sing a rainbow every day,
And know that there’s a fairness to the game that’s being played,
‘Til then I’ll wander solo, scarred image on the sand,
‘Til God’s a little fairer, I’m the bitter, angry man.

Advertisements

I fly from the window where the rain should start soon.

Below, old men begin slow retreats, hooks boxed, rods

dismantled, yesterday’s papers wet wrapping new fish.

I am the black pelican wheeling through almost night sky,

knowing hunger, skimming the shore for shallow fish.

The ocean wants to break the pier to pieces;

that disappointed bridge trembles with the pounding.

The sun may as well be an abandoned lover for all

the warmth it sheds. This dreary globe is enveloped

in gray light though thunder muscles

ripple bright lightning claps.

Savoring the salt wind, waves and white caps,

Seeing me upright, flying,

The black pelican pivots unhurried,

dissolves into the east’s broiling darkness,

leaving me at the window

slumming the windy stygian strand.

postmodernlogo_pmd1

Relieve the branch of its leaves

or the leaves of their veins or the veins of their sap

to know the essence of the plant;

what remains is shambles, data,

and what learned is the nothingness of systems.

Yet, gently shake the bush in passing

vibrating its leaves and stems,

to sense its strength, its immediacy,

and respect its weakness,

while the plant, suffering one human weaknesses

— that of cloying curiosity —

endures our strengths and constraints.

In essence, we meet,

sharing the sun.

This, too, is an essential path of learning.

postmodernlogo_pmd1

Good morning heartache/ Where did you sleep last night?/ Hello, walls/ It’s a beautiful day/ But I’m only happy when it rains/ They say/ All you need is/ A whole lotta love/ Sugar three times a day/ That spoonful,/ Not necessarily stoned/ Beneath the Milky Way/ But something in the air at night/ I am just a poor boy/ And I don’t know why I love you like I do

postmodernlogo_pmd1

‘Tis not from the sky that we hide

when frowning clouds flagellate the leaves of grass

with liquid beads,

but from ourselves,  from our ignorance.

Who of us is sound enough to face

the knowledge that we are no better dry

than wet, no worse wet than dry?

It is a notion too pure to compass,

too true to absorb,

too real like light.

Better that we cringe in desperate shelters and shiver

with fear of fever.

Image

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted/  The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven/out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry/ Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. /Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind/ A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. / You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you/ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact./ All of us get lost in the darkness, dreamers learn to steer by the stars/ Don’t ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to/ Even the genius asks questions/ Always be a poet, even in prose/ I’ve been born to represent, for that I’ve been heaven sent And I meant, every word/ The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth / A person would have to change himself in order to be a living example of what he’s singing about/ And though I should beware, still I just don’t care

Image

It was a creature worth studying/  I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels./ They could never understand, What u set out 2 do, Instead they chose 2 Ridicule u/Poetry is the art of surprising yourself with your own words/ / I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. / The truth is rarely pure and never simple. /Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance. / Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespeare and Milton and The Bible; and don’t sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon. / There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the acquirement of any art. / Every man’s work, whether it be literature or music or pictures or architecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself / If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence./ Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible. / . . . these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang. ./ She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion–there warn’t no back-down to her…