Sunday, December 15, 2013
We awake with blank slate of verse hoping for creativity to blanket me like today's first snow flakes to dawn anonymously.
Snow storms create patterns on our geography and history's variations,expecting ideas like small footprints of a cat in a Sherlock Holmes novel to guide us to a path of a body and soul's discovery.
Some write for themselves,to alleviate their state of mind, imagination, vocation, station in life, for their generation, prosperity, posterity or divinity.
Snow storms create patterns on our geography and history's variations,expecting ideas like small footprints of a cat in a Sherlock Holmes novel to guide us to a path of a body and soul's discovery.
Some write for themselves,to alleviate their state of mind, imagination, vocation, station in life, for their generation, prosperity, posterity or divinity.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
LES TEMPS MODERNES
Beyond sunny Hanging Gardens
One pardon for the world
while in eternal cities men argue:
Hail Caesar in Palestina,
with legions by the Palatine,
while near a Roman canal
and dying ruins
a poet visits the gods
of Prosperpine, Babylon and the Jew.
The harlot out of Tiber
walks arrayed
in scarlet cloth
while behind her
history flays armies
of the Huns and Visigoths.
A Victrola plays
"Heart to Heart"
the stage is set
for Sarah Bernhardt,
and King Victor reads Savanrola,
royalty mourns its days
without the high priest's roll
the crowned fish heads
like the Baptist in Fiesole.
High culture
packs its bags
in a dozen words
Joyce pens " The Portrait" in Trieste
Eliot pontificates after Browning
on the damned
among Pound's rags.
The guest card names
are now gone
Conrad, Ford and James
lost to friends
of discursive English
from the Holy War of words
eaten slowly in the dish.
And the wine
which communion takes
is consumed
in one critic's earthquake
modernity dies alone
(like modesty)
all art is fake.
Aesthetes wash
none of each other's feet
they have met to quarrel
on the Montparnasse
crowning no laurel
with absinthe in the spas.
The son of man
is kissed twice
on the high brow
through Blakean night
in the dice of his robes
gambled in the available night.
On alabaster chairs
the slaves whisper
they will be master
while in Florence
the talk is of D.H or T.E.
along the roads
a dusty, less noble poverty.
A time without a room
for Babbit and Hulme
who with stick and carrot
await the modern sublime
while Wyndham
proclaims the " New Age"
Yeats relapses
in Blavatsky's tarot
and Auden turns another page.
No one hears
the jazz piano sounds
except loudly in the Savoy
Quarter and Underground
while under Saturn
the poets demand Dante
a return to Latin.
Lenin fools the Utopian
and futurism the Italian
Hitler and Stalin
on mass political platforms
now madly Aesopian,
in the same uniforms
all false hopes
through Spain,Munich
and the Ethiopian.
Children in Rotterdam
along the Kurfurstesdamn
in Amsterdam 8
crucified on a string
along the city proper
the furnaces of affliction
by the Palatinate
the blood of snows
turns to spring.
Hail creator so great
as forced the king
in rain god thunder
to abdicate,
the blood of Abel
cries out on Pilate
Narcissus pisses in the Rhine
cold and frozen
by a mirror stains
a chosen poet shivers
in the Orwellian remains.
Beyond sunny Hanging Gardens
One pardon for the world
while in eternal cities men argue:
Hail Caesar in Palestina,
with legions by the Palatine,
while near a Roman canal
and dying ruins
a poet visits the gods
of Prosperpine, Babylon and the Jew.
The harlot out of Tiber
walks arrayed
in scarlet cloth
while behind her
history flays armies
of the Huns and Visigoths.
A Victrola plays
"Heart to Heart"
the stage is set
for Sarah Bernhardt,
and King Victor reads Savanrola,
royalty mourns its days
without the high priest's roll
the crowned fish heads
like the Baptist in Fiesole.
High culture
packs its bags
in a dozen words
Joyce pens " The Portrait" in Trieste
Eliot pontificates after Browning
on the damned
among Pound's rags.
The guest card names
are now gone
Conrad, Ford and James
lost to friends
of discursive English
from the Holy War of words
eaten slowly in the dish.
And the wine
which communion takes
is consumed
in one critic's earthquake
modernity dies alone
(like modesty)
all art is fake.
Aesthetes wash
none of each other's feet
they have met to quarrel
on the Montparnasse
crowning no laurel
with absinthe in the spas.
The son of man
is kissed twice
on the high brow
through Blakean night
in the dice of his robes
gambled in the available night.
On alabaster chairs
the slaves whisper
they will be master
while in Florence
the talk is of D.H or T.E.
along the roads
a dusty, less noble poverty.
A time without a room
for Babbit and Hulme
who with stick and carrot
await the modern sublime
while Wyndham
proclaims the " New Age"
Yeats relapses
in Blavatsky's tarot
and Auden turns another page.
No one hears
the jazz piano sounds
except loudly in the Savoy
Quarter and Underground
while under Saturn
the poets demand Dante
a return to Latin.
Lenin fools the Utopian
and futurism the Italian
Hitler and Stalin
on mass political platforms
now madly Aesopian,
in the same uniforms
all false hopes
through Spain,Munich
and the Ethiopian.
Children in Rotterdam
along the Kurfurstesdamn
in Amsterdam 8
crucified on a string
along the city proper
the furnaces of affliction
by the Palatinate
the blood of snows
turns to spring.
Hail creator so great
as forced the king
in rain god thunder
to abdicate,
the blood of Abel
cries out on Pilate
Narcissus pisses in the Rhine
cold and frozen
by a mirror stains
a chosen poet shivers
in the Orwellian remains.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Romanticism changes you as a person and a poet each day of its medium with its references to an aesthetic language which recharges your life using your own dynamic surrealistic phonetic powers for a visionary outlook.
When a reader responds to my avant-garde poetry, fiction or plays with any serious attempt at understanding, it recreates my energetic poetic personae anew and contributes to a more fluid experimental condensation of my language's imagination's freedom.
Long suffering in silence, Emily Dickinson's personal sense of searching for what gives satisfaction to a spiritual void made our world a richer place, the same with Baudelaire, Verlaine, Pasternak, Rilke, Andrei Sinyavsky, Yuli Daniel, all exiles on this earth.
When a reader responds to my avant-garde poetry, fiction or plays with any serious attempt at understanding, it recreates my energetic poetic personae anew and contributes to a more fluid experimental condensation of my language's imagination's freedom.
Long suffering in silence, Emily Dickinson's personal sense of searching for what gives satisfaction to a spiritual void made our world a richer place, the same with Baudelaire, Verlaine, Pasternak, Rilke, Andrei Sinyavsky, Yuli Daniel, all exiles on this earth.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Being in New England,poetry opened up for me a literary world of deeply held Emersonian metaphysical resolution rescinding all negative phantoms of my own reserve disclosing my language's power which keeps me a creative being.
Reading Thoreau, the Lowells, Plath, Bishop,Aiken, Sexton, made their own imagist and confessional poetry of local color into a new wave for me, short winded my own complex nature and renewed my mind drawing in the strength of a great if unorthodox tradition.
Reading Thoreau, the Lowells, Plath, Bishop,Aiken, Sexton, made their own imagist and confessional poetry of local color into a new wave for me, short winded my own complex nature and renewed my mind drawing in the strength of a great if unorthodox tradition.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Today is Rilke's birthday. I wrote a poem about him whom I believe is the
first international poet. He had an angel safety net for the unspoken and a broken heart with clear intensification and insight of a language's unceasing search for the unmasked memory of the ages. We celebrate the marvel of Rilke in the midst of his compelling, remarkable, prolific energy and synergy unfolding in the geography of our spirit.
first international poet. He had an angel safety net for the unspoken and a broken heart with clear intensification and insight of a language's unceasing search for the unmasked memory of the ages. We celebrate the marvel of Rilke in the midst of his compelling, remarkable, prolific energy and synergy unfolding in the geography of our spirit.
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