Monday, January 14, 2008

The FourFold of Poetics


I stood on top Everest and painted heaven amongst
not past, not beyond, and not within
the clouds, for I knew not many could find my heaven
since the tendency is to seek literal
to cultivate esoteric and ineffable
to convert others in hearing our tongues
it seemed wisest to place heaven therein

Who wants unknown others or worse yet known and detested others luxuriating in their personal heaven?

Next, I climbed deeper than Voronya Cave
into the earth’s womb
and fetally dreamt hell into the very molten core
where it would constantly stream and course
and thus in its fiery tomb
would entry to others’ pantheon stave

Would you want to find some uninvited devil or satan or underworld deity presiding over your hell?

After reconsidering my heaven and hell
I thought it best to also construct a place between
One which hanging upside down on windy trees
will not force me to any personages tell
One that some would consider pristine
and others ready themselves for expected fees

Would you believe me if I told you that when opening my eyes next did I continue to see exactly where I was before this construction?

From this place soar I unto others:
paradises and infernos alike
and wild places unlabeled and untrammeled
where forged hammers of crippled divine blacksmiths
furrow not the rocky veins of the conceiver’s
and civilized places that beelike
buzz in bustling hives of dissembled
whose awareness of wherein their own myths
they languor and live is annulled
by pursuits and action, insidiously boxlike
and wondrous places with warm mothers
whose arms spread wide, inviting and branchlike
whose unseen eyes open wide and seeing, bejeweled
whose wombs sing songs that vibrate megaliths
whose supple breasts all in need have suckled
whose trunk and jutting branches and roots husbandlike
drip honeyed ambrosia to the world’s aquifers

Who would want is admonished, herein such places shall know something only if in contemplative humility they seek, yet would you not?

Words, the soul emitters and transceivers;
images, the soul transducers and conceivers;
music, the soul transfusers and transformers;
movement, the soul freers and conductors;
evermore intermixing and interrelating
souls expressions perpetually sensating
intellecting, cultivating, fostering and creating:
our perceptions challenging and forming what is
inducing deep draughts of soulful wells to fizz

We who would then find our souls not only forming and reforming, but also creating and recreating, in a constancy that belies notions of static and solid stances and instead resembles the movements within the metaphors of the world tree…


Here is now alive and thriving, moving dance to bleed out pores
My soul sweats into the cool air and swims in hosts of raindrops
to pierce the veil that others label lifeless ground and therein to course
in Lethe’s swift currents that eventually feed the springs of bluebonnets
and there, under the cool shade of a bent tree, you drink deeply
of my soul, and your drinking is at once my drinking
for under another summitful tree I too drink of your soul
and in our mutual drinking do we know friendship
do we breathe and move friendship
do we write and craft friendship
into all spaces between, out, in

Who would advantages seek ought look elsewhere
for now have the absent gates been built and shut
the gates that bar entry to those unworthy
And who am I or anyone to label another
to cast judgment upon one deemed so?
We are the ones who have cared for the downtrodden
only to be trodden upon by them as the door slammed behind
their quick escape from responsibilities in the house of friendship
We are the ones whose seeking for deeper and increasing meaning
meets with those whose careless parlays and occasional forays
are dropped as soon as vehicles for acquisition of desired things
approach and make themselves known
We are the Artists whose lives demand scrutiny and reflection
and whose tormentation none others grasp
and whose thoughts fly unfettered in the interiority of imagination
in a feelingness of thinking and being that calls forth creation.

Who then would join us often does so for brief moments that soon pale
for encounters long talked about, laughed about later even
for the ununderstanding, for the inability to penetrate the veil
smothering their vision, which often only portrays allusion

And I am to stand here convicted by the masses
swallowing their ingratitude, bad will and ugly perceptions
so that what is considered law or societal constructions
becomes only a seething gaggle of vipers in tall grasses
to my memories whose fleetingness resembles passages
rapidly taken by the vapidly mistaken albatrosses!

Still, from within the deepest realms of my being surges waves
of harmonious melodies that form beautiful memories, scripts and representations
and despite the stunned incidences, these incredible waves
wash me clean from within, without and withal so that presentations
leave nothing other than a smile that is my being
in radiance and creativity abounding
the self that is of many parts is continually actualizing


Tomorrow miracles fly freely from my suitcase called skin;
they find flight from formless feelingsthoughts moving in my marrow,
where wings grow in emulation of fairies and angels dreamt;
they soar celestially, swimmingly submerge, pantomime pewter precipitation
and breathe crystals constructing water, snow, sunflower and mountain;
whereafter their creating inspires surreptitious songs sublimated
and then let loose upon strings, valves and chords,
to scrape bottom dwellers from their murky laments
and scooping them thusly to scatter them not on scraggy
spots, or scramble their psyches, but, rather to perch
them wherever they’d be most free and happy

How old is this process of miracles emanating from bones?

To answer is to know one’s morrow….

The prophetess chews some laurel and utters:
It is the oldest phenomenon known on earth,
miracles within the bones, and only outdated by miracles
within the bark, which is only outdated by miracles
within barnacles, and this, is only outdated by miracles
within basalt crust, and so forth…

Ah, you contradict yourself! trumpets the realist missing more than criticism yields…

Whose worn mantle warm composes us?

Everywhere come the metaphors:
step into the deep wild woods and stop,
still, very motionless, until you listen and stagger;
stags, deer, elk, or moose, their antlers make the dagger
which will when seen in its bareness be the stabber
deep into the heart of inside for the changeling
to be born from the stiffness of the taut muscle
whose stoppage, an aching dazed cramp, chagrining
dances a catharsis into a crazed comforting carousel;
dive endlessly into wordless emissions of soulful memoirs,
ply vicariously their meanings unto a cloudy blue morning dewdrop

When will nothingness become somethingness so that everythingness makes sense?

Cut short the unthought unthoughts so that they can more rapidly through sleeping’s gates enter into eventual thought thoughts.


At times, especially during dream-filled sleep or daydream occupied stupors,
what is fleeting metamorphoses into what is granite, what is pumice,
the hardened production out of the volcano flows of rivers of primal fears.

To see the granite or pumice dagger knifing through the stifled air
of interminable vacuousness,
slicing through eyelashes like a Campbellian chunky lid,
increases not acuity of vision,
clarity of perception,
nor intensity of prophecy.

Instead, this movement, cyclically eternal,
illumines rivalry as nonexistent shadows
in the fleetingness of the interiority of volcanic ash,
making of ingenuous interpretations of projections
an ashened cloud riding the wings of dragons
on high as large as one wills
that could threaten an entire universe with choking pompousness.

No shaman can rescue such a soul from its own induced mortal dangers,
lest said soul find its way out of the ashy cumulus
via streaking down the fiery bolt that strikes the axial mountaintop:
that is riding in the saddle of the rainbowed phoenix
flashing its fiery wings to deposit this once forlorn soul
unto the edge of the spring-fed pool in the virgin forest.

Here, from whatever angle, this round pool is the same,
as a visible Arthurian feast of plenty appears,
and confers upon one wisdoms one will soak in,
if one will.

Gazing lustily upon the nakedness of Nature in manifest form,
culling from her her bounty as if it were only resources,
without proper deference,
yields the toothy rending the hunted stag meets
at the behest of the hunters’ hounds.

To be thus strewn,
one’s psychic skin shredded to reveal the inside,
the interiority wends its way along the rivers of blood
seeping into the pool to descend unto the murky-clear depths
from where the unsullied newly reformed
might arise freshly washed clean of the ash deposits
that surely penetrated under the skin.

How is it to experience this?
What some would mistakenly label as bliss,
those of us panting-still
know an experience of Nature as Artemis
seen and reacted to until
death of self does indeed part
speak not lightly of being washed clean by that heart.

This Artemis parallels the action of the Uroboros,
the original dragon,
the keeper and bider of all time and history,
the eater of all mythology and culture,
the progenitor of all thoughts and feelings:
rebirth and eternal return is the fate of the Artist!



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