La Bellezza
Poetry - Bee Lines - Worse Than Keats - On the Way - Ars Poetica - Yajña - To His Coy Mathematician - Only Connect - Whirlpool
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Poetry
Although it has been justly said that poetry, alas, is dead,
I cannot help but toss another marble violet on the grave,
and think that words arranged precisely on the page
will save those prayers whose crystal splinters
were hidden among the ruined frost
in a world in which we thought all harmony was lost.
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On the Way
You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me. — Whitman
One has to taste this life in order to leave it behind;
The sage who knows no touch, knows something, but not enough.
He may know alot about the universe
but not enough about this world
that made this life of ours, whatever force
within its working worked the strange magic of our being
with its absurd urge for meaning
in a world full of seeming.
To say that wine has no taste at all foregoes experience —
the wine of Khayyam, a million years after the Fall
from an original Nothingness (or Infinity) —
and foregoes all those things that came after Nothing (or Infinity)
in the waves of bronze and iron
in the currents of Babylon,
from the Euphrates to the Seine
the endless stretch of years
and all those moments of love
lying in the grass
with the person we love
and the sky above
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Ars Poetica
I see her
staring out to sea
her coal black eyes
her silhouette
tall, slim
Mexican
of glistening hair
ravens are no darker than
down smooth shoulders
shirt frayed at
the waist
slim hips drifting
like fine sand into the
clear hour of my glass
a clear, salted glass
of a Margarita
the stuff of
tequila
dreams
or so to
the tourist
through
dark lenses
it seems.
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The Goddess Sarasvati, Eastern Tibet, Kham region, 18th century. Source/Photographer. (From Wikimedia Commons, clipped and coloured by RYC)
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To His Coy Mathematician
Lured by a world of forms —
the circle of the breast, the straight line of the calf,
what would be the point of discussing any tangent
that didn’t curve back to a union of body and mind?
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Only Connect
For the monk, alone in his cell,
it's the erotic versus the spiritual, eros vs. agape
la via sinistra non è destra
not on Earth as it is in Heaven
give unto God that which is everything
because he's celibate, cellular
and those circuits in his head don't connect.
Whatever greater forces may or may not be at work
in this inexplicable cosmos of our,
our experience is a function of neurons connected to neurons,
through massive junctions;
our being jumps from cell to cell
a million neurons deep, running in thick circuits,
fields, planes, waves, loops, whatever they end up being,
they only connect, or they don't.
They only connect to everything you are,
to everything you think
about God and the contour of a breast,
a soft cunt or a hard cock,
and to everything you feel
about love and your tongue along her thigh,
or they don't.
So when they talk about how bitter that apple was
you turn around and wonder,
Did you miss something — or did they?
When all the abstract truths end up in doubt
you conclude that Keats may be right:
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," —
That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,
and then you wonder
what the fuss was all about.
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Whirlpool Cosmogony
In the beginning was a whirlpool.
Jets flung far across the bubbled deep,
fishes forgot their names,
and fished about in a swimming sleep.
A mestiza beauty stepped into the pool
currents swished around ankles
chlorine bleached skin to porcelain.
Bored, the goddess stretched her languid foot
into the currents of Time
the web of Maya, the mirage of sense
swirling through invisible toes.
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