Poetry

Chronology

I was reading a poem by Bukowski

       It is called “jam”

I read a few lines, pondered

        watched outside the window

then resumed reading, while I was still

     light-blind

suddenly, a tiny speck on the page

       moved

it was green, it was alive

as my vision came to normal

I could see the insect

– wasn’t sure which kind –

the little one walked on the page

stepping over an “s” first

then a “w” but turned back

then came down to the word

      “same”

and headed to the edge of the page. 

I finished the poem, and thought to myself:

 

“This Bukowski is really good” 

 It was the first “Buck” poem

I ever read.

Trapped in today

 

Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light

      since these words are still in the air we breathe

nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today

                 nobody has measured the necessity of crying

to be sick and living 

       asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion

the taste is in my mouth:

      progress has vomited a sickly herd.

Newfound

I, the dream of a god,

      an outcome of invisible hands

            at once performance and spectator

this precise instant

         this internal precipice

a newfound religion

      whose scriptures are written 

              in every one thing

where the god and the dream are the same

                  the cloud and the rock are inseparable

the sweet motion of transience

        coursing over the stream of eternal action

I, alone and united,

               one more spoke of divinity 

                  one more billow of infinity.

 

 

 

 

More Useless Poetry ?

Mantra — field of happening


Be. Let whatever happens, come to pass.

     To be: embraced by a field of happening.

There is nothing imperfect, even contradiction

   and desire – let it all come.

Allow motes of dust to float

          the heaviest pain to sink

there is nothing at all that does not belong –

     let anger and irritation play their part

but release them and go on.

Close your eyes and dig deep.

Study the phenomenology of thoughts

              the strange ocean of being

overpowering pain, elusive pleasures

  

              Be. Embrace the field of happening.

 

More Poems

More or Less

Twilight and morning are now irresistible  

    they hang above like motherless children 

there is no reason to believe in one or the other 

           all the insects swarm this local abyss 

fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour 

    anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible 

  reentering again a field of silences 

          morning or night or true or false 

were all excluded 

             an intimate void 

more or less… yours.

Infinity

There is no place to start
 

     a beginning point

an igniting flame.

There is a Rorschach blot  

             a streaming dream of structure

a finite accomplishment; 

          surrounded by infinite reach. 

 If you start from this,

      then anything is possible.

My chest can suddenly burst open, 

       and twigs may grow.

Impossibility is an illusion.

              A repeated illustration

of what’s real;
  

         keeps infinity from shining forth.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

The Gap

 

I couldn’t lie

 or distort the truth

when I tell you that seven seagulls

–   not six or eight – I counted,

    took flight in the direction of the moon

and that the water was slightly offering an insult

  with its restlessness and simple undulations

I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap

    a precipice that links two different lands

behind me everything that is

  before me everything that could be

I was inside the great hole that separates the two

  and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge

sauntering from fact to possibility;

      to cross this gap

I felt

  requires the courage of a climb –

to create a new fact

     demands a start from the lowest point

to climb up again in rags

    to emerge from the deep

after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…

only then can the gap be closed!

 

 

 

A nameless world

 

 

At the start of a new poem

 the world is born again

as if I have never written a word about it

    and was experiencing it for the first time

these trees are not trees

   this sky is no sky

I still don’t have a name;

    I see a spark

and try to name it,

    then it’s gone

and all I have left

   is a bunch of useless words.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

tear of nothingness

This a breeze

a puff of blur

a word too fragile

another troubling gasp

 

outside, the tender world

a tissue I would caress

but this fear of breaking

what is ready to crumble

stops me, so I climb

the tallest dumpster

and watch these children despair

 

Every man is an ant

or a walking trapezoid

I can’t keep quiet

the medicine of sound

it comes now as prophesizing twilights

 

I admit, that licking a wound

is another form of poem

and to walk is to flee a little

and to be alone is to create a river

 

I don’t write a single word to convince

         but to cry

            a tear of nothingness

a too-late warning

 

that we are slowly disappearing

and we never knew why

1