Life exists to pay attention to other people. I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. ~~P. B. Shelley This is a race to beauty, and I am an engine quick with fire. ~~Daniel Weeks I pursue the vireo's theme. ~~Lord Dermond Pitiless verse? A few words tuned And tuned and tuned and tuned. ~~Wallace Stevens
The summer sun
Knows when its bright business
With buds is done
Summer comes warmly into our lives, a promise of autumn’s plenty. A surfeit of all our globe can give of daily joys expands in a benign inflation of lighted hours. Night herself calls us forth to wander under soothing breezes, zophtic zephyrs–and we walk into our dreams with ease. Constellations keep us company, just as, during the day, fleets of trees in full sail share their leafy magnificence with us–the fresh shade of dark branch and leaf, their chipper chatter following us as we wend our way.
Through nights endlessly vague A voice arrives Embalmed In embellishing smokes. Speak vividly, My blind Friend in chartless darks; Speak bleedingly To me As I bleeding lay, Enslaved, raving.
This spirit of mine is something unstudied, Inexorable and white, alive in solemn permanence. ~~Lord Dermond To forget about the self at the self's Uttermost extent; it is the self Made a self at last. To survive in vigor The confinement of the eye, The glistering pinhole through which The self is summoned As by a bronze gong Until all the air is peacock feathers Is one way--in wild trial-- That the self, and its amiable Particulars may be forgotten. Cheered onward in a doubtful dark By numerous rumoring murmurs And silken sibilances, as if Drawn on by a forceful river Tumbling a blind man downstream To the sound of thickening confusion Is another way for the self to go, On and on, on and on, In dark discovery. To feel our broadening sexual silks Pulled and pulled, as through A pinhole, through the self And out of the self and into Another, and that self flowing And pulling as if a river until Our colors lay piled and swollen Before our adoring, a silken sail Full-bellied with desiring-- A wind that moves through the self The self had left behind and abandoned On the shore of no more. Dead or dreaming, the self Disappears, and in its place, In the place of the self spilled out Of itself, displaced and streaming, (The self that had left its eye behind Like an abandoned portal, The self that had had an ear And has an ear no more, bereft, as it was, Among night voices in a dark place, The self that had had a sex Torn away in a shimmering wind Until the self has a self no more)-- There is only this, this fathomless Wildness without a where Without a how, without a why, Only this this,--in the place of that, Nearby, nearly here, In the place of the place and in place of it.
Evening is here, and the house is cold With a coldness darkened beyond what eyes behold, A peculiar, unusual dark I neither name nor know, A dark inside the darkness of the cold, A dark beneath the dark of space, A below-dark or beyond-dark or before-dark Out of which the dark of space Begins its becoming nothingness, Its peculiar, unusual dark Wherein pleasantest monstrosities adhere, Adhere and grow gigantic-- Heavy drapes blown-in in the storm's besetting onset, Knocking one candle dark in the swooning room, Or swinging darkly out to outer space In the wind of stars, Through which the universal edifice slowly swoons In its own peculiar, unusual dark--as if The shadow of a shadow thrown against The shadow of that from which it had come.
Only when wisp and whim Bellies the shakily belied Sail's starch-white brim Do we live unburied-- Alive to time, to time's Intemperate, inveterate ticks-- The icy sublime Of life's penultimate lick. So, take of this cake With me, mon ami: birth-day Or death-day, take; take The risen wheat, say A voluble salutation For your, for my, salvation!
Abolished blues Leave as craven night Crowds the nude Sky'slight-- Remain cerulean, Memories, brilliant tints, Flashed shy-eyes' Loitering emoluments. Look at me, listener, Flash tightened whites, Blanks unstained, unstirred, Awaiting pupils' coalblack night To draw in raked nakedness --Our bleak meeting.