{"id":49537,"date":"2016-04-01T00:14:52","date_gmt":"2016-04-01T00:14:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/zenpundit.com\/?p=49537"},"modified":"2016-04-01T00:17:01","modified_gmt":"2016-04-01T00:17:01","slug":"poems-20-30-march-2016","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/?p=49537","title":{"rendered":"Poems, 20-30 March 2016"},"content":{"rendered":"

[ by Charles Cameron<\/strong> ]
\n.<\/p>\n

As I’ve said on rare occasions before, Madhu<\/strong>, a wonderful friend of this blog, encouraged me some while back to post some of my poems here. I don\u2019t do it often, and I hope you will at least tolerate it when I do. <\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

Staring at a gravestone<\/strong>
\n.<\/p>\n

Staring at a gravestone as though the dead might —
\ncontrary to science, in line with hope \u2013 break through death,
\nthrough death writ in stone, to speak, loom
\ngrey under the sun like a hard silk ghost emerging
\nfrom granite, half nowhere half here, speak
\nout of beyond the thoughts of ever and one and no-one,
\nchant, perhaps, in some dead tongue, language
\nof the dead, of death, of one\u2019s own family, intimate, <\/p>\n

vast and impersonal.. staring with hope, grief,
\na touch of rage perhaps, melded in incomprehension,
\nlistening without hearing, seeing, though
\ndumb, by doubt and shroud clouded, deluded:
\nand all this observed from that all-knowing other place, by
\nthe all-giving nothing to which galaxies are specks, lives speak. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

Of, by and for itself: the poem<\/strong>
\n.<\/p>\n

Let me write a poem that has music to it, that conjures
\nimages out of ink, that echoes into silence,
\nlet it flow from me as the mind waves in the wind,
\nhere and there, yet tethered, tethered, yet hither and yon,
\nveering away from and towards rhymes, swaying
\nitself, myself and the reader \u2013 your self, yourselves \u2013
\nmy son was pillowing his head on a weight-bar
\na few minutes ago \u2013 drifting off topic and weaving <\/p>\n

back in, let me write in such a way you will wonder,
\nwill wander into wonder, whither wonder yonder hither,
\ntorn, and suddenly so, asunder \u2013 may the poem
\nwrench me, wrench itself, wrench syntax, yourself, selves,
\nin the sheer mind play of itself on self, in the sheer
\nwind play, grass on grass, of itselves on our all selves..<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

Unbreakable mirror<\/strong>
\n.
\n.
\nThere is such ghastly blood spurting at home and abroad
\nI must get back to Pasadena, walk again down Marengo, take joy
\nin the living shoots breaking up the concrete paving.
\nThere are such foolish beheadings, blood spurting, abroad
\nI must close my eyelids like rose petals, discern petal from thorn.
\nThere is so much hatred spurting blood lost to kin flesh and blood
\nin the passing down of abuse across generations here at home
\nI must get to the pool in mind where breath moves, motion is still. <\/p>\n

I must get clear past understanding to peace, wherein the face
\nof understanding is seen in the beloved face, mirror, love, lake:
\nand what if yours is the divine face, and yourself at war, in grief,
\nbroken in broken marriage, fragmented by frag-grenade, lost
\nin self-esteem high or low, in alcohol, lost in lust or unloved,
\nif it should be your broken face i see, in the unbreakable mirror? <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

On the Thursday before All and Everything<\/strong>
\n. <\/p>\n

How sad can that woman be, painted, whose son\u2019s eyes
\nknow and convey that those creatures with bird wings and
\nBotticelli features who once told her \u201cFear Not\u201d
\narrived from a court or realm in which a higher octave
\nof fear named awe is the only octave ever sung,
\ncame visiting a realm where the mother\u2019s torn flesh
\nis the only sacrifice sufficient for the birth of the young, <\/p>\n

how sad, seeing those eyes, can a woman be, her son next
\nto crucifixion, next to resurrection, next to literary
\ncriticism, next to demythologization, next to indifference
\nby all but Bach, El Greco, Hopkins, Grunewald, how
\nlanced with grief can that mother be to see her son broken
\nand spilled, bones and blood, flesh and spirit, wine
\nand unleavened bread that is nonetheless risen, risen, risen? <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

One frail voice in a whirlwind<\/strong>
\n. <\/p>\n

Okay I am joyed to overflowing that enough dust gathers
\nand swirls here to formulate a momentary dervish,
\ncrying \u201cfor love\u2019s sake, love\u201d against the world\u2019s maelstrom,
\none frail voice in a whirlwind, one small silence
\namidst such shouting, shooting, eardrum-piercing sound.
\nI will love you before and after I am gone, I will echo
\nlove on the drumbeat of your heart, I will dance to Bach\u2019s
\nbacchanalian orgy of the divine love crucified, seated <\/p>\n

in lotus, absolute, incarnate, flexible to each soul\u2019s need,
\ntireless, fatigued unto death, l will dance my dust
\ninto full-throated voice for you, quiver or quaver my wings
\nfaster than birds hum, stretch like the night, warm
\nyour heart at my hearth, I am none and gone, I am here
\nonly to toll and tell you, you are beyond boundlessly dear. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

How best to crumple your face<\/strong>
\n.<\/p>\n

Aging offers no guarantee of the desired effect
\nso clearly displayed in that photo of Jim Harrison — a poet
\nI\u2019m told, and now I\u2019ve seen that image a poet
\nI shall seek out and read \u2013 half blind, half drunk?
\nWithered as an old oak stump? Gnarly? A grump? <\/p>\n

Attack through the voice, it strikes me, would be
\nthe fast, best strategy \u2013 dumbfound but not dumb down
\nor out, soak voice in whiskies, wreathe it in smoke —
\nsing it — above all, doubtless and doubting — SHOUT!! <\/p>\n

Zen it. Turn your head into the headwinds, face whatever
\nsandblasts you back to your original face. You, I
\nare forever baby-faced, mirror-faced, and wizened.
\nHow best to crumple your face? How dare you even ask?
\nYou think that life\u2019s a whaddayacallit goddam task? <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

Assessment<\/strong>
\n,<\/p>\n

Rough me up, chisel, throw me down, rampart, cliff,
\nbrine me in and dry me out, season me, in and out and about
\nin all seasons, snow me under, bake, broil me, boil,
\nblister, shell-shock, shake, shellac me, chain, drain on me,
\nbreak, bust me, cake me in excremental blood, curse,
\ncatcall me, caterwaul, blame, shame me, if I protest, bluster,
\nI am naked, spare, your slings and arrows wound me, you
\nhave nothing on me, I am but better for your battering, bruising. <\/p>\n

Brush me, wash, bathe, comb, coax me, clean me, I
\nshall remain pliant to your pleasing, soap, soft soap, sponge
\nme up and down, inside and within, I will respond
\nin response, loathe me — but clothe me, rob me
\nbut robe me, foist your delusions on me, I am hoist
\non my own penis, pride, flagpole, priesthood, petard. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

Of Diotima and Beatrice<\/strong>
\n.<\/p>\n

Who spawned Diotima of Mantinea? For Socrates
\ndrank wisdom at her teats, Plato from Socrates, Aristotle
\nfrom Plato, Alexander from Aristotle, so who
\nwas Diotima, what her thoughts, and who spawned
\nthe thoughts which taught her? I have asked Siri,
\nI have interrogated Wolfram\u2019s Alpha, have challenged
\nGoogles AI to fight Wittgenstein\u2019s PI to the death —
\nyet for me it suffices that she, Diotima was no he but a <\/p>\n

she, female, a woman. To say more would be to
\nslather it on, mansplain, overtell, sell, hence overkill,
\nto say less would leave Aristotle with the boys,
\nand what could be worse? Think you on this: peace
\noutshines war by far; Venus is brighter than Mars.
\nLove’s gravity it is, spins hearts, the sun, all other stars. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

**<\/p>\n

I was writing these over Holy Week, four of them on Maundy Thursday, and the most recent one came through yesterday. Jim Morrison’s death was the occasion for th poem in which he is named.<\/p>\n

Your comments are welcome.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[ by Charles Cameron ] . As I’ve said on rare occasions before, Madhu, a wonderful friend of this blog, encouraged me some while back to post some of my poems here. I don\u2019t do it often, and I hope you will at least tolerate it when I do. ** Staring at a gravestone . […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[662,526,1333,741,1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-49537","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog-friends","category-charles-cameron","category-madhu","category-poetry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/49537","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=49537"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/49537\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":49541,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/49537\/revisions\/49541"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=49537"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=49537"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/zenpundit.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=49537"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}