From this collection: http://members.cox.net/rodisrocks/earlymetric.htm
LX
I tune myself to Her pitch and timbre,
The color of Her sound I symphonize;
I organize the tones around Her centre.
O! the disparate parts I synthesize!
I image Her a detuned grand piano,
Pry Her apart to view Her inner strings
And all the while I voice a soft soprano:
A song illumined of Her sufferings.
She is the music that I'm always hearing,
The space I move through, separate, in love.
After my sleep, Her, all of Her, appearing:
The context into which I'm ever-wove.
To end one's self, to meditate, to listen
Is all that's sung and said, spoken and written.
1
I could tell you how the music shows the
Degree and station of separation
Like Maimonides face of God conception,
Moses and the rishi on the mountain.
All around the world the same song, the same
Story, sutra, lotus symbology
Birthed from the mud up through the water and
Released to the Infinite sky and air.
The unisons in perfect love or fifths
In a close ration, very consonant,
Or anguish in a lesser interval;
All the colors of the spectrum are shown,
Are danced in the movement of the music,
The movement of love in both good and bad.
2
The none or the nothing, the something or
Everything; something intangible like
The Internet or a soul, an ideal,
No thing at all; a veritable none.
And in it is an aum, a Buddha, a
Flower saluting the Sun in the best
Open posture, receptive to her light,
Adance in her forgiving allowance.
I'm invisible compared to something
So large, so beyond me, just Infinite,
A nonstuff beyond limit of reason.
It's like when the veil is lifted all that's
There is silence, a blank verse, interval,
All you can do is sit and imagine.
5
You think you know her but you have no i
Dea, she is the stuff of nothing: a
Ghost but not even that, the negative
Between the graphemes of these useless words.
I laugh at those who think they know her all,
Supposed they've illumined her everything
As if this being and existence would
Continue with its very source defined.
I think I don't even know her but I
Speak of her anyway, just like Rampra
Sad; apophasis is a funny joke.
Truly it's ridiculous, useless but
It's fun; the laughs themselves are cries and those
Are sacred, unfettered, immutable.
14
The Sun rising and the Sun setting, like
An eye opening and closing, or a
Mouth realizing the roundedness of
A brief accentual-syllabic verse.
I'm beginning and ending with her color,
The happy accident of a day's moisture,
Bloated precipitate sharing this me
Dium, a softly humming atmosphere.
The waves and undulations of a light
Music, infinitely recurring dance;
My bounding hand a vowel up her back
Counting a verse and inversion; chakral,
Sacral energies, imaginings of
Her setting warmth and voluptuousness.
18
I want to write a poem that's very clear
That anyone can read no matter what
They think their reading level actually is
But what's it going to argue lucidly?
I might just have to write it by not writing
But speaking or singing it out instead
And not in single lines or even couplets
But whole entire sections realized
Together as one thought continuous.
Have you ever written in a meter?
The little words that start the whole thing off
Make stresses regular as dialogue
And traffic in a deft symmetry of
Inversion, feet and music each alike.
19
I'm writing simple poems now for my momma
Not that she's simple, she's the true genius
Of words and phrases, even education
And of her and my dad I'm an idea.
Some simple words in an everyday language
Just like the stuff that Steve and them promote
As freedom for the plebeians on Tumblr
Or some young kid outside of New Jersey
That's struggling with his image of himself
Or gender binary and politics.
But Petrarch spoke of simple stuff the same
As Shakespeare's lowly folio language:
The object of the democratic poems
From every era and from every age.
Loading...
4:09
Coffee with the Coach: The Power of Well-Roundednessby managementfoundry51 views
we are mom and dads best ideas
lanaquin1 5 months ago