Guest guest Posted April 28, 2007 Report Share Posted April 28, 2007 This morning I was tired, it's difficult in my nightly duties of caregiving the elderly/dying, perhaps it's the extra 25 lbs of winter non-activity & goodies at my clients homes and not eating 'right'. Perhaps its something else. In any case, I sometimes wonder what I'm doing anywhere, let alone on these lists and why. I think I'm making progress and I end to be nowhere again. Back to the drawing board so to speak;-) Some shifting my time around, I went to a poetry reading this afternoon. Mostly black and one Jewish performance' artists. Much I could say, but for now, when my turn to read came up I remarked how the 'energy' in the room was amazing and how I had had a cosmic consciousness/unity experience from which poetry/words flow. And how when we're together in one place, there's only One of Us ever " Here " . (It's the gestalt thing and the unknown 'God' is then present IMHExperience.) I said there is an alternate universe where we all get the chance to be one another and this way we don't get bored for eternity. And I DO get bored with myself, so I constantly 'rearrange' " Anna's " life. Stringing together all kinds of things. So even before I left my house, I strung together a poem from Gerald S. Stern who was my Prof in NJ (and poet Laureate) in a poetry class, a couple of older poems and a couple of newer ones. Seems this weaving had bits and piecees of all the other poets' poems. We all need one another to make sense of life. We all need to make our hearts and minds work as one organism of consciouns awareness, this is the only way we'll make peace with ourselves and one another. So here goes: BEHAVING LIKE A JEW Gerald S. Stern When I got there the dead opossum looked like an enormous baby sleeping on the road. It took me only a few seconds - just seeing him there - with the hole in his back and the wind blowing through his hair to get back again into my animal sorrow. I am sick of the country, the bloodstained bumpers, the stiff hairs sticking out of the grilles, the slimy highways, the heavy birds refusing to move; I am sick of the spirit of Lindbergh over everything, that joy in death, that philosophical understanding of carnage, that concentration on the species. --I am going to be unappeased at the opossum's death. I am going to behave like a Jew and touch his face, and stare into his eyes, and pull him off the road. I am not going to stand in a wet ditch with the Toyotas and the Chevies passing over me at sixty miles an hour and praise the beauty and the balance and lose myself in the immortal lifestream when my hands are still a little shaky from his stiffness and his bulk, and my eyes are still weak and misty from his round belly and his curved fingers and his black whiskers and his little dancing feet. weaving it together here is mine: BEHAVING LIKE A STATUE Part I I Have Not Words I have not words for you, not even this insipid Poem the earth is seeping blood now, and we slowly die sentimental dreeams shrivel brown by the wayside-- roads that lead nowhere faceless the infinity clock-- incurable emaciated and carnal mindfulness is shallow at this end of the ocean, and hope is a promise that can never return-- flesh gathers unearths another corpse, another time of time, cold-eyed distance, ignoble wind bone to bone, skin over skin, we are unforgiven in the howl of this night .... heavy our hands .... dying sparrows and wilted orange blossoms Part II once in awhile, time stands still in an act of contrition in the counterpoint of an eternal dance with the Beloved Rumi finds Shams hidden in the last lotus under his own beard, and I find You, my Darling Poet in the resurrection temple of Isis in the funerary robes of an alabaster Shekmet shining in the jewel of the Nile, dedicated to my own search for myself, long hidden in the curls of my fingers, deeply cut into my hollow bones. cat-like, winged with feathers etched away by eons of sand. Part III How keen the blade how precious this mortal wound how silent this wandering heart, this indifferent witness aching of Love's flesh and word. Love one another, love the time we have, there is no-thing else, Anna Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted April 29, 2007 Report Share Posted April 29, 2007 Nisargadatta , " anabebe57 " <kailashana wrote: > > This morning I was tired, it's difficult in my nightly duties of > caregiving the elderly/dying, perhaps it's the extra 25 lbs of winter > non-activity & goodies at my clients homes and not eating 'right'. > Perhaps its something else. In any case, I sometimes wonder what I'm > doing anywhere, let alone on these lists and why. I think I'm making > progress and I end to be nowhere again. Back to the drawing board so > to speak;-) > > Some shifting my time around, I went to a poetry reading this > afternoon. Mostly black and one Jewish performance' artists. > > Much I could say, but for now, when my turn to read came up I > remarked how the 'energy' in the room was amazing and how I had had a > cosmic consciousness/unity experience from which poetry/words flow. > And how when we're together in one place, there's only One of Us > ever " Here " . (It's the gestalt thing and the unknown 'God' is then > present IMHExperience.) > > I said there is an alternate universe where we all get the chance > to be one another and this way we don't get bored for eternity. And > I DO get bored with myself, so I constantly 'rearrange' " Anna's " life. > Stringing together all kinds of things. > > So even before I left my house, I strung together a poem from > Gerald S. Stern who was my Prof in NJ (and poet Laureate) in a poetry > class, a couple of older poems and a couple of newer ones. > > Seems this weaving had bits and piecees of all the other poets' poems. > > We all need one another to make sense of life. We all need to make > our hearts and minds work as one organism of consciouns awareness, > this is the only way we'll make peace with ourselves and one another. > > So here goes: > > BEHAVING LIKE A JEW Gerald S. Stern > > When I got there the dead opossum looked like > an enormous baby sleeping on the road. > It took me only a few seconds - just > seeing him there - with the hole in his back > and the wind blowing through his hair > to get back again into my animal sorrow. > I am sick of the country, the bloodstained > bumpers, the stiff hairs sticking out of the grilles, > the slimy highways, the heavy birds > refusing to move; > I am sick of the spirit of Lindbergh over everything, > that joy in death, that philosophical > understanding of carnage, that > concentration on the species. > --I am going to be unappeased at the opossum's death. > I am going to behave like a Jew > and touch his face, and stare into his eyes, > and pull him off the road. > I am not going to stand in a wet ditch > > with the Toyotas and the Chevies passing over me > at sixty miles an hour > and praise the beauty and the balance > and lose myself in the immortal lifestream > when my hands are still a little shaky > from his stiffness and his bulk, > and my eyes are still weak and misty > from his round belly and his curved fingers > and his black whiskers and his little dancing feet. > > > weaving it together here is mine: > > BEHAVING LIKE A STATUE > > Part I > > I Have Not Words > > I have not words for you, > not even this insipid Poem > the earth is seeping blood now, > and we slowly die > sentimental dreeams > shrivel brown > by the wayside-- > roads that lead nowhere > > faceless > the infinity clock-- > incurable > emaciated and carnal > > mindfulness is shallow at this end of the ocean, > and hope is a promise that can never return-- > flesh gathers > unearths another corpse, > another time of time, > cold-eyed distance, ignoble wind > > bone to bone, skin over skin, > we are unforgiven in the howl of this night > > ... heavy our hands > ... dying sparrows and wilted orange blossoms > > > Part II > > > once in awhile, > time stands still > in an act of contrition > in the counterpoint of an > eternal dance with > the Beloved > > Rumi finds Shams > hidden in the last lotus > > under his own beard, > and I find You, my Darling Poet > in the resurrection temple > of Isis in the funerary > robes of an alabaster Shekmet > shining > in the jewel of the Nile, > dedicated to my own search > for myself, long hidden in the > curls of my fingers, > deeply cut into my hollow bones. > > cat-like, winged with feathers etched away > by eons of sand. > > > Part III > > > How keen the blade > how precious this mortal wound > how silent > this wandering heart, > > this indifferent witness > aching of Love's flesh and word. > > > > > Love one another, love the time we have, > there is no-thing else, > > Anna >The best line in in Stern's poem:his little dancing feet. The best line in Anna's poem:we are unforgiven in the howl of this night. I am thinking lately that the best thing a poet might come up with is a really armor-piercing metaphoror line or poem-- preferably short- that will shock at least a few into something like a realization that these skinbags full of history and hope ain't where it's at. I think your poetry is wonderfully good--please don't ask me what it means in the aggregate but line by line there are glints and flashes of meaning that are striking. Stern's poem was a zinger.What has all this got to do with THAT? Well, THAT IS MEANING.It is like N. says:You do not know anything, you ARE knowledge. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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