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Archive for August, 2009

poem

A Proposal Outlined By Congress

 

i Musings of  the Politicians Wife

 

Invented in the lecture hall,

impressed in stone on the wall-

wide and white, the Eyes see all.

The dreams of those at home

the Dream we have a birthright to,

chained hot and heavy in this room

Hestia’s sculpture borne away

and the simple works of your day.

 

And ambivalence is held in sway

the delicate instrument of

your distraction- what magicians

men can be.

 

ii The Dream

 

Daddy, daddy look around you;

at the floor we paid for covered

in piss from Tommy, look at mommy

no lipstick, look at this- a picture of

you signing a bill as mom mixes

a whiskey sour, as me and Tommy

watch TV by the hour!

What a life, what a wife, what sweet cum

on our lips.

 

iii The Politician at the Strip Joint

 

Some poisons

can not be

sucked out. Some

poisons just

must be lived

with. It is a gift,

a wish, at times

a doubt. We always

pay for what we

get. So at the bar

I will pay for

oblivion, to take

off the edge,

and show some

skin. Tomorrow

I will do it again.

It is the Dream,

the show, Mr. Jones.

 

by me

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poem

With the Spleen Instead

“Clarity of mind means clarity of passion, too; this is why a great and clear mind loves ardently and sees distinctly what it loves.”
Blaise Pascal

It is as if

when we

two said

love, at

once

we said:

 

as a child-

“I will trade you my heart for yours”,

 

and later in angst-

“One red, pumping, bloody heart for another”,

 

and finally-

“I will give the inevitability of a heavy and still mass of tissue for the lightness of a promise”.

 

And, really,

in the end

that is what

we meant

by that first

tryst, under

the star

drenched sky

and weeping

willows

(given by the Chinese

who see the soul, to us

cold and free people of steel)

with their many leaves,

rattling and upturned,

yet empty.

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poem

Nathanael Beneath the Fig-Tree

 

“And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending upon it…. Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said ‘Surely the Lord is in this place- and I did not know it!’ And he was afraid and said ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’” Genesis 28: 12; 16-17

 

This is where

the angels came,

descending and

ascending ;

 

higher up and farther in

the glade, in seas of mist

at dawn with the ripe smell

of dirt and touched a green shoot

reaching up from an old stump.

 

This is the place

where earth and

heaven meet;

 

the tree glowing white

from within, still retaining

a semblance of the glory,

even as it spreads out from

the withered stump, three limbs

merged at the rough trunk,

and the ground around it

thick and overgrown

blessed for having been there.

 

(The more beauty given as the dead branches

fall away, and the living are grafted in.)

 

This is the place

where you wear

your Sunday best;

 

 a parched tundra

of raw heat, ragged

breath, a wooden

beam of rotted

splinters outlined

in raging flames-

clinging to your post

though there is

nothing in it, though

there is nothing set

upon it, though it

burns as you clutch

it to your chest.

 

This solitary place

is where you meet

your death:

 

here there is no

communion left.

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poem

The Eucharist

 

It starts with this;

the ripping of the veil

off and the laying bare

my nakedness to eyes

probing wide to the

spectacular beauty.

 

Like a bred dove

white and flawless

wings open and able

to catch the wind,

yet surrendered as an

oblation with a feathery

breast exposed upon

the stone alter,

willing to remain in this.

      I am not willing  to depart

      from instinct and desire.

 

And all the bloodied sunsets

bearing down Thermopylaen heat on me,

bearing the only virtue:

shining through

my transparency,

and I prey to illuminations

descending.

 

Like the dove bearing the olive branch

returning to life

after the uncertain release

thinking: “this is the

only way to be” and

giving a tortured homage

to the waters teeming

beneath my wrinkled feet,

I risen again, rising up

as we all did.

The rite, the passage.

 

An holy ghost

renewing, a man

forging.

The dead sun laying

hot and heavy on these things.

 

“Do this to remember”:

and the deep red wine flowing

on the chapped bridge of our lips,

the wheat bread crumbling

and broken in our sooty hands-

the sombre marriage

of God and man.

 

Expose now the

strange spectacle,

reveal what was hidden in

soft candle-light,

 

though I am ashamed,

white breast trembling

without the velvet veil,

so uncertain on the stage;

though you die and die

only to rise,

dying and raised without hope.

 

by Ashley W.

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I would also like to see new artists and local muscians to either blog here, or start their own blogs to discuss art in our culture today. I see that their is a relationship between all artforms and I think as young artists we should be aware of these connections, and try to foster them.
So this is not just a blog for writers, but for any artist to be heard.

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Poem

 

Icarus In Relief

 

The vespers have fallen,

I carried them near through the day-lit hours,

remembering, remembering;

they had fallen beautiful on us.

 

Love it is out of my hands,

I can only bear witness:

            In the beginning only the sweet-song of the nightingale   

            heralding the dying sun down to rest,

            triumphant as the wide blue sky-vein is sliced

            as it bleeds out the deep lavender and blazing pink light,

            that pale and sick lovely light,

            that first sign, that wonder.

Love hold me in this loving light,

hold me and become a witness to this,

survive with me in this lovely sick light.

 

            It is beautiful, this earth, drifting softly;

            the hum of diminishing power in root and rock,

            the hum of unused energy in bough and leaf,

            the hum of desperate life within man and beast,

            all the deep mysteries in us, in these

            and all unveiled as we prepare for the imitation, the rest of night.

Love hold me, and be witless, and breathe deep, and sink down, sleep.

 

The vespers fall upon us

for a moment blazing, breathtaking-

then their sign is forgotten, then their wonder worn out,

then suddenly only a memory for the mourning, only the peel off a bell.

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Hello world!

So this is my blog. I’m 20 and an aspiring poet. I have attempted to publish work in an academic manner but have found little success, so I am attempting less conventional means to distribute my work and generate interest. I was hestitant to use a blog due to a desire for a scholastic following, as poetry tends to attract only the scholarly due to its some what inaccessable nature, yet I find great value in the achievement of this accomplishment- which is to have the ability to “say” what you want, when you want, as you see fit. It is compelling that I may possibly reach thousands or millions with my work on this blog, though quite ironic that it means everything (to be read…) and nothing (…yet to not be paid)… so much for a career in writing- such is the dual nature of the internet as well as the written world incorporated with technology.  

Well I will be posting poems and looking for feedback, as well as searching out other poets and critiques of poetry.

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