Sometimes something breaks within ourselves, and the psyche is terrifically disfigured. Yet sometimes this becomes part of our growth and strength and not the cause of destruction.
acceptance
My first marriage lasted just about a year. We were together for all of about two years. She was a walking dichotomy. Loving, kind, supportive on the one hand—evil, spiteful, and treacherous on the other. The emotional roller-coaster ride came to an end when she added drunken extramarital affairs to her treacheries.
I was in love with her, for some reason. Deeply so. I suppose this is why her compulsive treacheries were so poignantly painful. I understood that she was a borderline, and so I endured as far as I could. But, enough was enough. After all, her first husband had already committed suicide. So, I left her to her insanity before I found myself buried next to him.
It was another year and a half or so before I finally began to really accept that it was over, and thus was born my 22nd hybridanelle.
Elegy
I’ll not forget your kindness, nor the pain
staked between my ribs to rip my vital center.
I’ll not forget your laughter, nor the tears
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies
or whimpered like a mongrel clamped in iron jaws,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.
I’ll not forget your whispers, nor the poison words
you coated on the rusty spike of truth,
staked between my ribs to rip my vital center,
healed only by the seal of deep unfeeling scars
that still can never hide the searing touch of rage
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies.
I’ll not forget your comfort, nor the angst
inspired by deception, the shameless treachery
you coated on the rusty spike of truth,
the weeks of turbid panic that thundered like a storm
until my thoughts were beached on barren shores of death,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.
I’ll not forget your promise, nor the tragedy
that left me in a state of desolation
inspired by deception, the shameless treachery
that marred my sense of trust with green infected scabs
until, half crazed by torment, in uttermost defeat,
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies.
I’ll not forget your presence, nor the absence,
the swollen scarcity of faith and understanding
that left me in a state of desolation,
clutching onto dirt-clods, scraping over stones,
choking clots of dust, and in the hollow night
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.
Though I may one day drink from streams of inner peace,
I’ll not forget your kindness, nor the pain,
the swollen scarcity of faith and understanding.
I’ll not forget your laughter, nor the tears
that welled from acid springs to melt away my skin
as, trembling at the edge of self annihilation,
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.
My 10th trisect poem. The first segment depicts our sun, the second our galaxy, and the third the process (or principle rather) of acceleration.
There are some prosodic curiosities played with in this poem, like the juxtaposition of primary alliteration in the middle two lines of each quatrain. This proved to be more difficult than I expected, but also a good exercise I think.
Lapse
Entity
Clouds of gas and seas of dust
whirl in layers round a turbid well
which gathers density and force.
Concealed inside a cyclone spun through darkness,
hidden meaning flares flush against compression
and opens like an eye, wide with burning gaze,
its heavy lids thrown back against the void.
For aeons faint reflections cycle round
this fluid presence held haloed in the night,
concentrating dreams deep into the light,
into a stillness wrapped in fusion storms.
In time the fires dissipate
to vapors, glowing like a distant jewel,
which fades into the emptiness.
Colony
Vapors glow amid the gloom,
phantoms waiting to return to life
or fade forever from perception.
Splashed across an easel framed from absence,
a hidden brush portrays rays in random molds,
dispersed as tracts of foam frothed beneath the moon
to bulge about the heart of mystery.
Potential blooms like tufts of baby’s breath
with scattered silhouettes wound throughout the fields
where waves of motion spread spectrums far through time
to ripple in the skies of countless worlds.
A hundred billion modes of thought
glimmer like a liquid fused with light,
spiraled round a well of doubt.
Balance
Suspended like an ornament,
the master clock wheels slowly through the void,
seconds passed in fluid count.
Cogs and coils gyrate, stretch, and snap,
countless turning gears gripped by gravity,
which sends the broad machine churning through the dark,
momentum bound to arcs across the deep.
Throughout the ages systems come and go,
little flecks of light lit for stellar moments
like after-image flares fading from the mind,
half remembered from a distant past.
In time the random orbits dim
and yellow like a blurry cataract
across the burning eye of god.
Publication History:
Tales of the Talisman — Winter 2007
Latest spill-over. Had Cohen‘s “Dance me to the end of love” stuck in my head so fiercely that I couldn’t make any progress on another poem I’ve been working on. So I decided to write something with a similar feel to it—but without the refrain and chorus—to see if I could get Cohen’s song out of my skull enough to focus.
take me
Maybe I’ve learned a something through my study of Cohen’s poetry. His earlier poems were usually terrible, but his more recent material is outstanding on average. This is what I hope will happen with my own work as the years wear on—Steady improvement.
I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.
I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.
So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.
sea dog
Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.
This, my 9th trisect poem, is inspired by my experience of learning to play the bansuri flute. I have a long way to go still, but people no longer run for the hills when I play, which I hope means I’m getting better.
Segment one depicts the bansuri flute itself, by way of its origin and construction. Segment two depicts breath, without which the bansuri is just a piece of wood. Segment three depicts my process of learning to play.
Exhale
Reed
Shoots reach forth and crack the earth
with nodes that telescope into the air
until green blades dance out and sway against the sky
A column falls before the saw
drifting like a feather through its peers
which lean and separate with rustle whisk and clack
until the parted clone lies cradled lightly in their midst
Hollow sections lose their green
hardened by the touch of open flame
until the thin walls cure to caramel colored hues
Blemishes are smoothed away
a plug is set with delicate precision
bores probe and burn with care an empty space inside
until the slightest sigh sends echoes coursing through the wood
Motion
Ribs expand like gaping jaws
and current rushes through a maze of tubes
to fuse with membranes hidden deep within the shell
Rivers churn within their walls
cycled through an all pervasive flow
from channels of aeration through rapids fraught with force
to many-fingered deltas strewn across half-charted planes
Bones contract a casual grip
and moisture dissipates into the air
to mingle with a stream of circumscribing winds
rained in far-flung alpine lakes
absorbed by rolling seas of desert sand
and perspired from the leaves of oaks and conifers
to drizzle dew on blades of grass half a world away
Ambience
Fingers dance on shades of brown
as whispers vibrate down a narrow shaft
in waves that slowly learn their resonance and form
Night after night uncertain sounds
gather confidence beneath the moon
phasing with the silhouettes of cherry trees
in movements half remembered from a long forgotten age
Expression gradually finds its way
to sagebrush valleys ponderosa peaks
in subtle overtones that grow in strength until
timbres weave through redwood trees
like whale song steeped in oceanic gloom
resounding off sheer outcrops covered thick with moss
in undertones that settle like a mist among the ferns
Sometimes I wonder how different I would be today if I never chanced upon the poetry of authors such as Robert Service, Julia Dorr, Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Campbell, and others during my youth. My early teens were fraught with fear and confusion, and not much made it through that haze. But the poetry of such authors—always structured poetry—was able to cut through the haze and give me something to focus and meditate upon. Without that, I have to wonder if I would have even survived my youth.
influence
Before starting this poem, I spent several days reading up on various subjects that I felt pertained in some way to tensions and circumstances that not only led to the demise of my marriage, but my choice in women and the types of relationships I get into in general. Subjects included attachment theory and related disorders in adults and children, including some of the methods employed to help children and adults overcome their “attachment disorders”. Along with this I read up on human bonding, age disparity theory, and even read a little about the limbic system, amongst other things—Just things I wanted to know about.
This lead me to reflecting on the nature of play in relation to my early and mid childhood “attachment traumas” and realizing that I’ve never experienced what’s referred to in attachment theory as a healthy “secure attachment”. Secure attachment is what allows a child to feel safe exploring and playing in ways that are constructive and developmentally sound. If there’s some problem with the child’s attachment system, then play becomes more reactionary than natural due to the lack of a secure attachment base to return to. A lot of this stuff made sense to me and jives nicely with my own reflections.
Looking back, I was able to remember enough to realize that one of the first casualties of my childhood was play and playfulness. I was a very serious child, and I tended to use play to express my general state of anxiety, distrust, and ambivalence, destroying my toys and those things I would make with them—with building blocks and Lincoln logs for example—rather than letting them stand awhile, and then tearing them down for the sake of building something else. I didn’t build things for the sake of seeing and enjoying the creative fruits of my labors; I built them for the sake of their destruction.
This was a mode of expression, an enactment of my inner state—reactive play rather than constructive natural play. So, I meditated on this and then wrote my 20th hybridanelle.
Confounded
The stones that should have formed a stable base
were shifted out beneath your primal needs;
the wood that should have framed your living place
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate
and left you wailing naked in the wind,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
Tremors filled your soul with rolling dreads,
so that your own creations, wrought with care,
were shifted out beneath your primal needs,
reduced to disarray in manifest dismay
as wooden joists and girders in your mind
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.
And as you grew, you found yourself unsure;
you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
so that your own creations, wrought with care,
were never meant to last and fell to every blast
that leveled self respect and left you stunned,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
You strove to transfer fundamental shocks
throughout your play; depicting fell effects,
you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
and with profound expression smashed at your discretion,
every symbol housing hope destroyed,
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.
Those first potentials of your intellect
were swept away by rage and disregard;
throughout your play, depicting fell effects,
your structures each collapsed as inspiration lapsed
until you grieved the wreckage of your hand,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
And now you limp through life disabled, scarred;
the stones that should have formed a stable base
were swept away by rage and disregard;
the wood that should have framed your living place
rotted from neglect and left you derelict,
dwelling in the ruins left behind—
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate—
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
Yesterday I had an extremely vivid dream, which involved sleep paralysis, that has really stayed with me.
mausoleum
i felt you calling
through the wide dark space
and i crossed the cavern
to your resting place
where you were wrapped in
folds of cold gray stone
which smelled of long
decay and rotting bones
the air was dripping
echoes through the dark
lit only by the
sense’s psychic spark
mosaic patterns
stretched across your grave
dreamtime symbols
etched in beveled grooves
i brushed them lightly
with my fingertips
and lay across
the stony cover strip
and here i rested
waiting for your touch
in meditation
then i felt your clutch
as one would clutch
who drowns in waters deep
to any flotsam
drifting near the reach
you grasped my psyche
held with panicked might
and locked my body
in the realms of night
and now i felt your
onyx grip of fear
send through my senses
manifold despair
i let you thrust up
through my chest to speak
an urgent message
stressed fatigued and weak
“he-elp… me…”
came your feeble plea
through lips half frozen
petrified by sleep
and as you heard my
voice relay your words
you strove the more to
make your anguish heard
and with the strength of
added empathy
i let you ring your
cavern walls with pleas
until the motions
stirred me from the dream
and i awoke to
echoes of your screams
Upon waking up, it really felt as if I had connected with some spirit or entity that tried with all its might to communicate something to or through me. Or maybe it was some long buried part of my own mind.
Life can take some unexpected turns, and the path to which we have dedicated ourselves may lead through every kind loss and tragedy. But in the end we must simply endure, for life isn’t always easy or fair, and the potential for discovering new meaning and value lies always just ahead.
Endure
The path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale,
and over ridges overwhelmed with loss;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.
The path may weave through swamps and belching bogs,
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds,
and over ridges overwhelmed with loss,
only to drop through valleys baked barren by the sun,
until it rises up again to lead
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds.
The path may shrink and seem to disappear
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth
until it rises up again to lead
through places not unlike the sorrows known before
and on through every emptiness and pain—
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth.
Through crackled desolation, blasts of rain,
the path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale
and on through every emptiness and pain;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.
There is a redwood State Reserve about 30 miles west of Ukiah called Montgomery Woods. The woods are a series of groves which have been purchased and set aside for preservation by various parties, most of which have been involved in the logging industry one way or another, oddly enough. A friend and I used to visit this park on a regular basis, and we came to think of it as being much like a cathedral. In fact, we referred to the entry into the first large grove as “The Cathedral”. Thus my 8th trisect poem.
Cathedral
As I wrote this poem, I read up on the history and architecture of European Cathedrals, dating back to the Roman Empire, and looked for visual relationships between them and various points of interest within the Montgomery Woods. As I did so this poem began to take form with the first segment, “nave”, which is to say, the main hall of a cathedral. This segment focuses on the redwoods themselves.
Then I tried to think of a more complex object of focus for the second segment and thought of the Catholic Liturgies, so “vespers”. But as I finished “vespers” it dawned on me that this was describing a process more so than an object, and as I struggled to find a process to focus on for the third segment, I eventually decided to make “vespers”—the prayerful sounds of nature—that process.
I decided to focus on the “understory” of the woods for the second segment, which can describe anything found beneath the crown of the redwood forest. Slowly but surely, when I closed my eyes and visualized my walks through Montgomery Woods, I began to see relations between the understory and cathedral designs, and so segment two took form.
