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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 18, 2015 - 10:34am PT
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yes pause for effect,yeah, Yeah, I See
try herd work the words , spend the time and post it here on the super Topo poetry thread!?m,.!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 07:25pm PT
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THE TENTH POEM
for my son, Sancho Fergus, age one
Galway Kinnell
1
The skinny
waterfalls--footpaths
wandering out of heaven--strike
the cliffside, leap and shudder off.
Somewhere behind me
a small fire goes on flaring in the rain, in its desolate ashes.
No matter, now, whom it was built for,
it keeps its flame,
it warms
everyone who might wander into its radiance,
a tree, a lost animal, the stones.
For if one has loved,
(even if only once, but loved),
it burns forever,
because in the dying world, in some blood-soaked
heap of bones, it was set burning.
2
I know there is so much of my life
wasted, so much of everyone’s life
thrown away; so much
we could have been or done
that we held ourselves back from
out of fear
or out of the dream we had but one thing to be or to do
or out of a sense the richest life
moves through mystery—past doors not opened, roads not taken.
And yet I think nothing once touched by desire can wholly
escape us, can keep itself always
beyond the last flares of the brow-lamp of knowing
And how clear the air is, before dark.
3
This is the tenth poem
and it is the last, It is right,
at the last, that one
and zero
walk off together,
walk off the end of these pages together,
one creature
walking away side by side with the emptiness.
The wind
blows over a leaf, a jaw-bone
a stalk of witch-grass. Whatever
springs from sod, one day, the last day,
finds out
what it is to be singing.
4
Lastness is
brightness. It is the brightness
gathered up of all that went before. It lasts. It endures.
And when it ceases
to endure, there is nothing, nothing
left.
In the rust of old cars,
in the hole torn open in the body of the Archer,
to the river-mist smelling of the weariness of stones,
the dead lie,
empty, filled, at the beginning,
and the first
voice comes craving again out of their mouths.
5
I remember
that Bach concert I went to so long ago--
the chandelired room
of ladies and gentlemen who would never die...
the voices go out,
the room becomes hushed,
the violinist puts the irreversible sorrow of his face
into the opened palm
of the wood. The music begins:
A shower of resin,
the bow-strings listening with all their might
to the wail,
the sexual wail
of all the back alleys and blood-strings of our lives
still crying, still singing, from the sliced intestine
of cat.
6
About this poem,
if we shall call it that,
or concert of one
divided among himself,
this earthward gesture
of the sky-diver—silkworms
on his back still busily spinning
and already gnawing away
the chutes of his love, who could have saved him
this free floating of one
who opens his arms into the attitude
of flight, as he obeys
the necessity and falls...
7
Sancho Fergus, don’t cry!
Or else, cry.
On the body,
on the blued flesh, when it is
laid out, find
the one flea which is laughing.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 10:29pm PT
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The Climb of My Life
unnamed
no rating
I began this long-ass climb in 1948
the support team called out the rescue team
before I had made my first move
the umbilical was about 20mm
you might think it safe to tie into
...but mine was a "nuchal cord"
and had wrapped itself around my neck
they thought I was blue
I guess I was a little “smurf-like”
and sad
and weak
a lack of oxygen
nothing more
and so mom and I bivvied at the hospital
for two extra days while tests were done
and I was monitored not with patches and electrodes
but by palpation and reflex testing
and mom’s watchful eye
the first pitch was accompanied by my older brother
I don’t remember much
there are flashes of older cousins
the next pitch was a trip to Idaho
I remember much of it distinctly
but no one else has the memories
we had a younger sister about then
but I doubt she came along
it would have been too much for mom
so Lenna was probably still safely tucked away
in two separate places
we stopped for a night among redwoods
and the stars wheeled through the branches
we arrived at McCall where Sis and Roy
my great-aunt and uncle lived on a ranch
a chicken was slaughtered in our honor
we were fed dumplings and then the pigs were fed what we didn’t eat
I witnessed the sun’s rising over the lump of choss called Sunrise Mtn.
I rode the horsie and I was three and had been on an expedition already
the next twelve years comprise the second pitch
it was varied terrain involving first, second, third and fourth class
it sounds complicated
but the nuns, the den mothers, and the scoutmasters kept me on the right route
by the time I was learning about Chaucer and his pioneering rhymes
I had a genuine climbing partner
he introduced me to a girl
my, my, this was beginning to be more fun than ever
but I got seriously off-route here
and she became the family’s bugaboo
the cord with mom was severed
there was nothing to do but serve my country
and so began a series of pitches that led nowhere
and I found myself rapping down and starting over in another set of cracks
but my partner was always (nearly always) taking up my slack at belays
he was busy with his own conquests at this time and so we parted ways
I found a suitable female and gave her my ring and she gave me hers
this was a series of pitches involving lots of lying back and forth
a lot of aid and several more reversals of course
but it ended with progeny
another mouse to feed
and a woman who could not do any more aid but had to go free
so she freed herself and the child and bagged it
I was left holding the bag
she was the pig and I was the mouse
here are your papers and there goes the house
I climbed in a fog for several years
at Tahquitz and J Tree I shed me no tears
I climbed to forget and to enjoy the regret
I began to drink lots and then couldn’t get
why no more ladies were too sold on my style
I have an old man, they’d say with a smile
that seemed to mock
this drunken rock jock
and the VW fell apart and I lost my left eye
and came back to this town where I’ll be when I die
because paradise is only eighty miles away
and I may not get any closer
it’s a pity I’ll never see the summit
but then none of us do...
or do we?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 10:37pm PT
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Yes, Gnome
paws for effect
you need to grind and grind and grind
unless you dance a lot
polished verse is a nod to convention
since when do I nod to that?
not that I can't appreciate others' fine efforts
but just effing do it
Mikey will like it regardless
and so will I
so will I
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 19, 2015 - 11:09pm PT
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E.E. Cummings
POEM
let’s, from some loud unworld’s most rightful wrong
climbing,my love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and more than every miracle’s to breathe)
wounded us will becauseless ultimate
earth accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing our by immeasurable night
spirits and with illimitable day
(shrived of that nonexistence millions call
life,you and I may reverently share
the blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves wholly which and innocently are)
seeming’s enough for slaves of space and time
--ours is the now and here of freedom. Come
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 06:37am PT
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Cool!
Swami
Nutz n' Hexz',
.Molinar hammer with a pick
Four lost arrowz, those four Dolt pinz,
E.B's for shoes, a Royal crown chalk 'sack',
Save a pin for the belay ?!
He'll bring 'em up,
If he don't fall
Try it Like that.
Cool!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 20, 2015 - 10:54am PT
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Stellar's Gnome.A bird of a feather.
POEM ON A MOUNTAIN BLUEBIRD
George Young (1931- )
The Navajo stones never managed such a blue as you
nor the lips of the man
pulled from an icy river last year.
You are a grace
never mastered by earth’s bluest eye
at the foot of a glacier, open to a cloudless sky--
nor recognized by idle school children
staring out the window at what appears to be a blue ribbon
tied to a telephone wire.
You are a flash of living, breathing blue.
And Lord what am I
that such a bird can escape from my skull and fly.
http://www.drgeorgeyoung.com/about-the-author
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 11:17am PT
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He as, I see it, is Immune Form the doom that haunts so many now,
Among the reeds and weeds a seed of denial wells up within me.
FROM WITH IN.
A tower of doubt has sprung up making, me miss the dyno. . .
For if only I had thought it out,
in the positive and left the run out in ..
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Then fur shore, No gulf, no beach,
surely this missed jump
would have begun and not end todays fun!!
Happy big dat birthday Mike
Great minds and Climbers
Share more than
Fingers for
the mouse!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jan 20, 2015 - 12:45pm PT
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Conform me not,
trouble be hot
all far from forget me not!
Swing low the eddy of time
I see the time is drawing nigh
or nye
you be the judge ,jury and excommunicator
Chief executioner in chief, post not for if thy post is sheep dip it will be held up to ridicule forgettme knott
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Leggs
Sport climber
Made in California
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Wonderful, Sullly... just wonderful.
And so appropriate. You are so unbelievably thoughtful, and a wonderful friend. ~xx
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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INNOCENTS' SONG
by Charles Causley
Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Laying on the kitchen floor?
Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?
Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?
Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?
Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?
Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:
Herod is his name.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Feb 10, 2015 - 11:46am PT
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THanx to z brown and Flames an de beat boyz who inspired this guy . . .
Howl
By Allen Ginsberg
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and c*#k and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be f*#ked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate c#&% and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally **, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! C*#ks@cker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Feb 10, 2015 - 12:05pm PT
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1. BEGIN the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. But I who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not [only] of the same blood or seed, but that it participates in [the same] intelligence and [the same] portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him. For we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away.
2. Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part. Throw away thy books; no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou wast now dying, despise the flesh, it is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a thing it is; air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked in. The third then is the ruling part: consider thus: Thou art an old man; no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer be either dissatisfied with thy present lot, or shrink from the future.
17. Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul of a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing devoid of judgment. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is a warfare and a stranger’s sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What, then, is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing, and only one — the love of wisdom. But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without a purpose, nor yet falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man’s doing or not doing anything; and besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution of the elements of which every living being is compounded.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 10, 2015 - 01:51pm PT
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LIFE AND ESSENCE
There seems to be one source of truth.
It is benevolent.
All else is commentary on the truth and it’s benevolence.
Life is a continuum.
Physical-birth and physical-death are just two events on the continuum of life.
This continuum is much more than a one-way street between maternity ward and funeral parlor.
Our purpose here is to evolve spiritually.
This earth is a spiritual kindergarten wherein
we trade time for experience,
experience becomes intelligence,
intelligence becomes knowledge,
knowledge becomes wisdom,
wisdom becomes consciousness,
which is what we take with us when we are done riding around in this beater of a physical body.
We sort of begin THERE where we left off HERE.
For me the essence of human experience is the ideal behind Christianity, warped now, but undeniably useful, in which one might could find that
the essence of Christianity is the Bible,
the essence of the Bible is in the Gospels,
the essence of the Gospels is contemplation,
the essence of contemplation is stillness,
the essence of stillness is silence,
and the essence of silence is probably God,
but I’m not there yet.
(Not mine, precisely, but a gent's named Bill King, one of my book customers, always seeking. I've simply modified it in form.)
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:14pm PT
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I'm working on some poetry using only words that all start with the same letter all the way through the poem.
It's lighthearted and a little challenging.
'Try to Tally Tommy's Total Tucumcari Trolly Track Texting to Trudy Total'
Texting Tommy texted Tuesday,
Tried two times to text to Trudy,
Tommy texted twice to tally,
Texted twice times two totally,
Texting Tommy texted truly,
'Til Tommy truly texted Trudy,
Twice times two to total tally,
Taking Toms ticket totally,
Total two times two to tarry,
Two tickets to Tucumcari,
Tommy took two trolley tokens,
Two times Tommy took two tens,
Taking twenty tokens Tuesday,
Two to track ten trolleys total,
Twice to Tucumcari Trudy,
Tried to total Tommy's toll,
Texting twice to Tucumcari,
Trying twice Tom's total tarry,
Taking twice two trolley tickets,
Trudy took Tom tawdry trinkets,
Tawdry trolley trinket tarry,
Twice two trips to Tucumcari,
Tom texted tricking Trudy,
Trudy tricked Tommy twice truly,
Total Tommy's total texts,
To total texting tolls to Trudy,
Total trains times trolley tracks,
To Tucumcari total truly.
-Timmy
10/20/2012
'Zella's Zany Zoologist's Zeppelin Zone'
Zebras zapping zygote zealots,
Zarzuela zooplankton,
Zed Zander's zinkifying zeal,
Zippy zealot zit zinging,
Zinging zippy zealot zits,
Zoocephaliccally zootoxificating,
Zella's zany zoologist's Zeppelin zone.
-Zeke
ZZ/ZZ/ZZZZ
'Angry Arnold and Andy's Axe'
Andy asking angry Arnold,
"Aren't an aardvark always at,
An acute angle at an axe?"
Angry Arnold accused Andy,
"Ask an Aardvark, Andy ask!"
"An aardvark ain't an animal,
Availed at answering at all,"
Andy arguing Arnold as,
An apt aardvark ambled away.
Aardvark's assumptions are assured,
As Arnold's adams apple's at,
An acute angle at Andy's axe.
And an aardvark's aptitude alas,
An aardvark's attitude as asked,
Away, away are an aardvark's ass.
-Aardvark
8o/8o/8o8o
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:49pm PT
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THE OLD POETRY SHACK
It stands out in the corner of the yard hidden by the wishteria vine.
There is a pile of broken rhymes and twisted metaphors lying next to the door.
Some obsolete cantos are stacked between the fence and the south wall.
Swiss chard has taken root at the sunny end of the stack.
Under the eaves is an abandoned hornet nest.
No longer will barbs infest any verse produced here.
The kiln itself is still, the fires long extinguished, like the old boy who used to come out here to play with words and watch them turn into genuine works of art or functional utensils holding odd ideas.
I would never bother him when he was there.
I hid on one side of the viny curtain and listened, though, as he cursed his way through verse after verse.
He would shout Aha Yes and stand up and do a little dance, take a cigaret and smoke it standing in the doorway, then go back to his labor.
One day he was smoking like that and he said out loud,
“Does your mother know you come here?”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
just another fire hydrant
a real live barking democratic dog
he is just about to have his picture taken
"Ferlinghetti!"
"No, Snyder! With John Cage, too!"
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 15, 2015 - 09:34am PT
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The Totalitarian State of Mind Control
I was lost in a sea of writhing coiling robot arms that encompassed the earths face,
O'er every thing and every place,
The world was possessed by criminal organizations known as corporate run governments,
Forcing trillions into tents,
The perpetrators forced all manner of punishments and medical experimentation upon us,
In a world full of mistrust,
The oppressors employed billions of military police to detain and torture and maim and kill,
To bend us to their will,
The artists of tyranny had imbedded mandatory robotic implants into my aching head,
To monitor all I said,
There were wires and tubes and circuits and lights on every manner of everything,
Nevermore would anyone sing,
In a black steel tower the disease riddled mutants who were the CEOs of earth,
Fed on those after their birth,
Wealthy patrons ate at a banquet of puréed remains of all species and biological waste,
Seasoned by our blood to taste,
I groped the ropey tendrils offshore from all the mayhem to design a desperate escape,
But was wrapped and bound in tape,
Then their words enslaved my mind with the mantra of their logic as it looped around my brain,
For the world had gone insane,
As I lapsed into unconsciousness to dream of an existence still preserving all held dear,
But I washed ashore to here.
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 16, 2015 - 06:39am PT
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'Sergio'
As Sergio pulls the long commute,
The interstate it calls his name,
As the twisting turning rambling highway,
Gives way to reveal another long day,
The birds and sun awake to greet him,
"Good morning Serge," they seem to say,
And all the world unfolds its colors,
As all the darkness slips away,
Methodically his waiting workload,
Meticulously complete in time,
Like life his work is always waiting,
But Serge he tends to what needs done,
For each and every day completed,
Meets the setting of the sun,
And rambling back along the highways,
Returns him to his loving one.
For the sun will shine and the birds will sing,
And tomorrow they'll still have their fun,
But today's a day that still is dawning,
'Til evening comes and day is done.
-bushman
04/16/2015
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