First Draft Words While Reading Octavio Paz (2)

Not Ready

I’m not ready to die just yet.
I’ll keep pushing this body past its years.
God will forgive me if I covet yours
for a little longer
if I offer up my desire
to all that suffers.
God tastes the tenor of my intent
and why I spread my fingers
over your yielding turns.


Excerpts From Toward the poem (starting points) by Octavio Paz:

The poem creates a loving order. I foresee a sun-man and a moon-woman, he free of his power, she of her slavery, and implacable loves streaking through black space. Everything must yield to those incandescent eagles.

Copied from the the book Selected Poems, which you can buy here:


To Cry For Life

A Prose Poem

To Cry For Life

The bird had been broken—shot through by a huntress with a cavernous mouth and teeth like stalactites and from its depths was heard a long echo. The bird’s neck was twisted like a pretzel—its head and brittle yellow beak (the two small holes in which were full of dried blood) and its eyes, dried like raisins, stared upward from its ossuary of wild grass toward a mothering maple tree. The summer sun—gold leaf to some (the living, most of all)—but to this poor creature only caused flies to circle in insidious buzz.

Carried God the Man a sylvan bourn to this lifeless animal—and he knelt, not to worship but to relive, and perhaps to reawaken, for he had died, and that death was his compassion—he was twice-born, so he no longer worshiped death, having died a child to be born a man.

His eyes filled up with water—blue-black oceans that teemed with glowing fishes. Ice-capped mountains formed on his brow and a third-eye sun dawned upon his head. The fishes schooled together and swam upright onto land to penetrate emerald green forests to become sheep and wolves; and to each sheep paired a wolf, and from each sheep-wolf grew wide wings of pearl and lapis lazuli. And they climbed the canopy of sheltering trees to become mighty birds that took flight into the dark night toward celestial spheres to become angels—to sing and shed tears—life-giving rain that fell mercifully on this poor creature around which flies circled in insidious buzz.

“These are my tears,” he whispered and the bird craned its neck to hear. How can one not love that which must die, for all that one loves is extinguished in death. His love mended its broken wings and its neck uncoiled like spring, and its eyes filled up with moisture—rueful, bewildered, and fragile.

And it looked up to God the Man as a nestling might to its mother and said, “Now I am forever always, as must be the wind through which I’ll soar.” But in its seeing eye was a mote of disbelief, as if it didn’t quite believe it was now alive, and that perhaps it was all a dream. And yet it flew, and flew—into the bright blue sky it flew.


Year 2018 365 Photo Journey (April 11th thru April 30th) – Downtown Indy, Downtown Chicago, Windmills

Here are some pics of downtown Indy, some windmills on the way to Chicago, and Chicago itself. Enjoy!


365 Photo Journey

Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.

First Draft Words While Reading Eugenio Montale

Your Words

I once thought
to bind you with my words,
but now to your words
I wish only to be bound—
and to the devil if they fall
on faces bittered by them
and ears deaf to your song.


An excerpt From Mottetti (Poems of Love) by Eugenio Montale

You know this: I must lose you again and cannot.
Every action, every cry strikes me
like a well-aimed shot, even the salt spray
that spills over the harbor walls
and makes spring
dark against the gates of Genoa.

Copied from the the book Mottetti Poems of Love which you can buy here:


First Draft Words While Reading Octavio Paz

Finally Awake

When I finally woke to life
also I woke to death—
for both are incarnate.
There would be no love without death—
No life without love.

The Poor

The poor walk with bruised, disjointed egos.
If only they knew we are all helpless paupers.

Assertions

She said:
“I don’t understand poetry.”
I said:
“I don’t understand prose.”
Neither assertion is wholly
false nor true.

Forest

A trap and its animal.
The beguiling hunter.
The forest and her trees.
The wounded and the free.


An excerpt From The Balcony (from East Slope) by Octavio Paz:

What you have lived you will unlive today
you are not there
                   but here
I am here
          at my beginning
I don’t deny myself
                   I sustain myself
Leaning over the balcony
                         I see
huge clouds and a piece of the moon
all that is visible here
people houses
               the real present
conquered by the hour
                      and all that is invisible
here
    my horizon
If this beginning is the beginning
it does not begin with me
                           I begin with it
I perpetuate myself in it

Copied from the the book A Tale of Two Gardens, which you can buy here:


Adrift

A Short Poem

Adrift


He finally sees the morrow—
when all that’s left is blindness—
when all hope’s lost for land or shore—
only squalls or deadly tempest,
or maelstrom’s eye and heady vertigo—
or lapping waters placid
on timbers rotting—
the marrow of
his only home—
a sinking raft
now adrift—
for long the ocean’s child.


Year 2018 365 Photo Journey (April 2nd thru April 10th) – Random IMA

Here are some pics from the IMA. Enjoy!


365 Photo Journey

Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.

Shameless Gestures

A Short Poem

Shameless Gestures

You come
only when I call with this solitary voice–
you listen–
only when these bare-toothed baubles,
brimming with promise
both primitive and grotesque,
are with shameless gestures swept away,
and to pieces fall and break.


Between Two Seas

A Short Poem

Between Two Seas

Look upon the young faces,
and see a springtide that lasts forever.
Look upon the old faces,
and see the dead on graves’ precipice.

In the strait between,
one must strive to be,
not by straining,
but as a steadfast farmer gathers strawberries.
The work is not strenuous,
although the sun may be, at times, too hot,
and one’s basket too full
or empty.