Tag oran
I get it — the age of poetry ended centuries ago.One of my Irish ancestors wrote the Gaelic verse“Who Will Buy A Poem?” rolled and cast in a welloutside the towns where patronage and hospitalitywere flattened in the meter of Cromwell’s … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Time reduces our adducings to fact, the longdroll stroll of the forgotten and redact. SaintColumba on Iona – who can recall the monk’sactual words commanding Oran no longer speakwhen the abbey built over him is two thousandyears of what wind, … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I dreamed I read a line on some invisible pageand three words strange and risible caught my eye —of course, awake now I can remember only one,abbas, which might mean Abbot or Abbey,moon-badness after the orb madly shoneOr something else? … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1986 Now the tale dissembles into blistered nightsof blackout drunks strung with eyehole blightsweek after month after seasons of a bad yearravaging the bars in at the bottom of the sea,drinking no longer to reach but only to escape,trying to … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It’s tough reading stuff provided by dreams,hard to make out the copy – the letters, arethey modern or Ogham? Is the languageEnglish but its sense seal Gaelic? I fumbleand start again, doom clocks ticking, tryingto make sense of what the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1991 version There came a time of humans before timewho quarried great phalli from the earthand lifted them in worship of the sun’s great round.So, too, they built great gates intothe burial darkness of the tumulus.These dolmens faced southeast, towardthe … Continue r... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead in my dream bid me walk a long halllined with file cabinets and bookshelvesstuffed past the gills of the sea-god withephemeral Lives, reporter’s notebooks andnewspaper clippings, company newslettersfrom decades ago, with the dusty redolenceand browning edges of living … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Dad, you knew the power of festival on the lee side of your bones: Walking Iona awash in dream, death and vision the standing stones which once ringed the island circled you, chanting a song half wind half deep … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Corn moon full and wisped byrag-ends of last night’s gulley-washer,beams freeing from the obscureand striking the known in fomentsof Oran fresh up from the grave. I see a patch freshly headstonedreceding into silver shadows.Sod of birth and death, wisdom andfool … Contin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
To what end these latter amends to late nightfriends who for all purposes are already dead?I ask myself that frequently and watch for bendsof attitude and altitude remitting lost calends.At the present most difficult of depths (or soassessed by the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The sea is history. I read that this morning in an old journal and watch it seethe with fresh-rising depth, something to fetch, window and believe. The long salt of forever is what happened to what came after, a … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Oh you should have seen me back thenravening wild on desire’s back roadsin my red convertible Rolls, my blackhair like a mane feral in the courses ofstarry night, my hands cold and smoothas fossil magma on the silver wheel. There … Continue reading &#... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’ve always thought the light I’d filament when donewould glow with that rising sun at New Smyrna Beachin 1981, bright gold unhinged from a flat sepia seaframing just so the woman standing in the shallowssmiling wearily at me after our … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A Breviary of Guitars February 2000, looking back on September 1986 Friday, end of the week & exhausted but I’m up beforethe alarm greedy to write here about this ceaseless excess, impossible as every great love, every killer diller song:Incessant … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Angst of the old life and its gods are still a shadow to these words now swinging summer scythes for laments I’ll never understand, much less sing the breadth and breath of for the dreaming dead. How easy it … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
space Orpheus lost Eurydice on their wedding day— what could be more tragic? The adder’s fangs struck at her heel, tolling into their vernal kiss dead winter’s lead bell. What could he do? Love is no harness for plowing death’s … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dream’s heart is sad — there is no otherkey for lament — and bittersweetly beautiful,drifting like a spirit looking back for a far shorefaded forever from view. But Memory survivesin dreams, musing pastoral about love withmy life’s lonely crew … Continue readi... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
An invisible woman sangon the wind with a dark-deepening stroll that an islandfiddler heard, translatingher sadness onto fretsand sawed bow buoyinga port for the heart. It was the voice of the sidheperhaps or the dream,beyond language or even noteswelled and … Continue rea... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Leaving the church when I left homeat sixteen, for the next 15 yearsI paroxed my bones in Western tonesof toxic madness, drunk and wieldinga bluer black guitar & fucking every So?in La La Land with devilled gland. Down the Oran … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
They always played Foreigner’s “Waiting for A Girl Like You” at last call in the rock ‘n’ roll bar I hung out in those last years of my drinking life. A sweet, yearning song which made my end of night despair so strewn, another night wasted standing around in the din of big-hair bands … … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
St. Bartholomew’s 2025 How much is this life my ownand how much is living stone?It’s a modern presumption to thinkI alone have gone at this since birth,unique and individually both lostand seeking the identity I am most. My seed came … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Rilke (speaking for Orpheus I suppose and all whose voices rhyme such purpose) bid us to transform the remnant shine of Things withal within, that they endure despite their vanishing in the drowned cathedrals of onward time. Even … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I. Forgive this disturbance of the siltwhich cerements the sea-bottomsidhe of whoever you became, Mary,neighbor whom I screwed towardthe end of my long lewd song,a lustbath over several weeks beforeheading off to band practice forever.Running from the small possibility oflove … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Spring is the season of passionate young menDying. Their fragrant ardor is tented inCorruption, the scent of orange blossoms raptIn billows of pyre smoke. The youngest sonsOf our four families are arrayed out that way,Like spring in hard reverse, greening … Co... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Slept badly on the couch last night — Billythe black stray cat had surgery yesterdayto excise a huge polyp in his throat – he’llbreathe & eat without discomfort nowand we hope to introduce him Insideas feral summer shards ever mightier.Tried … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A Breviary of Guitars / July 2000 Early spring 1986 Some say our survival as a species threads uponan inability to recall with any duration or clarity our worst pains: If you could, they say, how or whyshould we keep … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
High summer’s harvest mass, the raised scythedripping molten iron on all that passes in veldsphantastical, grown high and vast. Here mydreams and visions, chords and verse ladder the terce of my dead, raising hope thatlament may nurse a psalm inside … Continue readin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dream draped herself in the mis-en-scenedrabberies of my risable theme, hauntinglate night friends to make latter amends:A bedside close to dawn where I clung to anolder woman not my mother nor any fuckI remember but there, light beginning to … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
from “A Breviary of Guitars,” July 2000 Winter 1985-86 If I learned anything that awful final season of guitars,it was how truly far you can fall holding a guitar wrongwise: How dread the destination of motions borne out ofthe shadows … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Then turn to the dead, listen to theirlament and accept them with love.Be not their blind spokesman. — Carl Jung, The Red Book Perhaps every poem in this Wellis a eulogy for the dead, a livingresponse to the sorrowful andtroubled … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Highest and lowest as I wrote a poemwriting down wildest heights I’ve flownin beloved arms. A stone masterwork, mychapel of chained Eros, married with a mortgageunbottling a naked grief. Giving voice to itafter a decade underground, charming it upto life … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Dog day summertime, beaten flat and bleachedlike a leeched sheet on the line by a dunewhich the seabreeze hammers to white nil.We lamp our daily blackness in such heatcenturying the world’s late defeat. Groceryprices rising in Trumpbling balloons, micro-plastic dinners … Co... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It felt like the last great love, my last chance at getting rightwhat always felt like mistaking grails in distant courts.Fall of ’85, driving my wheezy Datsun — tanist of a thousanddrunk drives home — up from Orlando to Deland, … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
From A Breviary of Guitars, June 2000 One night in late September 1985 I headed out as usualin my leaky boat of rock dreams seeking to fulfill what I could not sing: The moon ripe and full over Winter Parklike … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
She was lost somewhere amid the notes scrawledon a pad in a box heaped in a closet so long agothat finding her name wasn’t possible. Harder stillwas trying to find why she was important at allin the dream’s yin calibrations—mother? … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The Mystery came to me last night all sinuousand snaky, three deep steps under delight.First I played Her like a rock n roller, angularand hot in flight from the father & fightinghis demons with underworld shivs noirbright— one of the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
This present series of poems are part of a more general project since fall 2023, using Oran’s Well to lift poem-sized buckets of yearnings from the far side og dreams —so-called Laments of the Dead. The central inspiration comes from … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
You privileged life calling me Daddy;I sacrileged it saying goodbye.That’s the main gloss on the wound’sgrave in these words, maybe forgivenand probably not – our childhoodsclench such prehistories in their teeth —but regardless those six years weresurely subsumed in the … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1990 I recall Saturdays in my first marriage, grocery shopping and yard chores in the morning, lunch and an afternoon movie with my stepdaughter, then turning thirteen. We lived with my wife and her mouther in a rented house … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Dad, you loved the founding tale of Iona’sabbey, where Columba buried Oran to appeasea regnant energy to build new on old.So much so that you made it your true north,or the graveside capstone of it, raising a stonenecropolis to echo … Continue reading &#... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
