Tag oran
What the dead mean to tell usby the stones which buried themwe may never know: But deathis the grand intelligible by whichus lighter folks are darkly sown. The stones’ dead are my dead too.Both occupy a speechless, moonlitfrostbit bourne, eloquent … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Lord what a storm, pouring hell and high water,flooding the river which ran near an old shackat the bottom of my family’s mystery gulch.So my brothers and I (none of us looking aswe do or did outside of dreams) went … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A long time since I’ve been down to shorewhere sea and sky weave the blacknight’s choir.Ages: And as each one ended the question boomed:Shall my exile in the book now end? Doesprincipality like some copyright expire? Oran went to the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In the ditch of my dream theyremoved a lower portion of my spine —a desperate, deathly procedure —afterwards someone described whatscribes had discovered down therenarrating grisly details of scalpel, forceps,bone-saw and grippers for freeingthen holding aloft those dripping low bones:A … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Allhallowtide sweeps the land with northern coldrustling the dead up from the graves to valeNovember mornings dark and old, their whaleof plainsong matin heard best in rememberedstone, that echoing resonance which tides andtolls. Life goes on in its paling account, … Continue re... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’ve little business with the living nowand the dead are dreadful to domain,regarding me with lucent interest(tonight a dire full-mooned bane)yet ever pale bone-fingered at ghostlyMeaning’s lingered lips. Here yet not,like the figure in my dream last nightI swore played … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I learned to love the mysteryin AA where they say you need onebut leave it to you to nameand tend and well the fullestdepth of it. Decades now oftwo to three meetings a weeksitting in a room half-full of seekersand … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Every poem is pilgrimageto a truth or its vowelage,a soothing drink from thesubsuming bath which oneday births us into starlight.A cursus shapes the fallingmanner of the lines, acrossand down the banks of athought’s winding coursefrom incipience towardJerusalem, a fullness ofvantage … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
No longer Mesolithic, the Neolithiclamented its watery birth out of oldsubsummations with stone ancestralstead, houses of memory lamentedby the lustral ever dead. Near Glastonburytribes living on peat recalled the GreatDeluge when glacial melt made thesea fierce, chasing the hunter-gatherersinland and … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Doors are opening; the dead unhengethemselves from near-to-monumental timeand issue in their flitter-whisper-synewhat poets equate with perfect rhyme.There’s my brother Will who diedlast April, clear as those last monthswe shared, his vapor almost halcyon:But who’s that walking next to him?He’s … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It was just a front passing through, a bandof rain leading the way of a blessed cool front.Sunday afternoon, vendors at the craft showdowntown eyeing the massing of greysand starting to pack up an hour early.It started raining tentative and … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The witch arose from wave and gale cloaked in hoary midden shells and hagfish bone, rattling the clamor with the dead white roar of the sea. Dare thou seat my island throne? shrieked she in treble bane. Breech you … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
How long did it take to fish mefrom the drunken nugatorythe dust of Oz bequeaths? When did I become a dorsal finfanning verse in Devonian time,this waltz of charms in water trine? Centuries of nights topplingbottles of prime murk ooze,blundering … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
No one may access the angels of Ionabut through Odhran: that was howSt. Columba put it after burying hisbrother as deep as six men standinginside the abbey’s cut foundation. An honor for Odhran’s sacrifice,for sure, and practiced in multipleson the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead are rubbing their bones on my bedroading my dreams with their distant tread.Sighing this, this is the life-sense I recallin a thrall like to pilgrimage, reliving the mysterybarefoot and bent under the heart’s ghosted shawl.Remembering yearning at megalith … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Down by the lake there’s a two-acre wood lot where trees have grown for decades, surrounded by blocks of houses older and new. Who knows, maybe it was part of the old pine logging camp or a later resort … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Sitting at an AA meeting where we talked about practicing these principles in all our affairs I chewed on a dream from the other night like some raw dog flesh, pith or marrow of dead truths told flush, harrowed … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
… Nearing death, one doesn’t see death; but stares beyond, perhaps with an animal’s vast gaze. Lovers, if the beloved were not there blocking the view, are close to it, and marvel… As if by some mistake, it … Continue reading U... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Summer’s height and might, throb-tide, the sky like a sea entranced by its own drowned thrash, beyond potent and expectant in each souse and throb. This hour, late dark, full-mooned, never sated enough, balling the humidity in its black … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Als der Schwarze Tod übers Land zieht, bleibt den Menschen nichts als beten. Wer von der Pest befallen und wer von ihr verschont wird, bleibt den Menschen ein Rätsel. 1348 ist das schicksalhafte Jahr, in dem die Pest – nicht … ... mehr auf literaturundfeuilleton.wordpress.com
Summer of ’45: A cold June in Paris, leaden and heavy, the rain too stringent with the dead, their bulleted stead. A ghostly citadel. Not much food left in the markets and street cafes, no gardens growing in bombed … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I see us walking down the quay with our remaining burdens— a bundle of clothes, a trunk perhaps, scant-filled with dowried dreams—: The ship wallowing at high tide like a matron crying for midwife, distending her welcome to us … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A cutting too long in water, its cup overfilled, a lusciousness lavishly stilled: The kiss after midnight fatally swilled. Who knows why such fragrance dies here, drowning so late in enchantment, rapture become weight, drift become sea. Seals are … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I haven’t a dream to lift this lid but still the hinges creak in water. I sing it from the vale of time green as lawns on latest afternoons, in light that angled, sickle-prime to moons arising to haul … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
As usual I write this to you standing near your memorial — faded, your time in this world and as my brother etching into stone, living memory lost, joined now in the vast receipt of the dead — stones … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
They’re with us always in the rainy season, piling in magnificence and malevolence up and across astonishing strokes of sky. They are neither of a measure or deity our level human thought could ascribe. Even when it doesn’t rain … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Long ago, in the early years of journaling & patching verse together it came to me that when the real leaves you homeless, there’s always the surreal. It’s the American Way though I didn’t know it then. I was just … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It’s too late for apprehension, the change is now behind the times. It’s taken root and wickers minds in heat and storm and surge. It shadows what we quicken like the haunted pair dancing outside the bar approaching dawn. … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I have more volumes by Charles Wright than by any other poet except maybe Rilke: Never my favorite but always up there, I’ve read his poems for thirty years. Time now has that solid thunk to it, the apparition … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Here’s a skull now; This skull hath lien you i’ th’ earth three-and-twenty years. —Clown gravedigger in Hamlet, Act V, scene 1 He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore’s rocks or what you will, the … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’m trying now to live downside the fall. That part of the miracle play that continued after, no rubes to enthrall or sins confessed, no organ note’s gold cross. I sing the charring heft of breezy afternoons after blazing contrails … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
There is only this moment Between dust and silence A goose in flight over water Brother, all I have of you now Is a wilderness of pauses Where you stood still Whispering This And took the picture (Twenty times … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’m still waiting for my past to wake up. Long stretches of it snoozed the afternoon of my earlier life. I sense I missed something in class, the part of the instruction which taught how to number spirits. You … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The destructive blue and the white belong to the same fire. — James Hillman, “Alchemical Blue” If alchemy turns memory into soul then what is that pool at about this hour thirty years ago, its morning much like today’s, … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The ghosts are filling up the square that faces Congress; they have an air of past griefs mixed with present woe so prescient the marchers almost glow evanescent, frail candles in grey skies whose flicker out forever flies. … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1978, a cold afternoon’s walk by the Spokane River and the totem pole on Canada island, relic not of the native population sent packing to the res but of the environmentally-themed Expo ’74— paint almost fresh, the stacked faces half … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
This time of summer, afternoons kilt white with clouds, upsurging Picts in blind swelter— a hundred Fahrenheit of surge. I swim the mounts above the day’s commute, a seal evaporate whose eyes bore not on heaven or beyonds but … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I have touched many shores in this voyage, wakened in many beds, turned and discovered many worlds blooming inside these wounds. The bucket I pull from the well today brims with a lucence found only once, at only one … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
New basis. Forget history or progress. No more extraction building up what never will sustain. No more faith in powers unseen. No more walls for privileged shires. No more bail. No more hope. No white sails. Tear it … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
As tail goes I got it I suppose but not the way these rubes step on each other’ toes to gawk. Not by a drowning mile. Someone’s gotta work the rear but this? My salmon head lopped off & … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
