Tag oran
Like The Arkansas Traveler used to sayat those Friday Night Big Book meetings,If you’re wondering where your God went,ask yourself who moved. Rememberingsometimes feels like homecoming, deeplyprodigal, festooned, door wide and smilingfaces inside, welcoming your return fromdoors closed and forgot … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1. Perhaps my dead haunt real lifewhile I’m dreaming. It’s the closestthey get to talking & walking againtaking dreamtime charge of my skin.Like a selkie up from the wave, walkinglong streets and strumming guitarsjust like they did when alive. That’sfunny … Contin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
My father responded to a sudden irrupt godin kind, upraising stones more devout and stoutthan human time. Bless his heart and its artof gale-force loquation, blowing over Christianfoundations in a nearly enough straight line,church then family then dick then Christ,heretics … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In any given landscape’sscroll of heights into valesarable or terrible or sloped,there are always placesof vantage – far sight orwater source, shelter fromheat or the night, outcropsto mark for wayfarersmaking their way home. Such locations shaped thecoming human generations,glowing or … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’ve written down dreams for fifty years,captive to their spell and amplifiedby the powers dark mind endows.Thousands of night-dowsing echtrafilling journals of every stripe and sizewith the raw hand of first waking, oneyawn shy of legible. Not that anyonewill ever … Continu... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’m learning that poetry essentiallyis time dreaming wrong, affixingits angels to banana peel wings.Confessing its tale of bent phallito swamps putrid with icky words.The redress Iron Age grievancein hoards thick with necked swords. Wrongo bongo eh boyo? Keep thatup if … Conti... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
563 AD 1. Wild of mind and blind to home —excommunicatio, ex nihilo et perigrinatio —the exiled saint sailed isle to islein search of one beyond love’s sight,unseeing of his soul’s sick light. Each island their coracle beachedthe saint heaved … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A century or two after the written word cameto Ireland, deposition of Latin on vellumin obedience to a distant Rome’s Godmust have felt akin to white martyrdom,departure from the homeland’s old pastoral,vast sacred landscape and oral lore allsacrificed to cross … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I hardly dare say that Izdubar’s fateis grotesque and tragic, for thatis what our most sacred life is. — Jung, Black Books Poetry has grown intolerantof its myth, all those lostenclosures & forgotten wellsblessed by this or that pagansaintthrown risible … Continue r... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Allen Ginsburg at the north end of Iona, 1973. I’m swimming the wet part of the heritage myth wherea man grows old copyingthe island his father foundswimming with the drowned. I read, I rummage, I go herethen there, feathered andfinned in … Co... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
We read nature in translation at best, failing to hear its most subtle verse. Last night I dreamed of teaching Rilke to a graduate school class in a library inside the cathedral of Notre Dame. But nothing was right. … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The year began with record coldin Florida — a 21-degree lowone morning like an Arcticboot dashing Paradise, whichin our yard meant sayonarato the pinwheel jasmine withher pinafore of white blooms.A virgin sacrifice the newgod of an untenable North,too warm now … C... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The shit the dead have to put up with —frozen and annihilate with only theechoing cone of rhyme to suggesttheir memory has substance in time,that medium we only know nowgleaned from shattered glass. Oh the groans & moans the headstones … Continue reading ... 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
What do we knowof truths down under?Messages from You, Paternost,are dried by wet thunderon vellum furthermost. You sing as You like; it’s wewho shrink the breeched whaleto drink-sized pinky hell,the rant of things gone staleknelling vacant the sailed. Who made … Contin... 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
It’s winter in Connecticut,snowing up a gale; Marilynis home alone this Christmas.Arthur is away, demanding asolitude she knows is icedwith the old contempt of herhaving found her naked self(and probably another woman,sap as he is for muses). She sits by … ... 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
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
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
