Tag oran
As they say in AA about relapse romancing genies from old bottles hang around the barber shop long enough, you’re gonna get a haircut. Likewise, when you pay attention to your dreams you’re going to get news from the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
ace In the still place I seek truth is beauty but beauty isn’t poetry. It’s more. Sleek meters and curved sound, tapestries of tale, description’s torc of rolled gold: All of that just gets me up to the … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Oh how vacated the inward precincts felt leaving Christ and church behind as I turned 17: A life ahead without the stout assurance of what was promised by the sanctifying dead in words of God the text inked red. … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
No one beats the house playing cards the way they’re wrought and taught and bought in kin and kind Day One to snake-eyed Doom. Ain’t gonna happen: But who isn’t so entranced by the spell of swords and hearts … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Who knows? Perhaps all my blunders were porpoised by the singing one arising from dearth to profane psalm. I sure learned more from falling in a public swimming pool when I was 3 than all those years of Sunday … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The muse inside dreams loves glory for sure, so much I am repeatedly staged for it in the lousy particulars of my less than glorious life: Low places I lingered too late in become the same awful worst-life apartment … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It’s spring and time to sow poetry in long rows of ancestral song, where light is raw, first and growing in the farthest fetch of time. The land undulant, its soil fertile, the plow blading surely in black loam … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I fell in love for the first time — truly, deeply, bodily with a dreadful splash — just as heaven was breaking in Spokane that spring of 1978. The chanting of cold rain late at night on the roof … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I write these poems as snatches from a sidhe — portions of heath from a darker cauldron’s seethe than any Lord of Isles can recall much less invoke for me. I write my measures bucket size, enough in matin … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The bells are there in the night when you ask for them. There in the cool spring breezes swaying the tops of oak trees where you dream. A deep iron tone wrought long ago by the dead yearning for … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The ancestors I’m now digging up may or may not have anything to say in troth of family lore (or say much about what I wish or think they might) but the deep personal is like that, a semblance … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A happy afterlife – peaceful, fully employed in routines ended by dearths and deaths both structural and corporate —: That was what the dream seemingly imposed on my sleep, employing me again at the newspaper as I left it … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Standing with my minister father at a terminal in O’Hare Airport in Chicago in 1974, I bid farewell to his Christian failure with my own dumbass kid of a fin-de-siècle wave. He wanted me to study Divinity the way … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Here would be a great time to introduce my fourth great-grandfather Richard, born during the Revolutionary War and settling in Tennessee then Illinois, a mechanic and maker who cobbled furniture for members of the community, fed ‘em too when … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I wanted to write my father’s story aright but his penis kept irrupting like Oran’s mouth uttering hot defiance of Christ from the grave. But I can’t decide for whom my father’s ghost misbehaves, if I’m redressing the right … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
My father taught me weight of stone, the earths-deep and ancient witness that they bear. (Once a pastor, he also taught me Christian ruse — always fraught with truths darkly boozed). I recall standing in his chapel the year … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Still I would make myth of it in the remembrance of the one who is thousands of generations old and dreams me every night, the next Tristan to her Isolde. Her lover is my thousand fathers compressed into this … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
How far a name carries, how little its true domain. When I look down from my present canopy into the generations of my family tree, only one branch and pitch of trunk and single stem of root carries that … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It’s spring and the tide rouses raw to green the flowering word. All is latency, lifting its skirt to dash laughing across the mud of vernal fields. As a winter book closes I clear ground for the proximal dead, … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I am a door between seasons When summer wound into fall and I started my junior year of high school — mine was a lame little free school of 15 ne’erdowells, up on the second floor of my … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
When an AA oldtimer at the 5:30 Happy Hour meeting spoke of a clubhouse in Orlando where I had begun staying sober one day at a time for the rest of my life, it was like hearing clean water … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
But rising is fraught when one asks into what? Age for sure, one’s own and the world’s, both coarsened and withered by the dazzling fuse of of forges unbound. This may be the last age for poetry, a dementia … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
As some poems and tales serve the dark — winter is for epic dreams of the dead — so as light returns the harp yearns to strum the green dance, playing a wakened strain where things begin rising again. … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I first heard it quite young, sitting on Jacksonsville Beach between my mother’s voice calling and the sound mulling from the sea, both and yet neither, some third voice adding a low sweeping tone forming a beckoning croon crafted … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Where should I lay this book now that it feels already done? In what corn-row well or Rome? The dream told me to place it on my dead father’s desk, a self-published volume fat and buxom with tales of … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Literate culture ground the liquid heart of sound: poems can be committed to linear sense, but the singing of them has virtue of ceruleans not found for centuries until a Benedictine monk devised means to affix the bouncing sidhe … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I could swim forever down here, it seems, this Allhallowtide swollen far past the solstice bank and now aiming for the spring equinox for a finish line or thereabouts, maybe Beltane or even Samhain thereafter: However, though the source … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The sound of a woman weeping proved instrumental in hauling me back from an abyss of grievous wrong, sleeping in bottled abyss: The therapist I was then working with saw me follow her down that sad deep well and … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I recall my brother’s wake if you could call it that, his body laid out on a table beneath a sheet in the chapel of a funeral home in Salem, Oregon. His organs had already been harvested and his … 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
I can sing loud and long lament for a brother dead and long so by now, my remembrance faded and sere, wisps of fleeting absence barely crisping the buds of the tabebouia tree planted for him in the memorial … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead’s lament is mine to sing as best as I can to honor their receipt, weaving spells and knells up from their wells wherever dreams and myth seashell ‘em. In this I honor Linus, the first to shape … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Sorrows I’ve had plenty — who hasn’t? — And for that half of my life when such things counted most for reverse ballast and frozen ghosts, I was entranced by the lament of them — the sound both small … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The lament I weave here from the dead is hooded in dead language, the Gaelic which their low slow song heaved long centuries with a pregnant, almost vocal sigh. That sound invokes the next poet in its tide, bidding … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I write here spiraling in a well’s updraft like a buzzard whose gene is life from death, huge and black-winged with a beak for other- worldly sooth and tearing into truth lamented fully by the dead. My kin fly … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Perhaps the seas-wild time-storming dream was lamenting my lack of Gaelic with a shower of its force, a lingua enginned by the triune power of the three noble strains in the polyphonic dimension of stellar morse, the entire … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Without their ogham these markers of the dead’s lament are headless, chanting in a dead tongue last heard as Gaelic and now faint as starlight in the baldest seeps my English words suggest. Nigh useless in this forgetful age, … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The sound of grief is raw and wild, a Gorgon of the heart beheaded of its cor, that love of its life which could be a husband or a child, soar of art now lost forever. A foreign sound … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
She came up from the sea of night to teach me her wet druidry. “Here is Womb,” she rasped through a larynx of gale, pointing to the sea inside her scales. “The water of birth and firstness, blue glitters … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Traces of the epic chorus still resound in dream to echo a lament that was ancient then and now faceless as stone. Its grief ores so much hardened soul it left a break in my neck bone on the … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com