31 Wednesday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, British, Pike (David), Video, Writing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yK55v9713Is
UK poet David Pike is also Editor and Webmaster of Pulsar Poetry Magazine
http://www.pulsarpoetry.com
30 Tuesday Dec 2008
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3SiEZB5FEw
(c) 2008 T.M. Göttl, all rights reserved
Included in the Crisis Chronicles Library with the poet’s permission
* * *
Order T.M. Göttl’s acclaimed poetry collection Stretching the Window here.
To check out T.M. Göttl’s www.buffalozef.net artist page, click here.
Visit the poet on MySpace at http://www.myspace.com/tmgottl.
She’s also very involved in the Evening for Chuck benefit for Pancreatic Cancer, which will be held on Sunday, September 14th 2009. Please check out www.eveningforchuck.com for more information and to show your support for this very important cause.
29 Monday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, American, Cleveland, Eberhardt (Kevin), Writing
Down or horizontally silent for
Northern Ohio poet Kevin Eberhardt
Escalation
The stairs climb of themselves
In deliberate expectation as up
The most part except where
Desirous of oil or whatever
Lubricant aspires to quiet
In an electric environment of
Robotic deployment without
Any economic disturbance
Disembodied commands
Keep the data afloat in
Pre-digitized containment
Synchronized in calculated
Pre-arrangement an elevated
Exactness in accordance
With weights & measures
In legalized graffiti framed
On shiny synthetic walls
29 Monday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, American, Collins (Billy), Video, Writing
Billy Collins served two terms as Poet Laureate of the United States, from 2001 to 2003.
For more by Billy Collins, please check out these volumes:
27 Saturday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, American, Smith (Willie), Writing
the poet Willie Smith
[photo by Susan Sanders]
FROM A DYING COCKROACH
Life never promised much… born
in a crack, raised in a cage of gargantuan construction,
tortured by a crew of sadistic gods
whose every casual step
could spell butchery… chased
with rolled newspaper and swatter… days
holed-up in the tv, the radio,
the washer, the dryer, the radiator, the drain;
nights hustling over floors and up walls,
flushed with total fear and garbage lust…
blind feelers wary of death from above
or oases of more trash to gorge,
but useless against the greasy poison…
now, as the petroleum distillate
clogs a last orifice,
I pray my children thrive
and spread the gospel of fear in tight places.
* * *
(c) by Willie Smith, used with the poet’s permission
Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror.
His novel OEDIPUS CADET is available at amazon.com or from Black Heron Press.
His story collections SOLID GAS, GO AHEAD SPIT ON ME, EXECUTION STYLE
and STORIES FROM THE MICROWAVE are collector’s items.
More of his work can be viewed by googling “deeply ashamed of being human.”
See and hear Willie Smith in action at www.youtube.com/wsmith49
And feel free to contact him at williesmith49@hotmail.com
26 Friday Dec 2008
Posted in BC, Bhagavad-Gita, Indian, Religion
Krishna and Arjuna on the battlefield at Kurukshetra
Bhagavad-Gita, chapter 5
“Of Religion by Renouncing Fruit of Works”
Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold (1885)
Arjuna. Yet, Krishna at the one time thou dost laud
Surcease of works, and, at another time,
Service through work. Of these twain plainly tell
Which is the better way?
Krishna. To cease from works
Is well, and to do works in holiness
Is well; and both conduct to bliss supreme;
But of these twain the better way is his
Who working piously refraineth not.
That is the true Renouncer, firm and fixed,
Who- seeking nought, rejecting nought- dwells proof
Against the “opposites.” O valiant Prince!
In doing, such breaks lightly from all deed:
‘Tis the new scholar talks as they were two,
This Sankhya and this Yoga: wise men know
Who husbands one plucks golden fruit of both!
The region of high rest which Sankhyans reach
Yogins attain. Who sees these twain as one
Sees with clear eyes! Yet such abstraction, Chief!
Is hard to win without much holiness.
Whoso is fixed in holiness, self-ruled,
Pure-hearted, lord of senses and of self,
Lost in the common life of all which lives-
A “Yogayukt”- he is a Saint who wends
Straightway to Brahm. Such an one is not touched
By taint of deeds. “Nought of myself I do!”
Thus will he think- who holds the truth of truths-
In seeing, hearing, touching, smelling; when
He eats, or goes, or breathes; slumbers or talks,
Holds fast or loosens, opes his eyes or shuts;
Always assured “This is the sense-world plays
With senses.” He that acts in thought of Brahm,
Detaching end from act, with act content,
The world of sense can no more stain his soul
Than waters mar th’ enamelled lotus-leaf.
With life, with heart, with mind,- nay, with the help
Of all five senses- letting selfhood go-
Yogins toil ever towards their souls’ release.
Such votaries, renouncing fruit of deeds,
Gain endless peace: the unvowed, the passion-bound,
Seeking a fruit from works, are fastened down.
The embodied sage, withdrawn within his soul,
At every act sits godlike in “the town
Which hath nine gateways,” neither doing aught
Nor causing any deed. This world’s Lord makes
Neither the work, nor passion for the work,
Nor lust for fruit of work; the man’s own self
Pushes to these! The Master of this World
Takes on himself the good or evil deeds
Of no man- dwelling beyond! Mankind errs here
By folly, darkening knowledge. But, for whom
That darkness of the soul is chased by light,
Splendid and clear shines manifest the Truth
As if a Sun of Wisdom sprang to shed
Its beams of dawn. Him meditating still,
Him seeking, with Him blended, stayed on Him,
The souls illuminated take that road
Which hath no turning back- their sins flung off,
By strength of faith. [Who will may have this Light;
Who hath it sees.] To him who wisely sees,
The Brahman with his scrolls and sanctities,
The cow, the elephant, the unclean dog,
The Outcast gorging dog’s meat, are all one.
The world is overcome- aye! even here!
By such as fix their faith on Unity.
The sinless Brahma dwells in Unity,
And they in Brahma. Be not over-glad
Attaining joy, and be not over-sad
Encountering grief, but, stayed on Brahma, still
Constant let each abide! The sage whose soul
Holds off from outer contacts, in himself
Finds bliss; to Brahma joined by piety,
His spirit tastes eternal peace. The joys
Springing from sense-life are but quickening wombs
Which breed sure griefs: those joys begin and end!
The wise mind takes no pleasure, Kunti’s Son!
In such as those! But if a man shall learn,
Even while he lives and bears his body’s chain,
To master lust and anger, he is blest!
He is the Yukta; he hath happiness,
Contentment, light, within: his life is merged
In Brahma’s life; he doth Nirvana touch!
Thus go the Rishis unto rest, who dwell
With sins effaced, with doubts at end, with hearts
Governed and calm. Glad in all good they live,
Nigh to the peace of God; and all those live
Who pass their days exempt from greed and wrath,
Subduing self and senses, knowing the Soul!
The Saint who shuts outside his placid soul
All touch of sense, letting no contact through;
Whose quiet eyes gaze straight from fixed brows,
Whose outward breath and inward breath are drawn
Equal and slow through nostrils still and close;
That one- with organs, heart, and mind constrained,
Bent on deliverance, having put away
Passion, and fear, and rage;- hath even now,
Obtained deliverance, ever and ever freed.
Yea! for he knows Me Who am He that heeds
The sacrifice and worship, God revealed;
And He who heeds not, being Lord of Worlds,
Lover of all that lives, God unrevealed,
Wherein who will shall find surety and shield!
HERE ENDETH CHAPTER V OF THE BHAGAVAD-GITA,
Entitled “Karmasanyasayog,” or “The Book of Religion by Renouncing Fruit of Works.”
26 Friday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, American, Leftow (Joy), Writing
Joy Leftow
I Sing The Blues For You Today
I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker, she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
while observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind – the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, I just got too many things to do. 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls & keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help.
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self?
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” Sometimes I’d get confused & asked did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of cab driving & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad. I thought she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper – upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share – strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere – wanting to discover who we really are – got anywhere to go? – uncover ~ see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality – stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory
26 Friday Dec 2008
Posted in 1900s, American, Williams (William Carlos), Writing
XXII
by William Carlos Williams
[from Spring and All (1923)]
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
* * *
25 Thursday Dec 2008
Posted in 1800s, American, Dickinson (Emily), Writing
Emily Dickinson
Heaven is so far of the Mind
That were the Mind dissolved —
The site — of it — by Architect
Could not again be proved —
‘Tis vast — as our Capacity —
As fair — as our idea —
To Him of adequate desire
No further ’tis, than Here
23 Tuesday Dec 2008
Posted in 2000s, American, Brooks (Christina), Writing
Christina Brooks at Lix & Kix 3 in Cleveland on 16 December 2008
[photo by Jesus Crisis]
silent answer
it was there all along
though I did not see it
did not want to see it
the signs, the long pauses
the unanswered questions
the non-committal replies
in every syllable and nuance
that you didn’t speak
I should have known
should have…
the poignant silence
punctuated your every reply
it was so apparent, always there
why could I not see it?
it deafened me, is that why
it took so long to finally hear?
you said so very much
without even uttering
a single word
it was all there, in retrospect
always
in everything you chose
to never say
in every reply you
chose to never make
the ever present answer I’d been seeking
to the question I was so afraid to ask
your silent answers finally said it all.
©2008 by c.m. brooks
* * *
For more by Detroit-area poet Christina Brooks, a.k.a. Rune Warrior, please check out her blog.
Other places where Christina’s work appears include 10K Poets and issue 23 of The City Poetry.
Visit Christina Brooks on MySpace at http://www.myspace.com/runewarrior1
