The Animal State (Imagery, Allegory And Satire)
No earthquake, no thunder, no volcanic eruption
Or even there was not any of other natural calamities,
A sudden loud sound broke out all through the bush
With whizzing, shuddering, cracking, tearing, echoing,
Fear, horror, dark, terror, misery and ill spirits spread
Committing destruction, death in a horrible situation,
Dust, dirt, smoke coiled over the whole atmosphere
The harmless animals are quite perplexed, helpless
They began crying, shouting, running, rushing, fainting
Seeing reddish spots and innumerable torn bodies.
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.
And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.
Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
Winter Trees
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
Digression On Number 1, 1948
I am ill today but I am not
too ill. I am not ill at all.
It is a perfect day, warm
for winter, cold for fall.
A fine day for seeing. I see
ceramics, during lunch hour, by
Mir6, and I see the sea by Leger;
light, complicated Metzingers
and a rude awakening by Brauner,
Through The Old Oak Tree
A stream flowing through the old oak tree is still alive.
The heart of the forest (wood which has lived to long it is, unexpected obstacle, this living log
and complicated cover which I lowered)
of rich redwood of old green growth
the menagerie where these forests are in English it is simple.
Once of the lower order I climb up to be exchanged.
Decrease slippery many salamanders for example,
going in and out of the mouth of holes in the clay.
Fire's Reflection
Perhaps it's no more than the fire's reflection
on some piece of gleaming furniture
that the child remembers so much later
like a revelation.
And if in his later life, one day
wounds him like so many others,
it's because he mistook some risk
or other for a promise.
The Initiate
St. John of the Cross wore dark glasses
As he passed me on the street.
St. Theresa of Avila, beautiful and grave,
Turned her back on me.
"Soulmate," they hissed. "It's high time."
I was a blind child, a wind-up toy . . .
I was one of death's juggling red balls
On a certain street corner
She
She is the one
who will notice
that the first snapdragon
of Spring
is
in bloom;
She is the one
who will tell the most
funny
Thank You And I Love You
My dear friend,
I haven’t told you this,
I always guess that people know,
But you are a part of my existence,
Part of my reality
And heart.
I can carry on
And cover simple words
With complicated meanings,
But at the end
For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
Paradise Lost: Book 10
Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
Was known in Heaven; for what can 'scape the eye
Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
Complete to have discovered and repulsed
Hiawatha's Photographing
From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Autobiography
I am leading a quiet life
in Mike’s Place every day
watching the champs
of the Dante Billiard Parlor
and the French pinball addicts.
I am leading a quiet life
on lower East Broadway.
I am an American.
I was an American boy.
I read the American Boy Magazine
The Emigrants: Book Ii
Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.
Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now
Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made
Four times her revolution; since with step,
Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,
Pensive I took my solitary way,
Lost in despondence, while contemplating
Not my own wayward destiny alone,
Rejection
Rejection is pain
pure and simple
impure and complicated
doesn't matter
rejection is pain
and nobody on earth is exempt from it
and I doubt there is any relief from the hurt
except the passage of time and the pen in a poet's hand.
.
.
Bonaparte
Searching words in puzzle mazes
Guessing letters in cryptic phrases
Solving clues across and down
Mixing jumbles with pronouns
All her statements contradicting
Making promises, seldom sticking
Nixing kisses with odd looks
All caught up in romance books
Long Distance Love
When it hurts so bad,
why does it feel so good?
I wish this all made sense,
I wish I understood.
Not having you here with me is tearing me up inside,
but I can't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I try.
You know how I feel about you,
and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you,
but it's so hard to do when I can't even be next to you.
A Story Untold
Stollen moments in the night as
the kaddie dids were singing
We danced to their music
Darkness and yet a slight hue of light
that casted a slight shadow on your face
Singing love spoken words, and kisses
inbetween, is where we shared our
afterhours, even the park bench had
Underneath (9)
Spring
Up, up you go, you must be introduced.
You must learn belonging to (no-one)
Drenched in the white veil (day)
The circle of minutes pushed gleaming onto your finger.
Healthy
You are what I love
And crave for so badly that nothing's ever enough.
Somehow creeping to my head,
that it's for the best of me.
Complicated, it gets.
My choices are weakening, I'm not that person anymore.
Delusional, I'm going.
For that thing speaks louder than my sounds of pain.
A joy that never lets me rise,
I'm somehow in the middle.