The Fall Cries to Autumn Fields and Quaint Sidesroads

[rowens]

The Fall Cries to Autumn Fields and Quaint Sideroads 


The Patterns rest hard 
and Attachment works easy,
when the Net of Living 
becomes a Web, Reality
Itself feasts even
on Imagination that flies.

A Parrot in the Heart
recites Compassion with-
out singing nor writing
nor walking the smooth,
unpaved paths, as though
every freeing space between
a fiber were a rapèd Love.

Light slants and opens the Giddy
brain to a selfsame Land baptized
with Splendor, though those who dance
alone grow fat on toxins though
they follow the Law to the Letter:
In the tailored Abyss of the Matrix.




_____________________________________________________________________________________________








The Golden Masque



Child-Hermit, silly and bright,
dark and mysterious,
even to himself

who knows ALL.
Shadows are dark reflections of Harmony;
Mysteries, Bright Assumptions.

A Garden of Abstractions perishes
by living forever. Time,
a character in a Pageant,

eats off a Roof
like a plate of an Aura Area.
Colors, fickle, call the tune. 




_______________________________________________________________________________________________________




A Drunken Peasant Strokes the Harmonica



Harmony and Union,
the Son and Father
divorced as one.
Such is Love.
Goddess that is us all:
Is, until a cell divides us;
is as a joke is born

from the God of Laughter.
Till Death, that planet fitness,
carves the muscles from our bones
and erects in distillation
the Pan of vineyards, flocking,
a single dance, among the ripe
and tenured Nymphs.

Joy is a song of Fear
Unseismic. The Ocean Still
in its Redness.
Come! voices from the pickled
silence opens bread which from
escapes a Heart. Silence.
If Mind is an Obstacle Course,
People are Funhouse Animals.




Generation


The Masculine Fruit, Plato's Sage,
sees the Self as It is,
so distortion reigns.
As Self-Love is a prison,
biblical in whom he knows;
the homo sapiens Wills his child
into mirror children, casting
a chain in bondage to its Links.

Religion is a Tool's Philosophy:
to honor this Web
of matrices and patterns
is to donate wings to Spider's charity,
foreclosing the Angel's Shoulders
onto a tenured Bat:

Rat of an envious Intellect,
turn all sweet Symbols to Signs.
Signify the entire Ocean
(call it Chaos),
throw a bone into any
unfiltered Abyss.

Saddest Fountain of a pristine Morgue,
amplify the Sepulcher's Book-din music,
calcify Sainted Leviathan.
For horns are but a Handle
and Satan a Temple where Church's a Cardboard Box.
Love of anything other than the Particular
is a Retardation not of the Meaning
but the Explicability of Love.

For the Moon is the marriage of strong Imagination
and a moment's Fancy,
neither angel nor devil, but each an enfant
terrible turned corpse, cog or Genius.
Truth, the Elastic Phantom that wars
by Whim or Conviction or Devotion,
Absolute stamped with Bright Profusion
or Madness serialized.




_______________________________________________________________________________________




Baphomet



Does God Exist?
: God exists within the Question.
Beyond, God doesn't exist;
Exists as you ask a question.

Father and Son Are
the Division of an Avocado,
the seed is the Large World
of the Undigested.

The Digested is your Beliefs,
Feelings, Thought processes, Emotions,
sensations, Opinions, ideas,
Reactions. Certainty 
is antlers on a clockwork orange.
Squishy, but not less real.

[dukealien]

The Fall Cries to Autumn Fields and Quaint Sideroads 


The Patterns rest hard 
and Attachment works easy,
when the Net of Living 
becomes a Web, Reality
Itself feasts even
on Imagination that flies.

A Parrot in the Heart
recites Compassion with-
out singing nor writing
nor walking the smooth,
unpaved paths, as though
every freeing space between
a fiber were a rapèd Love.

Light slants and opens the Giddy
brain to a selfsame Land baptized
with Splendor, though those who dance
alone grow fat on toxins though
they follow the Law to the Letter:
In the tailored Abyss of the Matrix.

After two reads in passing, knew this would require a more studied response.

The first stanza is masterful:  trees as persistent armatures to transitory leaves, those armatures as webs, those webs as networks, containing ideas (back to leaves and spirits).  Bravo!

In S2, the Parrot is Adam Smith's man-in-the-breast which echoes and (re)constructs the feelings of others - when healthy, compassion.  And this sym-pathy takes us violently unaware (because, if meant or aforethought, insincere).

In S3, further consideration of the Gap (or Abyss).  The double "though" put me off a bit:  the second is irreplaceable; the first resists "while," "yet," and "but."  "While" is closest but doesn't contain the idea of contradiction, only simultaneity.

Quite marvelous.

[rowens]

I'm re-reading all the Twayne Literary Criticism Books from the 1960s and '70s and '80s, appropriating each poet's style and symbols as I go, working out these liminal poems on the way to finally writing my actual books.

Bia is putting me through a Savage Apprenticeship of Ease post-Covering Cherub.