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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/23/2009 9:06:00 AM |
a poem (I suppose)
He brought me the tears of many years
Encapsulized in newspaper print,
Stories that could not be held
And heard just by journalists,
But the masses had to Get them...
Thank you, love, for both the poem and the compliment, but if I have such a "great mind," how come I'm so far from being rich?! | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/25/2009 12:16:15 AM | In the darkness Tolstoy always understood
richness to be the texture of leaves under raindrops
birch meeting the winter, the wife a necessity
a cord rooted to the progeny.
At light Tolstoy walked, climed at stark age, eighty.
A tree. Where did his worn eyes look?
Eternity. Never bank notes. A silly notion.
If I die poor, I die satisfied.
I had Egypt at my fingertips. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/25/2009 5:38:34 AM |
In the darkness Tolstoy always understood
richness to be the texture of leaves under raindrops
birch meeting the winter, the wife a necessity
a cord rooted to the progeny.
At light Tolstoy walked, climed at stark age, eighty.
A tree. Where did his worn eyes look?
Eternity. Never bank notes. A silly notion.
If I die poor, I die satisfied.
I had Egypt at my fingertips.
This is that rarest of combinations, wisdom that is also beautiful! It reminds me of the Keatsian: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know." | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/25/2009 9:07:18 PM | In the richness of that dark
texture, only bare threads, water worn,
eluviated, vein, or not, in vein,
radiate suspect cavernous and empty spaces,
much the same, as the undersides
of leaves, first foliate, then succumb,
moment by moment, each and every first
encounter, prior to dawn, prior to hunger,
and dream's treading
thirst | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/25/2009 11:03:40 PM | I cannot believe that the skeletal nature of leaves
speaks to the outer view of supposing
I lived. Thirst alleviated by water worn, water
slipping with welcome down this throat.
Dreams tread not softly (often) Dreams awake
the need to activate nostrils to breathing
hands to moving the hair from my face.
The feet walking to distances separated...
by love, a lack, a filling, frightening wrenches.
the elemental thirst ...pop! I breathe. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/26/2009 12:23:05 AM | purrhaps yuv tekin to liken dis
sert uv l'eyes
in mean tyme
me drearly
uver luked
obsidian
made in ta'
nives
and udder sharp objects
more sharp den da surgens
nives
more glassy den
da uncles wet
wooden leks
and purrly eyes of glass
purrheps
sess reinbeau
trout
pharm es inundated
wet glass lek da obsidian
nives
jest as glassy
shes some princess
ant dat way
she maize as well stay as one
of dem
black diamonds
honour neck
shabs | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/26/2009 12:38:03 AM | The body without organs is the machine. The machine feeds on the worlds'
blood [Baudelaire]. It has no organs, nor vestigal entities nor remotely related
organs of the flesh. Therefore the body without organs cannot feel. It has
some of the same properties of the flesh such as purpose, function, and it
can do work. The modern machine does not require a human to use it, but it
uses humans to operate, whereas the neolithic tool, the obsidian knife
cannot function with the hand, and neither can the spinning wheel, or the
maddock. The "hills shall be planted with maddocks" [Old Testament].
The modern body without organs [machine] can make other machines. There is a
economy of the machine that operates like a nervous system. It is the ebb
and flow of capital, or token capital, in the markets of New York, and Tokyo.
It operates symbolical as a pulse of economic activity that represents the
activity of machines around the world that confer an entitlement to the
owners in the form of the surplus of future returns from existing machines
and new patents and market opportunities.
The obsidian knife could be fabricated only by one person who had the time
and training to take a piece of volcanic glass into their hands and survey
it for its utility. The organs in this case inform the brute matter with
purpose and design. Modern machines cannot do this except if they are
programmed and what is programmed into them is an artefact of the calculus
on noble intentions, but sometimes unethical intentions. The safety of many
machine products is unknown and often is in question. Uranium mines and
nuclear reactors disperse minute amounts of radio-isotopes that damage for
millenia the very DNA of all that lives, affecting the thyroids of children
in Hiroshima, and in Chernobyl, forfeiting their future to children of their
own, and to live a long and healthy life. In fact prior to the construction
of all the reactors in the world - which currently number about 500 -there was no
understanding about the effects and concentrations of radio-isotopes on
exposed children. The reactor in Chernobyl has been declared "an
experiment" in which the effects of radioactive iodine can be determined in
the population of children that where exposed [cf. Weinberg, New York].
The machine as a body without organs does not forgive. It is not the
representation in art of the "mickey mouse" machine gun, and it is not the
'ultimate time machine' [cross symbolized by the bicycle which requires a
human to command it. The bicycle can never ride by itself].
If someone were to leave all the lights on at night and we were to leave all the
air conditioners on at night, one day the world would suffer a uncontrolled
nuclear reaction. It will only take one person to cause an accident. The
heat wave that is caused by the combustion of millions of machines such as
cars and air conditioners and water pumps to irrigate cotton in the deserts,
would not be turned off voluntarily, but would run even during a brown out.
The coal fired electric plants will have poisoned each wetland with mercury,
with uranium, with lead. The nuclear reactors would not have a backup power
system to control a runaway loss of coolant accident eventually since the
backup systems would have to operate to supply power to the state, the
armies, the factories, the entertainment businesses. The machine that feeds
on the blood of the world cannot be turned off. It has to run out of energy
first. Someone has to ride a bicycle and park their car first. The body
without organs does not feel any pain when the rainforest falls and is
converted to grass, but the birds, beasts and flowers do. Humans, their
ancient neolithic cultures, are being manipulated and machined into
consumers of the products of the body without organs. They will one day lose
all their humanity and their savanna ways. "Cling to Dreamtime...walking works
of art, boys wear clan design during their ten-day circumsion rites. Soon
they will share full membership in Arnheim Land's ancient culture."
[National Geographic article on the oldest peoples on the earth, living in
Australia for 40,000 years]
>From Command Post Andromeda | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/26/2009 5:40:19 AM |
In the richness of that dark
texture, only bare threads, water worn,
eluviated, vein, or not, in vein,
radiate suspect cavernous and empty spaces,
much the same, as the undersides
of leaves, first foliate, then succumb,
moment by moment, each and every first
encounter, prior to dawn, prior to hunger,
and dream's treading
thirst
There's such a marvellously intense, dense texture to this! I can't claim to have understood it perfectly but I thoroughly enjoyed the richness of the experience of reading it. Thank you. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/30/2009 11:50:40 PM | Padma: lotus flower: fire of concupisentia, 'desire'.
yellow moon stars
dancing down below
this is a crises
thru and fro
some of them breaching
some to remain
among soft fluffy cloud
or to wander all alone
or together in some one's
hammac swaying
who listens to
this sound of fallen
snow?
have they fallen
or lifted from below?
my hand is with hers
soft nostril nuzzle
like a horses lips for oats,
epona goddess of horses,
her warmth
this chilly night
in flows and floods
of cinnamon
for this gentle land
of grass
a blue light
a warbling
loose birch bark
against the stem | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 3/31/2009 6:46:00 AM |
Padma: lotus flower: fire of concupisentia, 'desire'.
yellow moon stars
dancing down below
this is a crises
thru and fro..
Magnificent throughout! | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/1/2009 12:18:30 AM | At six full years
What is fashioned
is this awkward, genius
birch bark canoe.
I fashioned , there was no future.
seemingly, ten minutes later
I gave birth. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/1/2009 4:44:07 AM |
At six full years
What is fashioned
is this awkward, genius
birch bark canoe.
I fashioned , there was no future.
seemingly, ten minutes later
I gave birth.
Glorious! Glorious! | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/1/2009 8:09:51 PM | Language
does not understand
only emotion
can build bridges
and tear them down
but religion
pulverizes
freedom
suffocates love | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/2/2009 9:04:42 AM |
Language
does not understand
only emotion
can build bridges
and tear them down
but religion
pulverizes
freedom
suffocates love
I appreciate the first five lines of this but found the introduction of religion to be unprepared for and arbitrary. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/2/2009 9:05:17 PM | religion so subscribed meant
abundance
so much
inside and internally
what is
felt goes so far
things seen today above in the sky
work so far
that nothing more | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/3/2009 4:39:52 AM |
religion so subscribed meant
abundance
so much
inside and internally
what is
felt goes so far
things seen today above in the sky
work so far
that nothing more
Yes! I'm reminded of two lines of my own that I liked so much I used them to begin two different poems:
Sometimes life is all we've got.
Sometimes, it's too much.
A different sentiment, to be sure, but starting perhaps from a similar viewpoint. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/5/2009 1:06:23 AM | religion describes only the dryness.
I tripped as a child, I traced buildings.
I noticed a faraway difference between
what was, what was mine.
I traced with my fingers, my fingers
felt your face, my fingers felt a rose.
My puzzled heart, my silly nose
thought that cinammon toast
amounted to some truth that never held.
One truth held. Alone is alone.
Do not deny alone.
Chilled beyond welcome
winter night, a soft thought
voice whispered to frozen ears.
Child, you are not alone. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/5/2009 4:09:39 AM |
religion describes only the dryness.
I tripped as a child, I traced buildings.
I noticed a faraway difference between
what was, what was mine.
I traced with my fingers, my fingers
felt your face, my fingers felt a rose.
My puzzled heart, my silly nose
thought that cinammon toast
amounted to some truth that never held.
One truth held. Alone is alone.
Do not deny alone.
Chilled beyond welcome
winter night, a soft thought
voice whispered to frozen ears.
Child, you are not alone.
So often your poems are conversations between your most adult self and the child who is still in you - and in all of us. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/5/2009 11:30:06 PM | | A. The child is usually more intelligent and acute than the adult. You lose plenty settling into this swamp of mistaken intelligence called adulthood. A....I appreciate your sites. Plenty, regards. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/6/2009 12:16:36 AM | she brought sweet water
from the face of the dawn
and split rock for lichen
the forest was called
an emission of petals
among the copper plants
the quills in her fingers
became castenets in the evening
spinning willows after the sun
in the distance of eyes
an angel was felt from the sky
bringing the gift of her smile
when she was gone
the children burned another forest
with their tears
and young men promised
their mouths for her petals
among the willows
but yet she would not come
as yet it was still hard to see through tears
the father in me pointed to the sky
and I began to arise
from the base of the painted
butte where lichens attached
and rock and fire and some elements of airy
were stationed
the quills in my fingers made ]
metallic clacks in the evening dim and hum
of nocturnal insects and feathers
in the evening, while she danced,
I climbed a mountain and hear the earth's joy
hear the earth's song, and I could see the red paing' in
what was left spinning
and as she twisted her shadow and
cast her wavy back
black hair to her nose her mouth
and her eyes hid as part of the
coyotes scheme to unleash
mountains of petals a solid emission
there was a rainbow in the creek
to her when she first come
to the earth first came
the wind carried her song
I could create a cascade above the earth'
and wall that in within them and to contain the hours'
as they fall
across the grassy knoll | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/6/2009 4:07:12 AM |
the father in me pointed to the sky
and I began to arise
from the base of the painted
butte where lichens attached
and rock and fire and some elements of airy
were stationed
I've singled out these lines but could just as appropriately have quoted the whole of this beautiful poem, this mystical reverie. | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/7/2009 10:01:48 PM | Dreams have no currency
when I watch you, this fragile moment
I see you...against a sky I couldn't describe
endless, endless varieties of nature
around you, behind you, over above you
presently I only see you, over here, slightly, a horse tail
What is that? a moment away from you.
Why do I watch you?
I was ordered to.
I cannot argue
that you are not the granite
I stepped, I forgot my literature
I forgot why the sun sets.
lol. I looked at this poem and laughed. Can we have fun too? | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/8/2009 12:29:42 AM | I argue all the time, and there is no moment, and there is no you there or here; instead I see fragments, sections, broken sequences, partial seres, and escalations, and I am not together or whole, or have the correct aspect, since I am like a collection of glass, that has separated into smaller amounts, some reflecting nothing, some reflecting at least half of what there is.
what does show is altered, the unlooking glass, which mixes the light, some of which is sent in deep descent, and is disturbed, or disturbes the resting place | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/8/2009 4:34:50 AM |
Dreams have no currency
when I watch you, this fragile moment
I see you...against a sky I couldn't describe
endless, endless varieties of nature
around you, behind you, over above you
presently I only see you, over here, slightly, a horse tail
What is that? a moment away from you.
Why do I watch you?
I was ordered to.
I cannot argue
that you are not the granite
I stepped, I forgot my literature
I forgot why the sun sets.
How I love the naturalness of your voice, the utter lack of pretentious in it. Really, although we've never spoken, I feel I would recognize your voice over the phone! | |
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| Alyosha's Thread
Posted: 4/8/2009 4:37:51 AM |
I argue all the time, and there is no moment, and there is no you there or here; instead I see fragments, sections, broken sequences, partial seres, and escalations, and I am not together or whole, or have the correct aspect, since I am like a collection of glass, that has separated into smaller amounts, some reflecting nothing, some reflecting at least half of what there is.
what does show is altered, the unlooking glass, which mixes the light, some of which is sent in deep descent, and is disturbed, or disturbes the resting place
I often feel that even a "Good morning" from you would have some metaphysical import, would have been thoughtfully considered before it was spoken. Your posts often come from a place one could not measure, exactly, but which one can feel. | |
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