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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:09:21 PM | Upon the suggestion of a good friend, I will try to post and repost my poetry in this thread. I hope you enjoy Prism Psalms.....
Ding
Prism Psalm
"I discovered the color of the vowels!"
--A. Rimbaud, A Season in Hell
Trapped by the prison of our emotion,
I reflect upon the refractions
of shocked red desire and understand
that to escape this bent perception
I must prism the hues between these bars
and see what waves, what particles
lock me to the skewed shades
of reality--to discern how emotions,
like a symphony shape our truth
through breathless play, to hope
that by this questionable quest
I might find a key whose note
so pure unlocks the rainbow
of our desires and sets us free
of the chemical reaction. How
blue the blues we play may
be escaped to the colorless
freedom logic unbiased might bring.
And so this song must sing of colors
and emotions and the prison
in which we all gladly sing. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:21:12 PM | Hi, ding, good to see you posting again. Keeping with the Rimbaud:
RIMBAUD 1. BOHEMIA
(Robert Lowell)
I walked on the great roads, my two fists lost
in my coat's slashed pockets; my overcoat too
was the ghost of a coat. Under the sky --
I was your student, Muses. What an affair
we had together! My only trousers were a big hole.
Tom Thumb, the stargazer. I brightened my steps with rhymes.
My inn was at the Sign of the Great Bear;
the stars sang like silver in my hands.
I listened to them and squatted on my heels,
September twilights and September twilights,
rhyming into the monster-crowded dark,
the rain splashing on my face like cheap wine.
I plucked the elastics on my clobbered boots
like lyrestrings, one foot squeezed tight against my heart. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:26:09 PM | | dingedarmor-- Prism Psalm was enjoyable to read. I have read other poems written by you that have been posted on other threads and have enjoyed doing so, as well. Though success can never be truly measured by numbers, I hope that you find happiness and contentment on your endeavor. Good luck to you. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:28:50 PM | Thank you, Just and Rory. I appreciate the help!
:)
Amusement: a Fugue.
Thalia's Solo(muse of comedy)
Crabbing across hardwood floor,
awash in stale beer and sawdust,
I dodged flying chairs,
overturned tables, swinging
cue sticks, eyes focused
on faraway door, and just
two tables from its safety
a voice shrilled, "Pervert!"
It's hard to sprint on hands
and knees--I tried, sparing
a glance over shoulder:
she was a human bowling
ball, armed with a suitcase
sized purse swinging
in a widening arc, my head
its apogee. I ducked.
To no avail. Face embraced
purse, nose flattening, blood
streaming, eyes blackening--
all in one weighty blow!
When I awoke, she was anchored
to my chest as firmly as a turmor.
Oh, I heaved and tossed and twisted
but not even Sampson
could've lifted that burden!
Polyhymnia Psalms (muse of songs to the gods)
With joints dangling from lips
and bottles of bud clutched
between thighs, we cowboyed
big-block chevys down forgotten
back roads, the stars our headlights,
listening to Pink Floyd echo
through rattling speakers,
seeking an Athena born beauty
in sunshine and windowpane,
our communion, a jiggling Venus,
peddling her wares in tight jeans
and halter top. Later,
on schoolhouse brick,
we spray painted her legend.
Euterpre Hymns (muse of lyric poetry)
Your smile is a song of spring,
celebrating honeysuckle
and apple blossoms,
psalming rain washed breezes,
and lilacs among tulip poplars.
In January, memory of your song
lulls me in warm dreams,
with a lullaby of mockingbird
harmonies, sweet corn rising,
women sighing in evening calm.
Erato's Canticle(muse of love poetry)
Eyes flecked like formica
mirror a rose
nodding in water filled coffin
Melpomene, a Roundelay (muse of tragedy)
What are heroes and villains
but victory's fiction. I know.
History curses my name,
portraying my struggle
as the ravings of a diseased mind!
I should be called Savior,
with children ladling flowers
before my shrine!
It's not too late.
In the secret hours,
boot heels click
in hidden halls,
my name a chorus!
Who knows, I may yet
join that pantheon
of ancient gods!
Then will blood pure
smoke on newly
risen altars!
Clio, a Roundelay(muse of history)
Studying kings and Conquerors,
but not ourselves,
the eternal peasant
squatting in manmade caves,
feet warming before TV's
dancing flame, praying
to video icons
for a promise of paradise,
a dream of being
king and conqueror.
Calliope's Cappella(muse of epic poetry)
No more a dancer in the waking dream,
I capered to the hero's air,
a tune piped by one sightless
as night's eye, promising glory's
immortality, its sweet sounds
masking mother's wail. Hear the pipe?
To its rhythm of bronze clanging
and men cursing, I sprang and whirled--
until prophesy arrowed true.
Mother, when the women named me Hope
and brushed my hair with soft fingers,
I scorned the uneventful life
and its calming lullaby,
knowing my name would dance
through the ages! I should have
listened to you and not a blindman's
song. Gods! To be deaf and blind,
to be a dancer in the waking dream!
Terpsickore Dirges (muse of dance)
To haunted guitar
our bodies embrace
August shadows.
In this dark hour
we dance alone,
eyes dead
to artificial stars,
voices joined
in the final choir
praising civilization--
the silence a roar.
Urania's Overture(muse of astronomy)
The promise never kept,
dreams of the void,
star sailors touching
the unknown with blind
hands, the infinite sea
sprinkled with glowing
islands waiting, waiting
for the cycle to begin again. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:30:11 PM | Tears
Women weep; men need to...
the poet's tears--ink
staining the page. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:31:42 PM | Stillborn
--for the Jonathon's
Clamoring into my lap,
Jon asks, "Want to watch
Superman and monsters, Mike?"
And while the man of steel
trashes space aged dragons,
I answer infinite questions
until he tires, leaping to the floor,
an old towel, his cape, flapping….
Built like a cinder block,
Ken named his first born
for a brother whose voice
was stilled before birth….
Touching mom's stomach,
Kenny begged, "How soon?"
Laughing, she shooed us
out the screen door…..
We ran across the pasture,
stopping at the barb wire.
Kenny rattling about the games
we'd play with our new brother….
We held the wire for each
to pass to the other side—
No one could hold umbilical
garrote for our unborn brother.
"Mike, Mike, you be Robin;
I be Batman!"
And so, arms raised,
we whoosh about the house… | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:32:43 PM | S.O.S.
In endless night,
I fall, hoping you will
catch me, toppling
end over end, breaking
through beams of starlight
in a Morse code of dit,dot,
dash--an s.o.s. of love.... | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:35:07 PM | Captive Captivity
In the dungeon of her desire,
I play with whip, chains, her
need for release. Where else
can love be pain and pain love?
Her want--stains of pleasures
released in moaning song.
So, on we play, each our respective
roles, each tying, and untying,
every corded knot, frees her
from all her fears but I am
captive to her captivity! | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:36:28 PM | Evening at the Idle Hour
One Friday, like addled magi
bearing bribes, February brought
a warm breeze, a sapphire sky.
And to give thanks for a fine day
in the midst of a grim winter, I lofted
glass to what gods of spring
I could remember and conversed
with Mary O'Connor, as grand
a madam and keeper of the sacred spirit
as ever left the old sod. She said,
"It was just such a day as this,
some sixty years ago, when herself
was driven to whoredom and a fine
profession it was, before those godless
politicians, with their lawyer tricks, stole
Rachel's Pleasure Emporium and renamed
it a massage parlor; it was the devil's
own massage they gave. And what,
with the competition being what it was,
they hounded us poor women
from our God given labor--
terrible times of for an honest whore!"
Pointing to me, she cried,
"And now, with all this talk
of stars and moons and romance,
dear Suzy says she's retiring;
and her, the only whore between me
and the poorhouse! You forgot
love's business is the business of love!
Money makes love, not fine words."
Turning, she sang out, "Belly up
to the bar, boys. You wouldn't want
an old woman to starve now, would you?"
At one snow began falling; by three
it shrouded sidewalk, shrub and car.
Mary made last call; nudging me,
wanting to know if Suzy could
warm a fine fellow, such as the poet,
himself. I replied that I'd pay love's coin
with words portrait of true feelings,
and buy more than a reprieve from a cold
night. She laughed and then observed:
"It's a cold bed you'll be keeping --
and many a night too, lad. You've
bought the idol lie of love and love
the lie to the point of being its prophet.
God help you see the truth before
you're old and lonely and miserable.
Come, Suzy, let's put the boy in the cold
and close this place for another night."
I stepped into the night, the snow crisp
and crunching beneath my boots.
Twenty years or more have passed
since that night and I wonder if Mary,
herself, was not the prophet. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:38:24 PM | Dream's Reflection
Dream's reflection vampire
waking reality. No Face
in the mirror, no enlightened
insight remembered, just a dark
silvered surface casting blank
shadows of imagined memory's
faded interplay. Instinctual
hunger for living brain death
stake thoughtful reflections
in coffin of waking dream. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:41:16 PM | Nothing Left
Nothing left, nothing to hide-
in the cold ash where fire
once lived cinders remain
as silent reminders of who
you were to me--my fingers
linger over rough surfaces,
gray tattoos of you ghost
their tips but fade with wear.
I would rise to gather wood
but the ash tombstone of us
draws me close as lover's arms
and I chill too long before this
monument of unkindleable hope,
another outcast cast out. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:42:59 PM | The Thongs of Love,
a string between taut
tails, where butt
floss brushes cheeky
dancers and cause
wide ends to disappear.
Oh,lovely photoed rear!
 | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:47:17 PM | Thanksgiving
Slumped on the front steps
of our yellow brick porch,
I listened to the ghost
of laughter mingled
with the sounds of play
and mourned the loss
of kickball summers
beneath the cherry tree
where we’d etched
Home’s safety in dark earth.
It was Thanksgiving,
And I waited for my sister’s
Volkswagen to bang down
Tabor Street’s rutted pavement;
Loyola was far away
and I missed the comfort
of her firm arms and soft voice;
When I confessed
I’d explored desire,
wandering in amaze
past treelined boulevards,
sunken terraces, narrow courts—
that I’d lost my way
at the back of a dim lit lane
where a dark wall rose beyond sight. . .
She kissed my forehead,
and said, “Come to Chicago. . .”
I give thanks for that Thanksgiving,
for the pattern provided:
Home’s not drawn on bare ground,
but in bright dreams,
where we dodge, leap, and slide
about this three dimensional diamond—
It’s a long way from Tabor Street;
I’m almost there. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:51:59 PM | The Gift
Maybe it's the grace
of a boxer's
controlled fury,
or the casual stroke
of a grand master,
revealing the flame
within the rose
causes we mere mortals
to envy this
unattainable talent.
In troubled dreams,
I watch Daedalus hobble
from forge to anvil,
face twisted, sweat stained;
ruing his craft,
remembering wax raining
upon a cold, hard sea.
He knew God's gift isn't,
but once unwrapped,
there's no exchange. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:55:33 PM | Phoenix Rising
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust:
from love's demise tattered
hearts, bruised and battered,
in anguish burn and sigh--
crash in crying heap
like glowing coals imploding,
crumbling, self devouring...
nothing left--orange to gray
cold and dead, coffin decay
walking among the living,
these hearts without hope,
endlessly dissecting love's
expiration, until, by chance
like ancient Phoenician’s
crossing monster haunted
seas discover new cities,
new hopes, new places
to ply their trade:
so too we who rise
from gray ash burning
bright anew with each
others desire sighing.. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:57:11 PM | In the dark, where we
are left in our silences:
The things unsaid,
the touch no longer
touching--we wonder
if this will last, if we
have run our course,
if this is the midnight
of our souls, that place
which tests who we are
and whether we will last. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/26/2007 5:58:04 PM | Drama
Indeed, a kiss may convey
in its unfurled drama
the set, the scene, the stage
wherein this act our hearts
beat in rhythm to one another--
a background melody
sublime, one to prop
the unfolding story
of this our stage!
For this one act, lips
caressing, bodies pressing
in that most longing
embrace, pens a poem
even our beloved bard
would most surely envy! | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/27/2007 2:09:56 AM | Great stuff, Ding. Your words bring brilliant visuals.... I loved these two lines from "Thanksgiving":
She kissed my forehead,
and said, “Come to Chicago. . .”
Good luck with your thread. :)
-cdn- | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/27/2007 7:21:34 AM | Thank you, cdn.
Glad you enjoyed the word portraits.
:) | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/27/2007 8:41:31 AM | You’re a thread ahead
of many in the pack
though your race,
I suspect, is not against
any of us here or even out there
but against your own heart
which wants to give much
before it gives out.
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/27/2007 4:33:59 PM | Thank you, Alyosha!
Very insightful of you.
I fear there not much heart left
in me now but maybe I can
get one of those cool new
steel pumping miracles
to keep the poems flowing.
:) | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/28/2007 7:25:11 PM | Pride
Some would say my sin was pride--
that when I expressed my dismay
and uttered those fateful words,
"I will not serve," I set my course--
a fallen star blazing across heaven's
vault like a beacon for the disenchanted.
They were wrong; I was merely weary
of being the bringer of death and doom,
of accusing those He would have me
accuse. Now, I weary of being His
Puppet in this prescribed drama--
I feel my footsteps before my feet
rise to move and know my destiny
is predestined without choice
being part of the matter. I am
a fallen star who loses in this
cipher of forever love. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/28/2007 10:07:27 PM | | Brilliantly beautiful. Thank you for sharing your waves of colour. | |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/29/2007 4:20:02 AM | I have a grand-daughter named Lucy
and if someone were to ask me
“What is Lucy for?”
I’d say she’s for the quiet contemplation
of how love needs no reason to be.
Love neither serves nor asks
to be served. It is of another order:
that which fulfills itself
in being.
| |
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| Prism Psalms
Posted: 5/29/2007 2:27:45 PM | Thank you, Ravin.
Glad you and Alyosha popped in. Always good to see your thoughts.
:) | |
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