Poet as flaw

The flaw of the fundamental poet is
not something he shares

with the fundamental painter-mathematician
-spiller-of-unknowns-

behoover-of-largesse and fickle sound-
maker; the flaw is

fundamentally sound and it rhymes
internal, exhaled.

conjure me up a stone

undone by my want of shine
the lack

of lustre propels stands as
night we

are not moons pretending to
be stars

we are pendants of fullness
tried tried

/

Wearing the sworn gold
God in

mayhem - conjure me up
a stone, round, sloppy

Within 

This dust has become anon    it breathes what 
                                      whether
                                       wished

6 unpast presences – mauve & glue

ا
Truth in relation, in the fulfilment
of tongues

Waging minimal war – how does relation
stand visavis

Curvature, or the agnostic premonition
that solves?

Truth in negation, in the crucible of
further, more.

ب
Interspersed
These atoms have spoken the truth of blan k stares
this iron smoke away from the cloth of s park
this s poke of tremor
ball o f three falls in each forested rain
These atoms have spoken the th rust as if history

پ
prismed to be unfree of dark/
chasm of my

lit night calls each name –
chime of my

unlit brothers, I solemn,
afraid, fly

ت
divest me of all the filth and what
have you but

a storm of infinitesimal possibilities
natured into

a listless lie, the burnt out red pose,
a stooged 1

binarying as a flipped 0; divest me of
that and there is

none of this.

ٹ
seep now this power stricken
sump of late of

magnanimous urgency to delay
interminably;

seep now to gather what snow
weathered to

vet another rising distance –

ث
In the unhindered ploughing so
desperate to feel noonbreath,
hindsleight and the unplush hum
of haste, there is this mauve &
glue binding each wave of must
to shall    we have terror, tenor

do you follow?

– ‘In literary matters, Ezra Pound advised against accepting the opinion of those “who haven’t themselves produced notable work,” and it is advice I have been privileged to follow’ – Seamus Heaney in his 1995 acceptance speech for the Nobel prize
– Ezra Pound’s open support of Mussolini’s fascism mirrors Heidegger’s love-affair with Nazism
– In spite of damning evidence of extra-judicial killings and wide scale state-sponsored massacres, progressives never tire of insisting that the monopoly of violence should rest with the state
– The state is notable
– And it advises
– Are you privileged?
– Do you follow?

—

We stand to wreck this distance / by the pole of
         this wretched star / longing to see peace
                              lodged in small places
         this heart weary of distance, this wretched
                       star / longing to see peace
---
a respectful peer dons the
green/ it is 

but the red of musk this 
muttering of

handled existentia - ask the
hurried tree

—

there is this need to link the solemn
with the grotesque, the

iron chain with the rot in the sewer,
mistaken smiles with

the haunting similes that prefigure
the vapors that crutch

the lie that mauls the verb that
catapults this blood

Urn of each sabbath

What goes in the fire steeped in
Lost desire, the companions
Of your root, mist, mind of
God sitting once again with
Lost fire, belonging again, resounding
About the round turn of each
Nocturn; we visit the kingdom and
Find it worn; we roam the urn of
Each sabbath and bind it with this
Salt, here, not in your navel’s
Point of view, but in this atomized
Seascape shuddering to break your
Mouth into a million ungloried
Nays; where is this wine buried but
In the rum of a toasted spirit.
—
Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks’ molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun’s hovel and the slum of fire
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter for ever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis’ thunder.

Dylan Thomas; from “Ceremony After a Fire Raid”

the guile of incessance

the truth of what i
can sew is in this grit of
gnaw, the terrible satiation

of rite & mirror & the sun’s
wile roaming my sentences –
where is structure but in

the sentience of form – where is
my truth but in the guile,
the utter guile of incessance.

Speak!

speak! as the soul wins
over the tranformative
mixups, the brazen fouls,
the unanticipations; speak!

when the round etches wilt
each hymn around the bell
of winter, when the curbs &
bevels mix unintended; speak!

—

“Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid.
…
Each of us is here now because in one way or another we share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of that language which has been made to work against us. In the transformation of silence into language and action, it is vitally necessary for each one of us to establish or examine her function in that transformation and to recognize her role as vital within that transformation.”
…
And I remind myself all the time now that if I were to have been born mute, or had maintained an oath of silence my whole life long for safety, I would still have suffered, and I would still die. It is very good for establishing perspective.”
…
We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.
…
for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken.”

– Audre Lorde, “The transformation of silence into language and action”

the unstammerings

when does home begin
when does the chirrup of close
becomings stir the
branch of home? when

does what is vile is new is washed
away? when does home
begin to move begin to

still the thrum and bawl of an
other purple storm? when
does cunning matter?

the unstammerings
not how many grounded
fathomed

truths lie on the pink
rectitude

of this grandfather chalk, not
how many

tinctures you precipitate or
ensure, but

the unstammerings that beat
the beat & harp

four arguments for the existence of morning

this slant    goes morning
              good tells the ungod

this pliant   morning
              god says how did that go

this most     godly of 
              mornings tells you so

this past     has scent
              that goes god good morn

this is the want of the aftermath

with placid noon at an aftermath
of plush decibels wanting the
crush of angelwings; this is the
want of the aftermath; this
grieves along    we stand by,

watch with the anxious telling
of just beforeyesterday    and
we stroke stone; this is the
want of the aftermath; this
punctuates just beyond    we

stand by, tell the clouds whose
air it is they aresupposed to
whisper    and we blunt stone;
this is the want of the after
math; this wanders off east