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Green Water Pain
Contents
being a poet - 7
green water pain - 11
nuga and the methaphor of two lines - 31
lanapoule revisited – 39
sint gilles croix de vie - 47
sarum plain -
madame gillette – 69
calais revisited –
womens greater sin -
blurbs – 126
[Total number of pages = 126]
being a poet
1. ora deconstructions and belle
rencontre
slipping on wet rocks of daybreak
she tumbles from the poet's embrace
shivers run down his chilling torso
as too freezing cold and naked
is the rising sun
'Ada, Ada, oh my love!'
her stark drop the washing of new
light
their rendez-vous - it was the missing mantissa
and she - now temporarily submerged
and ever so recillient - lingers on under water
'Ada, Ada, oh my pretty Queen
my brilliant Muse!'
You have left her
And Hlodin, but of course you soonest Return
Continuesly you return to her- always
returning -
with the urge to see her tempo's verses and coleur la langue to see how
she makes new form and shapes mandy scopes of rhymepleasing pleasing with
her pleasant rhythm
And 'See! See! Now she's keen!
Now she's not unseen!'
She swims and dives
splashing and struggling with Holden's horses the waves on her shore
she's the working Freja in full peril
she's Perchta with a stern wicked witches' wand
and a skew foot
and - look - she's leading the poet
away from cul-de-sac and dead
end
Luring she's another unwed wench
with her beaches full of fish
she pulls them out one by one
and throw them on the poet's bottomless plate
oh but when he dares to gloat
she becomes the seeks-and-hide and
her smile drops into the watersmudging the spot for him to unberth
- but she changes again -
and coyly tosses fern
and Spanish h'ada around his ankles
making his fall
2. an ancient tale - living again
- Forth she brought the words: fortuitous,
sang-froid, sangfroid, brio, afflatus, perspicacity, prelapsarian and
redivivus -
happening by chance and coming
home she caused the accident
then started to run
hurrying and on purpose
she changed the circumstances
killing vigor before pain started
in her mind and the minds
of others time had now reversed itself
stalling its constant lapping
it was in the operation
that she out-lived the poet's poem
her shot in the dark and she almost died
of it when there was a scream
the crowd panicked - was it she who
first started to scream?
you were there, weren't you?
we all saw you there, didn't we?
3. from Massenet’s hand - a sharpened punch
Copying from Massenet's hand Cybele
the impale points her slender
sloping talons
And when into the evening air the
claws
flirts with the magic wand
the shadows pass by unhampered
till on the strike on wood
she shrugs
Lovers play and shut
their eyes
they run from hilltops to valleys fowl
full of miasmic ardours
and on the meadow
Mefitis in his den below
traded hot for anger
hits his fist into a sharpened punch
in agony he called out
'Werther! Werther!
It is I … I she should have loved!'
green water pain [rails and snakes]
1. the rail, its summer
his poise is nice
soft as ice
and your touch?
oh, I've forgotten all
about it
2. as long as the sun in it's last
The tide comes in 'n moves
there's an old man walking up the slope of a hill
the tide come in 'n washes
the old man balances almost on the crest of a hill
in in the tide comes in
it flees its home in the sea
it escapes towards the shine of the man on the hill
in in the tide comes in
it rises
it swells
it stands up right
in in in the tide comes in
it reaches the heel of the man on the crest of the hill
in it comes in
it comes in
it comes in with joy and spun
an old man being sung ascended sung
it washes over the crest of the hill
and the man
3. the river and the verse
From my hand silver's sword slit
barren empty I stood clutching it in my hand
transvestite’s tarnished victory had won
I have won I have won
I have won from brazened day's fertility
I have won I have won from perversity's dull down
But then I saw
I have lost
I have lost from lovers lust
I have lost from smeared mouth’s tongue
I have lost I have lost
I have lost verses' virginal shine
4. viva Celan or when the face where
there was no face
Let me give you some rhyme to rhyme
with the mime not with meadow
not with the things that you know
Let me give you a poem a poem
by me
the poem in your cup = mine
a mountain is high
the sea
she is low
and the ruins ½ way to the sky
= mine
happiness in my saucer
= yours
the jacket you wear is yellow
the trousers I took off you
= yours
Paul's muse's hair is autumn
Argo Spier's muse's pubic hair is his!
yours is fall
and sweetened is the dark we stir
lovely till summer and winter
winter = it is ours
and ours = yours
yours for now and for ever
5. our howl
Your howl and your cloistered touch
it is running away from you
it is flaunting speeding away from you
It is running like the line of your life
running away from me
6. I hear the dancer dances
With injured eye I see your mouth
I see its scream
its bruised ear I can hear
your hurriedly sped
and crystal-clear I hear the dancer moves
dancing away in his limpid vague way
I hear you sigh
your voice
- oh there the dancer is! -
but my love your want will stay with
the gypsy
your burden will linger with his tarry
do tell me
am I the oracle the thespian?
the jester, your fool?
when I try of late to caper with you?
7. the snakes of Paul Celan
The days are sky-diving fleeting
on upward air
the trains are travelling and the boats
and the moon- the snakes of Paul Celan - the rivers
are flowing snaking into empty bowels
and the sun and the mountains are
rising
your night is waking and parting from its wrapped
cocoon
your night is parting here and now
while I cast your eye for you
your night is seething with the knock
on glass
- my touch on wood -
it is speeding like a wave of dark wash
and the snakes and the mountains
the sun
their empty bowels - the snakes of Paul Celan - are gushing
snaking under the vanishing moving sky
and the vanishing sky and the rivers
they are diving days
they are diving towards you
they are your trains and your boats
your eclipses
your new locutions under auspices
new days
they are yours and mine!
8. brown house
The balcony of the brown house is
brown
the showcase front of the brown house is light brown
the eyes in the windows of the brown house are brown
the winking shutters of the brown house are light brown
the Deck Bette from the bed in which I slept in the brown house
... it is the tongue outside the door rubbing
and the pillowcase snuggling into the Deck Bette
it is your embrace
but the roof the roof of the brown house
it is black
it is black as a new roofs are black
but the pitch under the snow
is white
9. Yellow muse
Her jacket is yellow
her easy-up lapel is light yellow
her pockets are yellow
her straps and ropes are light yellow
her buttons are yellow
the chain she is tying me with is light yellow
but her hair her camera, it is black
it is black as Japanese forcing hair
it is black as a new camera is black
but the pitch under the snow
is white
10. Lazza Rimi
There are flowers on the fields
there are clouds in the sky
there is a Muse in the pocket of my jacket
- you can't see her -
'Ici en vente' - you can't see her
-
11. burning muse
So young and yet smoke comes
from her nose her lips
so old and too smoke fumes
from my smouldering
burning lust
for her
12. at the stone bell tower
Crossing Maislava heading for Rybna
'How do I get to Rybna?' I asked
'That way!' she unscrewed
and when then she had said that
she started running
peevishly up the straight stark of the way
up and away from me
away from me and into the direction
she had pointed
not caring another thing about me
13. in the eye
A cow standing on the meadow she
is munching a flower
my eye in her eye and me
in the eye
14. from the wedding ring the imitation
Skinny bony what does it matter
travelling together?
her lips are red and her heart's from solid gold
what does it matter?
her jacket and jean her jean can fit another and her jacket
is a blanket for the poor
she's a neighbouring country
a new continent what does it matter?
her head's lean she leans on me and what
from wedding ring to imitation band?
she's a pick-up from the street
she's today's champion tomorrow's companion
her lips are red and her heart's
of solid gold
what does it matter?
her jacket and jean
her jean she can have mine
the jacket she can keep it
it will keep both of us warm
when winter summer comes
husband and wife
what does it matter?
a gain?
a shine?
she is a universe and today's companion
but maybe tomorrow's champion
15. the song I sing for you
The river flows
the river is fluid
sky and field watch over river
and fluid
I watch over you
I sing this for you
15. with the wash of day and night in their turning
Frau Brehem opened the window then
but shut it again
the day had done itself up it
but had and suddenly it dried up like a Waddi riverbed
Frau Brehem opened the window when
but shut it again
the dawn of night had come
but it had and then suddenly it came like draught
to a New Age mutuality again
oh Old Age all of the day
had come but and then suddenly it fell away
the nightfall is starched lingerie
it hung from the line
and with the wash of day
and the night
their turning
she - her eye and her lip -
saw and spoke of the false alarm
It was in the Tarot Card
the tossed oracle stone
the foretelling of the diamond
in its roll and viper
in its dye
in the dice which reminded her of a Love
whom was lost and could not be had
16. the 4 winds
Foul breaths of winds their thoughts
they're in the Marseillaise in my head
- their voices -
Tramontane
Lebech
Levant
Gregali
- their voices -
17. straight days
The days waited in the sun for the
sun to leave
them to set down their faces safely
where they hid them at night
they hide their faces
in secret places
no all seeing eye can see them
but it can take so long
18. once upon a time upon another day
The days are arduous and wide
the days in their wait are broad in their watchful wake
the days wait in the sun for the sun to leave them
the days are bent
rent in the sun's shape
dent in their shunning
rent from unasked for intimacies
the days are straight
forward in their height of waiting
they are vertical
19. from Medusa's wait
Nights grow with the dew and slowly
night after night they swell like love puffed virgins
- hungry women -
night after night at night they wink
their eyes
they wriggle their snakes
oh you vile guilty ones
laughing sweet when spawning your basilisk eggs
screaming out loud when breeding your feral foul
when hauling your little snakiest babes
from Medusa's wait
20. poets from on mountains high
Rivers flee from mountains
running high and flee into valleys' sinks
naked at night the Muse streaks flaunts
her cleaved mouth and during the day
- on the meadow -
there is no one
Rivers stall on top of mountains
poising low and peter out
look under valleys' skirts
and dressed in the day the Muse hides
veils her tortured mouth
while during the night
- on the meadow -
there is no one
21. SBB CFF FFS?
Boats and sea and train and pain
in the mountains why?
boats and sea and train and pain in the mountains?
why not?
(oh there's rain and pain and Sargans
and pain and rain in Green Water Pain)
I am dancing with you and a shoe
of Celeste
22. Wädenswill
little boat little boat
her toe is lilac
little boat little boat
her sandal has dropped off
little boat little boat
one day I will buy me a boat
at Wädenswil
little train little train
her toe is lilac
little train little train
her sandal has dropped off
little train little train
one day I will buy me a train
at Wädenswill
little boat little boat
our love is strong
little boat little boat
our love is strong
little boat little boat
one day I will buy her a boat
at Wädenswill
little train little train
our love is strong
little train little train
our love is strong
little train little train
one day I will buy her a train
at Wädenswil
little boat little boat
her toe is blue
little boat little boat
her sandal has dropped off
little boat little boat
one day we will ride and sail
to Thalwill
never to return to Wädenswill
23. grimacing Muse
She smiled
opened her mouth and when her teeth fell from it
and hit the crystal floor
she grimaced
when she saw her bleeding mouth
in the reflection of the glass door
she screamed
like a ghost and reverent haunted by a dead body
when blood oozed from the tearing
pain
in the gape - green water pain - the little boat
the little boat I bought her
the one you could see from the train
you could see it sinking
sinking
into the mirror of Wädenswill
24. Johanni Begudi and Marci Zini from Mullhouse
Johanni Begudi went with Marci Zini
- he went with him as far as he could -
and at the foot of the hill
- when Marci Zini had to leave him -
Johanni Begudi asked Marci Zini
'When you think, in what language
do you think?'
Marci Zini went with Johanni Begudi
- he went with him as far as he could -
and at the foot of that hill
- when Johanni Begudi had to leave him -
Marci Zini answered Johanni Begudi:
'When you think, in what language
do you think?'
Marci Zini returned with Johanni
Begudi
- he went with him as far as he could -
and at the foot of that hill
- when Marci Zini had to leave him -
Marci Zini asked Johanni Begudi:
'When you don't think, in what language
do you think?'
Johanni Begudi returned with Marci
Zini
- he went with him as far as he could -
and at the foot of the hill-
when Marci Zini had to leave him -
Johanni Begudi answered Marci Zini
'When you don't think, in what language
do you think?'
25. the bridge over silver snake
The bridge over silver snake and
river
- there was a river - there was a snake
the grass is green
the boat is my boat
and the train - there was a river -
there was a snake
the bridge over silver snake and river
- there was a river -
the grass is yellow
the boat is my boat
and the train - there was a river -
there was a snake
the bridge over silver snake and river
- there was a river-there was a snake
the grass is brown
the boat is my boat
and the train - there was a river -
there was a snake
the bridge over silver snake and river
- there was a river -there was a snake
the grass is black
the boat is my boat
and the train - there was a river -there was a snake
the bridge over silver snake and river
- there was a river -
there was a snake
26. the bird in the cornfield
The bird in the cornfield sang it's
song
someday sunny day some one
will come and knock knock on my window pane
someday sunny day some one came
knocking knocking on me
feel free
knock knock on me
the cauliflower and the sun flower
sang their song
someday sunny day some one
will come and knock knock on our window pane
someday sunny day some one came
knocking knocking on us
feel free
knock knock on us
I sang from my window pane
someday sunny day some one
will come and knock knock on my window pane
someday sunny day some one came
knocking knocking on me
feel free
knock knock on me
27. your poem
See how clever you are
A(KRO)BATE
but my son poor sun
poems are not made like this!
poems are always Something Else
28. her dream
The scream it
she dreamed there was a cut across the face it
wasn't her face it
was another woman's face
but in the mirror it
wasn't the other women's face it
was her face
her own bleeding tourmaline Madagascar Ian face
the scream it
29. her scream
The dream it
she screamed there was a cut across the face it
wasn't her face it
was another woman's face
but in the mirror it
wasn't the other women's face it
was her mother's face
her mother's own bleeding tourmaline Madagascar Ian face
the dream it
30. the marble at the crossing
Ash on your shoulder
wine on mine
black is the marble on which you step
white is your face - the face you show me -
wine on the stone
ash on mine
white is the marble on which I step
black is your face - the face I see on you -
ash on your shoulder
wine on mine
give me your hand
we can make the crossing together
31. look at the mountains
the mountains are nice
the mountains are high
the mountains are the top of the way
to the top
look at the mountains
look at their train
their snail
the mountains are nice
the mountains are high
the mountains are the top of the way
to the top
look at the mountains
look at their train
their snail
don't look at the mess they make
don't look at the face they take
the mountains are nice
the mountains are high
the mountains are the top of the way
to the top
look at the mountains
look at their train
their snail
go to the mountains Pilates go
go to the mountains Brigitte
go to the mountains Joseph go
the mountains are nice
the mountains are high
the mountains are the top of the way
to the top
look at the mountains
look at their train
their snail
you will seethe mountains are nice
the mountains are high
the mountains are the top of the way
32. little river
Little river little river wash your
way to the sea
little river little river flare your flame
little river little river my love is a little river
my love washes herself to the sea
little river little river shame on
your flare
little river little river flare your shame
little river little river my love is a little river
my love washes herself back to me
my love flames her flare for me
33.was it Mucha's?
No it wasn't Mucha's it
was Jan Zrzavy's Cleopatra
and the Still-Life-with-Lillies-of-the-Valley it
wasn't Mucha's it
was Frantisek Bilek's How-Time-Models-Its-Poet it
wasn't Mucha's it
was Maximilian Pirer's Medusa washing
her wriggling hair
no it wasn't Mucha's it
34. Strasbourg blues
Poppy red and cornfield yellow
graveyard marble and pot flower lilac
a girl across my face
a snake in the grass
a finger in the pie
graffiti on the wall
there's a sign above my head
poppy red and cornfield yellow
graveyard marble and pot flower lilac
graffiti on the wall daisy in the field
there's a sign above my head
- aaaaatishhhhoo - I fell down dead
a girl across my face
a snake in the grass
a finger in the pie
the train I travel in is blue
blue
blue is her boat
blue her face
blue she's dead
she has drowned
in the mirror of Wädenswill
35. mademoiselle
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(PO Box 54348 = 24 devised by 2 =
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devised by 2 = 16 devised by 2 = 8 8 devised by 2 = 4)
four = your four
devised by two Boa-Constrictor faces
36. the dressing of a poet
I have two eyes
one is a window with a doll dressed in white
the other a window with a doll on a stone
the ring in the middle is the flaw in the marble
I have two eyes
one to see you
the other to see the lovely lady
screaming on the tomb
the sword in the middle is the cut of the silver
I have two eyes
one is brown the other yellow
the one sees the snake
the other you
And tomorrow
one is blue the other black
the one will see you the other the egg
37. deadwood drifting on water
Crying from the cornice
the mouth screamed its running cry
- Deadwood drifting on water
deadwood makings drifting on water -
shouting from the water it
cackled its slit
- Deadwood drifting on water
deadwood makings drifting on water
and cringing from the cornice
I steamed my damp pain
- Why have you left me?
Why have you left me -'
and reciprocating from the water
you echoed
- Why have I left you?
Why have I left you? -
38. transports CEFCO
What if she was write?
what if a rose is a rose a lilac rose?
is lilac finger nails?
screeching rails?
honey?
a serpent?
what if she was wrong?
what will I do then?
will I have to rush home?
home to where your honey drips
from under your serpent's screech
and its lilac blue?
home to where rail nail?
39. tongue-tied not a spoken word
He gave her his mouth
she bit it off ate it
smiled
and looked through the bloody hole in his face
she gave him her hand
he rip it off
hid it
grimaced
and laughed when seeing her groping for a word
Oh I hadn't had a love for a long
time
neither a verse that rhymes
40. her rhythm
She got up from her strain
draw herself together
came to where I was bent
the sight of my eye noticed
the stain
her transit
the blemish of her make
and my eye saw
the right of hers and mine
and the flight of our take
Nuga and the metaphor of two lines
1. Nuga and the metaphor of two lines
(catalan nuga)
If there is any literary genre that demands absolute commitment from a
person, it is poetry.Martí i Pol - Papers domèstics.
2. The metaphor of two lines
3. running across two lines
Only at the end of the contention
I realised the extend of irrationality in my argumentation. It was quite
shocking for me to see how his incomprehension proved my incompetence
to eludate the evidence. I realised that talking to him was like talking
to an anecdote. The metaphor of parallel lines was so clear now to me.
Yet the two of us were two lines running separately alongside one another
without the slightest chance to ever make the crossover to one another.
hgfikytfukyfkuyfkuyyfkuyf
fluyyuklyfluuygluuygluyglu
4. like a verse in a poem?
She told me that Ay said that Bee
was not the one for Mee
'Si I know that' I told her but I thought
This poem wasn't just a line to establish itself
As poetry
The first two verses though - as they stood -
Were only part of a long sentence
And there's not even a sound enjambement in them
Oh on there own they don't even make sense
'If you are careless
It will ruin the poem
You know?' I said to myself
And I begged her to recombine
Both of them for me
But that had no influence
On her reasoning and input
She just continued with the poem
Bee she said told Cee
that that was how things were
and she said that she felt sorry for Mee
'Si I know' I told her again but thought
That all the verses - as they stood -
Were only part of that same long sentences
And fucntions merely as a story-line in prose
The verses ran across twenty-two lines now
And not a single enjambment
That makes sense
In anyone of the lines
And I begged her again to recombine
Not only the first two but the reast as well
But that had no influence
On her reasoning and input
And she just continued with the poem
Cee she said is after all in love
with Dee
And I should know this
'Si I know' I told her again
And 'really' I thought 'this...'
But then again 'Ok it is nice'
And I let it go
'The poem probably will find its way...'
And I stopped begging her to recombine
Any of the lines
And that had influence on her
And on her reasoning and input
And she continued creating the poem for me
'Well you know
Bee, Mee, Cee, Dee' she said
'Why don't we play?'
And then I knew the poem had come together
And stopped writing
5. like a verse and the moon?
- Teishin, 11th centurary Buddhist poet
Here with you
I could stay
For uncountable days
And years
Keeping quiet
Like the clear moon
We are staring at now
'Si!' I said '… she only has
to love the poet!
And the moon'
The core of the Metaphor of two lines stayed yellow as yolk. Its riddle
never got touched upon. The reasoning in it looped and never ever so slightly
strayed from its own circle. Nix mix. There was only the merciless killing
of its own and meaningless like colourlessness to continue with. The conversation
and communication ex nihilo didn’t happened. There was no pointe
in it. It was disconnection.
hgfikytfukyfkuyfkuyyfkuyf
fluyyuklyfluuygluuygluyglu
Words detoured themselves, became
twerp incoherences. The vagabond couldn't construct intent nor sustain
it.
6. like a Dakini?
Inside outside.
Poetry is something nothing
Then you see her! No?
Then you don’t!
Then you think!
Nah nah she is a Dakini.
And you start all over again.
The zilch meaning reigned. It was
senseless rubbish and waffle it produced and from our mouths only balderdash
drooled. Garb. It was talking into an i. An unbearable shamefull illusion.
The acute awareness of failure inside the absorbtion in the abyss of illiteracy.
The strained dark senselessness of it was sickening. Suitable words were
non-existent. Sentences broke off. Extraordinary syntax sulk. It was babbled
garb, unconnected meaning, divorced treachery, beady yarn, beads. Noise,
tapping noise, broken garnets and jerky squirmy tingles.
7. ike an illusion?
Illusions are fishes!
Fishes swim in fish tanks full of tears.
Crying mothers.
Fishes are illusions!
At this moment.
_ _ _ ___ ___ _-- _ _- _________ _---
------ -- - -
8. like nothingness?
Emptiness?
Tears?
No fishes?
No?
9. like abstruse writing?
A little boy bixto asks his Mommy
'Can you write about this?'
Anything?
I cannot write he said
But I want to help you
I don't think I can write
For you a thing!
9. like 'si' I can?
'Si I can write
For you about this his Mommy said
And blew him a peto kiss
From a velly far
But in irreversible mode he even understood less. And the more was just
a precarious stand. An allienation. Solitude spiralling downwards into
its own movement. The patterned universe of langue. Mini-doodles and argumentation
inhabited with inaccurate logic and nada logos. Even the shrunken codes
were unreadable infinite diminishedness. Dislodgement. Claustrophobia.
Anxiety. Lingering lair. Pain. The bitch.
10. like 'Gotalaunia' and the country of the Gohts?
(A short note)
My lovely friend
Here is a smile for you and a another peto ixx
its for on on your cheek
I came into this verse just to talk to you
eh, but what to say?
What is it I had wanted to say to you?
Ah si I remember … your eyes!
I had wanted to tell you, but then again I
hadn’t wanted to tell you
but once again
I had wanted to tell you about your blue eyes they are like Turró
de Xixona black brown!
Carai de Carai Calat Taluniya
Ah si I remember your eyes
When you were lieing on my
... a strong poet!
It was a literary degenerated abstraction.
Imagination invented. Comparison. Lines of good karma to lines of bad
karma that never resolved. It was waste of time. Dregs. Debris. Said.
Done. I was dealing with dissipated litter, pis and centuries of wasted
residue. And nothing else. Miasma. Rotten core. Karma is karma and cannot
be divided into bad and good categories of conduct. Karma is not a line.
Karma is a point. There are no lines in it and no tracks back. No parallel
footprints forward.
Caminant no hi ha cami el cami es
fa caminant. Wanderer, there is no track to follow, you are the one who
imprint footprints.
11. like the mountain climber at the lake of soubiran?
(A poem by an Ora Adoura)
Ah, I don't understand 'djsdfh'
and 'qghqdhg'
Kiss in your borehead
Kiss in your beautiful eyes
Kiss in your nose
Kiss in your cheeks
KISS IN YOUR LIPS
Kiss in your ears
In your neck
In your shoulders
And going down into orange
Ah, I don't understand 'djsdfh'
and 'qghqdhg'
And going up into your shoulders
Into your neck
Kiss in your ears
Kiss in your cheeks
Kiss in your nose
Kiss in your beautiful eyes
Kiss in your borehead
Inside the green of elv
The face! You should have seen his face! It looked anaemic and was increasingly
perverting from its original colour. It had become the colour of pulp
that had gone off and was all mushy as it shifted away, dripping melting
like wax. It emptied itself from itself. It was surreal unrealistic and
unnatural. The white sage of a moon … it was rotten. Across its
arrangements, from ear to nose and from nose to ear, incomprehension shone
on it like neon at night. Advertising unreliability. Instability. Everything
on it was put on the negative hold. It screamed 'No … no entry!
Not in a million years!' The willingness on it to inter-act was a dead
thing that had stomped to a standstill. And there was the strained silence
about it. The sickening ring of it. The humilated tinge. The Metaphor
of two lines, it was two stringed on lines twinning in the vacuum surrounding
both. It was a guitar. A one thick nothing.
Just one mess of straight zero communication.
12. like a button house?
House, Palace, Pigskin Hut
Why?
Ikkyu, Hakuin, Ryokan
Is poetry?
Is poetry zen?
Or isn’t it?
Poetry Make Over House
Palace, Pigskin Hut
Ikkyu, Hakuin, Ryokan
How?
Is poetry zen?
Or isn’t it?
Then when I had done with thinking about it I saw that there was nothing
nothing whatsoever anymore to say. Not from here till in the omega pointe
of your nature. She was a Dakini.
la napoule revisited
Being master of his boat the boatman
plots out the route and firmly holds the sails but in the end, when you
look at this with simple reasoning, it is also the boat that plays a part
in the voyage. it keeps the boatman afloat and safely carries him towards
his destiny.
Dogen Kigen
content
the pulling current
lonely player
lily parts from lily from lily
a lily and naked licentiously his
the 139 steps to my room
girl on a hobbit
new evening
pastels and pink
stones
all the names and always
morning
1. the pulling current
Boats and boatmen plane downstream
no monkeeeey but once again
there’s dimples on the water’s fleece
and long stemmed lilies moving
once again on the banks and alongside
oh, there’s the house! its six windows shut!
and once again the stream and current pull
and draw as they lug me towards the sea
2. lonely player
On the wide of the bank
a lonely player plays with his ball
let it leaps from his hand
it skips from the ground
bounces to the opposite bank
and from bank to flow and lily
it flees till it finds the hole
leading to the bottom of the stream
and neatly drops down into it
3. lily parts from lily from lily
Unwary flows the sweet sound from their lips
and lily like their voices … the daughters of Mnemosyne.
Hesiod.
Three girls on the bank of the stream
three girls in the drowning sun
three girls lingering like lily buts
- three girls on the bank of a stream
a sister a friend and a third is
three too many -
three girls as the hour strands on
off
three girls as the evening folds itself
one girl, she is torn from the array
- two girls on the bank of a stream
a sister a friend and two is
two too many
two girls when the boats return
two girls when the nightfall strikes its accord
one girl, she is rent from the display
- a girl on the bank of the stream
she’s alone and her loneliness is
one too many for her
one girl when darkness surpasses
light
one girl and the riding of fun
one girl and then she too
is split from the rehearse
4. a lily and naked licentiously his
’mysterium tremendum et fascinans’
- Rudolf Otto
He walks and talks into the plunging
day
to whom is he talking?
- she will come to the bank of the river tonight -
is he talking to the grass on the
bank
of the river in front of the night?
- she will wait for him on the bank
of the river tonight -
is he talking to the boats and the
moors
and the quay at of the river
the roaming of the water of the night?
- she will come and wait for him on the bank
of the river tonight -
is he talking to empty houses on
the shore
and the shadow of the deep dark stream
the blackness of the world and the night?
- she will come when the sun is out
she will come surfacing from the deep
down quell in the heart of the stream
and will swim through lilies to his feet -
5. the 139 steps to my room
- in the air above my island flies, a crowd of shining gulls that plunge
to launch, an accurate assault upon the eyes.
Sylvia Plath
139 steps lead the way to the eagle’s
fortress
high is the room in which I wait for you
in it there’s a bathroom I
can explain
a niche
a bed that I sleep in
hanging from it there’s a balcony and a wide horizon
looking down below there is the
earth
the stream the banks and the boats tiny toys
the lily specks in the pond daisies blinking
play children’s play
looking up towards the sky my dome
there is the Superior
from which birds fall like seagulls
begging for bread
oh even love doves tumbling down seeking
a hand to peck at
First they peck away the 1 of the
number 139
and swallows it. Then they peck at the 3
of the number 139 and digest it.
lastly they peck at the 9 of the number 139
and devour it.
zero are now the steps that lead
the way to the fish’s
hide-out
low is the room in which I slouch without you
oh come to my room!
in it there’s a pool I can explain
a hacked-out hole for your icon
the rock slab is for you to slumber on with me
rising from it there’s a haunt and a pitiful horizon
looking up from the residue
the stream its banks and the boats huge
the lilies out-grown sunflowers dying
play grown-up’s play
looking down into the mud the core
there’s the inferior
from which bloodsuckers crawl
begging for excrement
even wily worms snakelets wriggling finding
the hand to spew out in
First they spew out the 1 of the
number 139
and displeases it. Then they vomit the 3
of the number 139 and retch it
lastly they regurgitate 9
of the number 139
and repulse it.
oh come to my room! come!
you will like it in my room!
6. girl on a hobbit
On a horse
a child’s play horse
horse-and-ride
she plays
she’s older than herself
a teenager
horse-and-ride
she dreams
of a daddy-and-ride
in the green young pastures
a gentlewoman
on piggy-and-ride
and riding home
she dreams she’s on
to where she belongs
home, the home
from whence she has fled
7. new evening
Predictable as the morning the evening
is
it falls
every day anew it falls
it comes into the world with the day and it falls
every day anew
every day the boats go out
every day the boats go after their noses
every day the stream is eager in the river
every day a new evening falls
as it comes
it falls at night anew
it is the lilies that close their
buts
they curl their wings and they go
to sleep when the evening falls
they hide their secrets
every day is as the morning
it fall towards the night
in the evening
every day is a dark house
- its six windows shut -
every day is an arrow shooting
into the night
- the night falls with a shot in the dark -
‘Come, shoot the day!
Let it fall into the stream and drift away!’
8. pastels and pink
when pastels and pink dye out
pales away the night falls
every day is a morning
that dies in the evening
at nightfall it dies
this evening is
9. stones
I pilfer the words I write
hurl them over my shoulder
plump
they fall into the washing water
of a stream
one by one
I toss them into the stream
more or less and slowly
every word soaks to a pulp
sinks to the bottom
slumps in the mud
rots to sediment
and clogs up the stream
and when the water dams
it drowns the lilies
spills over the banks
wrecks the boats
and washes away the world
10. all the names and always
The spot where I usually write a
name
in the sand by the quay at the docks
that spot is flooded daily
daily the stream ebbs in
from over the sea
daily it runs amok
daily it spills up the bank
daily it washes over the sand
over my name
- the name I write -
daily I watch this
daily I see how all the names
I write - always and inexplicably -
are washed away
everyday
11. morning
The boats in the morning go out to
the sea
every morning the stream takes them along
every morning
and every morning the stream leaves
me
behind
every day I stay
alone for the rest of the day
on the beach of ville st. gilles
croix de vie
These Sunday afternoon coutryside verses are dedicated to you because,
with compassion, you broke my silence and provided sustenance when I found
you walking beside me again, one sunny afternoon, easing the solitary
trail across the lonely vastness of the empty plain of Sarum.
[a lover's sundae sarum]
Peaceful as this immeasurable plain
Is now by means of dawning light imprest
In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main
William Wordsworth, Complete Works
Her Anxiety
Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing
Prove that I lie
Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death
Prove that I lie
His Confidence
Undying love to buy
I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done
What payment were enough
For undying love
I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck
What matter? For I know
That out of rock,
Out of desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course
WB Yeats, Complete Works
1. unlike we
Skies seas valleys and mountains
dicky their crests
and on rolling downs up
Sarum's way they cuddle and titter
and close off deals
under cognate roofs they snuggle
their love-affairs their little secrets
- So unlike we -
2. on rises
Do you remember the day when you
still
loved the days
do you remember the days when want's poise
still thrived inside you
when your spring was still flushing young
and your eyes
oh when your shadow still fell on rises
and your lullabies
when they were winsome
and your hymns sung
remember the simmering days
the days before you broke your spell on me
the days in fragile early summer stream
before your burning feet absconded
running away from me
oh before you rushed through the dust
of desolated plains and dark dashes of fall
rash winter’s wariness
do you remember
do you remember how you still
wanted our nights to shine … my verses
oh my love my Inamorato how high!
you came to me! why?
3. my name
My name is a woman's name
but when I write I write I write
as if I were a man
an unknown man
entering your house
resting in your house
sleeping in your house
loving you in your house
4. no Musician
Oh, there's no musician!
no musician other than me!
there's nobody other than me
to stain your sky!
there's no mountain no valley so
high
no sea so high as the day
the almighty day
that I castled your eye into my loess
5. large enough for the Orb
4 o'clock on the beach in the sand
she draws a heart a gist large enough
for the orb to see
in it she writes
Audrey loves Nicouas
in her new seat of won passion
working on its altar she knelt
hands on knees and sinking in it
she unexpectedly withdrew
as if ashamed
quickly she erased the verdant
the secret
loves
and the empty space that now marred
her heart unconnected the Audrey from Nicouas
and outside it in the world
there's only the mimicry
of a million milling grains of sand
spunning their loop in a procession
circling her Holy Kolam
she jumped and drew a cross through
it all
and from the hole of the destruction
a spider crawled to the surface
closing in on her
she saw the declining universe
how the sun died down on her
gave an outcry of pain
and scurried away
running wils she saw the rising moon
its entourage the riding rising water
and their closing in that was now
coming for her embrace
6. grain of rice
I bend down to see the earth a grain
of rice
looking at it I saw small shaped stones
years of oblongata forms water-washed
Stein white spices and pebbles
I saw yellow white-brown and marbles
glassy almonds
buttons
peppermints red-eyed fishes
sky-diamonds
and when even clearer the grind roll
I saw hidden underneath it all
a tiny crystal carved foxy toy
wasted in the sand
7. it is you
On the beach of Ville St Gilles Croix
de Vie
there's air in the sky and space
and in the ooze fair words seem
to be enough for me
but really it is you
who oozes light
mid-night morning-light
and the sun
8. your shed brilliance
You left the house in which my word
reposed
I saw you hastened from it
crying out loud
and wailing your egress
you dash through the cimmerian realm
of the dark
I saw you crying out your name my
own
- You, oh you, come stand, you come and stand by me -
I saw your feigning steps fowarded
onto ice cold snow
I saw your eclipsed sun
how in shone on you
and your shy moon
how it shuned you
I saw your dream
your dream haunting you
- Hermes' pyre blackened your world
Your Chambord salamander writhed up the hill -
I saw how you agued where you stood
- The missive bore no good! King Francis,
His lover, their affair, it was thwarted -
my love my Inamorato
how high you came to me … why
- You, oh you, come stand,
you come and stand by me! -
and in the after-glow ashes of your
gloom
when you have faded to fluttered waning effulgence
your shed brilliance were wasted through the sky
- Leonids, Boötids, Pereïds -
- My Love, my Inamorato, you, how
high
you came to me! Why? Oh, come stand, you come
and stand, stand by me! -
9. your Songs a la Feste 12th Night
From the first moment you made good
music
Your songs a la Feste 12th Night
Or more
You from our first trice
Knew what codes what catch
- Und du liebst mich
Du liebst mich nicht
Du liebst mich weil ich
Dichter bin
Du liebst mich nicht weil ich
in der Nähe bin -
A Ratsey's ghost from the first moment
you!
- I have often gone to play, for music's sake, not for action -
You made good music from the first
moment
My songs a la Feste 12th Night
- Und ich liebe dich
Ich liebe dich nicht
Ich liebe dich weil du kein
Dichter bist
Ich liebe dich nicht weil dich
in der Ferne bist -
10. the Sower
Why how you've taken the seed
and entered the ploughed land
that secret priestly moment
when you planted the first warm bud
what how you've received
the blessing and the crop
and when your tracks were lost
across the fields
when how come
why have you returned to me
11. reconciliation
Stuttering she said 'I … I
don't want
to lose you
Du bist Gott im tiefsten meinen Gedanken
give me a day or 2 too'
her eyes turned tanned
and I saw how and said nothing
but my gaze veered and dropped
to the floor of the crater below us
oh, and the mountains
how many they were!
and the trees
how tall they were between us!
and the sky
how high it was above us
and the dais on which we were balancing
how narrow it was!
12. renaissance's word
Imprisoned Word Clever Oozing Death
Birth Chained Earth's violent Vagrancy
Moist Touch oh Scorched Fire's Force's
Find Of Clouds' Ferment
Imprisoned Word
Wind Sand Bay Naked Light
oh Dunes Of Words' Soft Whisper hush
hush oh Brilliant Eye's Speech's Spring
gentle Genesis' Word hush
13. masters are we alike
We laid our heads on tender shoulders
we were sister and brother mother and lover
father and sun masters alike
licit lovers alike
- Our crowns we carried with delight
Our crowns we wore -
sister moon mother
I brother father and son your sun
we stayed confidants didn't we my love?
our way it was rivulet and runnel
my Inamorato how high!
you came to me!
my Inamorato I will come to you!
[queen of sand]
15. hullabaloo the Blare
Do write this poem for me, you
Hullabaloo-the-Blare!
a poem in which I am Hullabaloo-the-Blare,
your Queen, Her Majesty, Hullabaloo-the-Blare.
and you, I, the King, His Highness,
Hullabaloo-the-Blare.
16. a Poem for a Queen
such a Queen such courage ... man
she's valiant Gp said
Time? … Timaeus asked …
you need Time?
tell you … I'll give you Time
an 'Illion 'Ears I'll give to you
… not enough?
OK four more give Hours more … see?
connubial give Hours more say …
Ben said
you're getting dressed again?
that's worth four seek Faces …
sweet
Faces … four more Faces nice
faces …it's OK!
Argo Spier said that's 3x said
it's four
no?
OK … then I am write
she'll wait Four you … no Time
[sarum plain]
But it is a meaningless enterprise,
for it is the very entanglement of levels that makes you You.
Paul Davis, God and the New Physics.
There is a dungeon, in whose dim
drear light
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again!
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight
- Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so; I see them full and plain -
An old man, and a female young and fair
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar: - but what doth she there
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?
Lord Byron, Childe Harolds Pilgrimage.
Little babbitt born, you! Oh, you,
you! Through the In
in which I soak, I am newborn prime to your spell.
Argo Spier.
17. Inside the cloak of your night I
'…There is a dungeon, in whose
dim drear light What do I gaze on?
Nothing: Look again!
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight
Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so; I see them full and plain -
An old man, and a female young and fair
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar: - but what doth she there
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white'
Lord Byron, Childe Harolds Pilgrimage
Unadorned like nativity, I issue into you
Inside the cloak of your night I gush
As if from the depth of a well
Sprouting I enter your dream, the screaming
Nightmare of your domain
What strange new loop this dawn
is!
What tangled hierarchy, this Möbius ring of gold!
The setting of old sol! Of moon!
But what daring alarm admonished
me
to penetrate your gallows's hoop of day puckered murder?
Was it your need for unravelling codes?
Was it your need for knowing?
Your desire for mastering Gödelian incomplete-
nesses?
Mine?
Oh, hush! Don't tell me!
Hush, Lover Lust Vestalian Judicious
Song
Hush, Sizzling Suckling
It is you inside the bark of my domain
It is you who excite like organic fluid
Like masticated zeal
You in the vain long while in my
brain
18. the Death of a Poet
'… and do we rip
The veil of Immortality, and crave
I know not what of honour and of light -
Byron, The Works of Lord Byron
There is a difference that makes the death of a poet
And death's defile a fountainhead of sprouting zephyrs
A luscious spring and a horse's leaping run
- The gallop towards coop and hollow -
There is a difference in death's avis
A difference of life and death and in designation
A difference of reliance
A difference in woods of words
And a difference in words sheep's slaughtering pens
- Man just is but man generalis and gender:
female and man -
And the poet's words are just words
Phrases generalis and gender
- Words and words on Steppe Wild -
But the difference
There's a difference in the death of a poet
A difference of life and of death in devise
In cattle's flowing stride and in cloying fall
A difference in summer's sprint winter's stairs
And in scattering sickening spring fall
And the difference it is you
Who make the difference!
You are the one who make yards dens insides
Keep households holes to live in
Never to die in - of course - but never the less
The cheating of the death of a poet's life
Is but life to a suckling verse
It pares sandalwood like massive shaping stone
And none none none other is mane and horn
And wool and end and novelette and bang
And at the backward carry of the startling front
None none none of it is more than covenant is
- Promised land and hovel -
And at the mark of the day the night
When the day and the night try their tryst and do
The sign post rook at the crossing points
Towards the alarm and in twilight mist
Through dusk and dust in breakaway dwindle
You discover the well its illuminated tyro
The root from which the poem augments
The death of a poet is nothing more
Nor nothing less of line
19. the Death of a Heart
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thou late repentance, long despair?
Thou throneless Homicide?
Lord Byron, Occasional Pieces
She stoops in the equidistance of the circle
And stooping, she tends the tattooed dust
- The frame -
There is no inlet out - It is roly-poly a man she craves, her hungry feast
-
She obliges a hearth, a hook, a
grave,
No woo!
There is no outlet in
Oh, if only
Only if a little repast - It is roly-poly a man she craves, her hungry
feast, a body not her own –
Oh, if only, only if a little while lavish a lover regrets
- It is roly-poly a man she craves,
her hungry feast, his body she now contains -
20. your free carillon from its dangling ring
Her Resplendent Little Face;
her Innocuous Mouth when batting,
she opens up like a Guiding Golden Beam
She glints, and when she smiles
she smiles into the very Dun of Dusk
Little girl at the entrance portal
door,
little toallour customer, come
Come away, come away
from the door
come away from the door leading
to hallway and passage
down
come away, come away,
away from catacomb and stone
from sepulchre's claw and calvary's
straight
Come away, come away,
away, race away from tombstone
Durovernum Cant-wara-bryrig and
Canterbury's serpent dark
come away, come away, hush, run away
rush, deem, talk, run
from the door's gathering call
from its token black From winter's dreary
dirty tree, blood so cold, gash's slit, run
come away, come away from bruise's bad,
the unseen boil
Come away, come away, hush, run away
rush, deem, talk, talk, speed, oh flee the quickening
of padlock and bolt,
the waxed curtain, naked seam's carrion,
the corpse, the weald,
the weald where gothic's granite pillar
fixed it's lean Where once the deed was done!
The deed was done,
the deed was done
where the woods were cut upon the open hill
the deed was done
when late, early spring, fall,
when Mitzumner's fall, flamed, flared
it's frigid fervour
the deed was done
in Becket's house with tacit deceit
the deed is done,
the deed is done
on long walks away from home
the deed is done on hindrance's wait
the deed is done on sinister staircase
and in cellar, iron age, plain wide
Speed away, speed away, come away,
come away, hush, run away, rush, deem
talk, talk, talk, run, the tally's too dire!
- You must not wait! -
Come away, come away, hush, run away,
rush, deem, shout
Girlie lass, sweet little mistress
at the entrance portal door, little toallour
customer girl, run, don't cry little child
at the entrance portal door, little toallour
customer love, run little love
Run from
your silent night ally, dark, dim, door
21. houses of solid stone
'…Then if a Christ is born
in stabled barn
and from that barn, from its entrance door,
its windowpane,
boundlessness in its naïveté, shines
its flame, What then?'
Argo Spier
What if in houses made of solid stone we live?
What if no windowpane nor entrance door
Let in light?
Light to be born in,
Light to lit the way out?
What if no electric bulb,
nor turbine pale?
What if in this dark we think
Candour's glow's but a blush's shine?
And what when naught
Is compared to our own stone?
What then are we?
Houses of solid stone?
22. the Poet is a Nomad
A polarity of light and dark, above
and below, guidance and loss of bearings, confidence and fears a structuring
principal of human thought - Joseph Campbell
The diurnal alternation of light
And poacher night its weight
And the weight of day
And earth in its dreary sleep
And sea and earth in the wake and depth and douse
And stabbing stone its height
And moon - the immortal moon - its silver dish
And your sun its flame
And the flare of flaxen its gold
- The re-enactment of IT, of the Primal Scene,
that is what makes the poet a Nomad -
The naked star its meandered scatter
Outside of the ring of the sky
The rambled maze in which the poet's
Frail reward is solitude and sand
And in which wolf and coyote jackal and fox
And howl and carouse celebrate death
Resur-
Rection
Birth within birth the stirring of dying days
The surviving twilight light
- The dawning of your re-enactment of IT,
of the Primal Scene, that is what makes the poet
a Nomad -
- The poet is a Nomad -
His poems the ply over instinct crossing
Transits over barrier and gorge
His poems ruses for the desolated ritual
Trestles for outlandish trekking
His poems universal peregrination
Waxed dreams forlorn
His poems are hallowed by you
- The Poet is a Nomad -
Oh the nightfall of your perfidious re-enactment
of IT of the Primal Scene that is what makes
the poet
WORKSHOPPED
[quote=aspier;1378018][THE POET IS
A NOMAD]
The diurnal alternation of light,
and poacher night, its weight,
the weight of day,
earth in its dreary sleep,
the sea in the wake
and depth of douse,
the stabbing stone, its height,
the moon,
the immortal moon,
its silver dish, and your sun,
its flame,
the flare of shining flaxen gold.
- Your re-enactment of IT, of the Primal Scene,
that is what makes the poet a Nomad. -
The naked star, its meandered scatter
outside of the ring of the sky,
the rambled maze
in which the poet's frail reward
is solitude and sand,
and in which, wolf and coyote,
jackal, fox and howl, carouse,
celebrating death, resur-
rection, birth
the birth of stirring dying days,
surviving twilight.
- The dawning of your re-enactment of IT,
of the Primal Scene, that is what makes the poet[/quote]
23. mortar and concrete
'…from the name of their deity,
Briganta,
'High One', 'Queen'
Anne Ross, Pagan Celtic Britain
From the darkness of your womb
To the darkness of the light
From the light in your reverie
To the light in my eye
The room in which you bulbed once
From the threshold of your cocoon rising
To the keep of fecundity recklessly I the grain
innate on the outside of phanitasmagoria
- You mortar and concrete! You woman and world! -
Once when rites of passage are done
Once when archetypal transformations are formed
Once when primeval from love to myth
Once when from nightmare to kaleidoscope
Once do love me once you woman
Of mortar and concrete
Your eye in mine once and after that
For evermore
WORKSHOPPED
[quote=aspier;1380954] Mortar and
concrete
'…from the name of their deity, Briganta,
'High One', 'Queen'
Anne Ross, Pagan Celtic Britain
From the darkness of your womb
To the darkness of the light
From the light in your reverie
To the light in my eye, the room
in which you bulbed once
From the threshold of your cocoon rising
To the keep of fecundity
recklessly I the grain
innate on the outside of phanitasmagoria
- You mortar and concrete! You woman and world! -
Once when rites of passage are done
Once when archetypal transformations are formed
Once when primeval from love to myth
Once when from nightmare to kaleidoscope
Once do love me once you woman
Of mortar and concrete
- Your eye in mine once and after
For evermore -[/quote]
34. the woman of the age of dream
'Night, twilight, a great light:
A cluster of trees, sky-like, rising red as the sun'
Quote from a ceremonial song sung in Central Australian Arunda circumcision
rituals, since time immemorial, which was recorded in 1959
Joseph Campbell, The Masks of God, Primitive Mythology
Let she - Homunculus - not see you
The woman of the Age of Dream
Let she - Detrudo: Thanatos - not see the flood
Let she - Libido: Eros - not see your subincision
Wound
Or taste the coagulated form,
The forbidden food
Nor the blood nor taste the amniotic fluid
- Night, twilight, a great light:
A cluster of trees, sky-like, rising red as the sun -
Let she - Homunculus - not hear
you
The woman of the Age of Dream
Let she - Unmerciful - not hear the cry
The pain - Infantile Arouse - of your re-
Awakening
Or feel the sweet salt of your manhood
Taste your skin
Your soft new body
Nor feel the concomitant
Or hear the utterance of your perishing past
Let she kiss your renewal, rejoice in your birth
- Night, twilight, a great light:
A cluster of trees, sky-like, rising red as the sun -
The colour of your eyes
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime
But You shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time
William Shakespeare
The colour of your eyes
Once when you were made were the colour
Of lovely dust,
Sand summers' stuff blowing full across the plains
But then when the seasoned years took the call
Of roll,
Your eyes, the colour of your eyes, paled
To the colour of water winters' waste pouring empty
Through the woods
And as the years' reign over snow
and sand
Pnched itself over it's own teeming drag,
From barren earth to soaking drown,
The colour of your eyes - From bright to dull -
Faded more still
And towards the windfall of your
rhythm's end,
When my time had pulverised to nothingness,
The colour of your eyes
Fitted the grime of travestied mud and mire
Kiss!
madame gillette
When indigo matures to gold would you be as unwise as to apprehend it
as jaune soleil?
And when it dilates to vertigo, stark billiard and/or transparent blood?
How would you percieve it then?
But more important: How would you feel?
1. the calling
Sym-
metry breaks, russet sound
and brass turns into copper tin and alloy
into the foreground a dark myriad
moves
- it moves away from the archetype
and opening wide, there’s space
room for a locate and a track
the re-routing of thought
and in the background
there’s a man running
- it is the Able man advancing
into no man's hinterland
2. not a n avis but a colour
Into the oven she went
out of the athanor she came
- she was jade -
to her impair and scathe
and what wasn’t to be cloaked
was her lust, the want for more,
it couldn't be deranged
she was lead –
-
- worst of all her hair
her hair that scared the most
it now had the ominous stroke of a brush
and was of pure gold
- she had turned diamond –
3. coniunctio
Steaming hot the raw inflame
timeless the ritual of the seam
and black the innocense of white absence
it is the blue on its way towards
green
the plain stark yellow plane
her temporality of dream
freezing cold the afflict
short-lived the manner of the heart
it is the white guiltiness of black presence
but when green on its way to the
blue
reward and afflict, it is the plain stark yellow
which suggested the permanancy of her seam
4. Ariadne's thread
Nigredo: Your dark face! Earth!
Calcinatio: Tan it! Rake it in the sun!
Solutio: Wash it in the moon!
Coagulatio: Dry it in the wind!
Sublimatio: Look at it! It evaporates
Into thin air!
5. existence and field
From the circle of time, ten
the golden number of mime, nine
oozes and trickles down
the length of your arm
in the pool of my decadence
a squar floats on the verve of the stream
and where square turns to circle
in gooey bewail there’s a mucilage
it has no stride and in a trice
it rends asunder
and deucento laïs bends from cantus planus
1 and 2 and 3
6. psychogenetic fugue
Leaving home leaving no trace
APHASIA I have forgotten your name
Oh APRAXIA for you the blame
the key I found of you I now have forgotten
how to unlock your heart
AGNOSIA sweet, its you who came
you who tease tying my shoelaces
for me and fête and panty
its for me and the taking to home
but worst of all and by and bye
and in the glass I have forgotten what you're …
where?
7. the greeting of madame gillette
La tré douce Gillette dex
vous doint tres bon jour
Jehannot De Lescurel, Gracieusette Gillette.
'Good morning, Madame GILLETTE!
How are you?'
Her induce - orange - vagrances prime
her skin - bronze - from it you relish gist
your hand when it steals at hers
touches young excite nimble docile
But she weighs on you
she weighs her full scale on you
- furlough dash -
and when she wakes up she is as lovely
as a mistress
'Aren't you a bit like Madame GILLETTE?'
8. madame gillette's maid's play
Cups of coffee?
or rivers?
blue Friday?
bridges?
mirrors?
cows?
Lithuanian lights?
and oh all the other placid pacific!
'Do you still smoke so much?'
9. music from the greek underworld
It is in relation to the real that
the level of phantasm functions.
Sigmund Freud
'You said it was only a show and you've boa-ed it from the Great Collect.
Méduse et compagnie'.
'Yes, there wasn't any other song to use it for! Its the melody that makes
it worthwhile, isn’t it? But I told you I would fix it, didn't I?'
'Yes, you have but don't forget it was me who discovered that the clue
was in the yes. In the 3+1. I forked that one out!'
'Sure, you did, Mister NUMMULAR!'
'No, I am not that, you MOTHER PLANUS! Come on, sing the song! Start at
the Colossal'.
'No! Je n'en partirai; Ains le servirai com loiaus amis'.
'Please! Sing me your songline, Woman of Rembetica, the one you called
Argyle, why go out on me? It's such an intriguing laïs…'
'No, I won't! Not that one! I'll sing The Horseman's-ride-at-Geagan's-rest
instead! And I’ll bring in Frau HELGA HÖLLE to scare you! Or
LF3= Lover+Littith+Lust!'
'No don't! Don't! Oh, what are you cruel all of a sudden! I don't want
to hear that!'
[Mime the role. Play it.]
'Are you sure I am the cruel one? You've started it! It was you who have
put up the pro like that! I'll sing any songline I wish! IDIOT INDIGO!'
'Go back, go back to the world, my son! Whoooooaaw! LEONARD COHEN!'
'Who said that? You? Did you hear the voice? What a strange tone it had!
From the grave, no? Oh, never mind! Come on now, complete Music from the
Greek Underworld. It goes nowhere the way we do it now. All you have to
do is slap it on as a last run on Gillette and then BINGO BOCCACCIO. Come
on, hurry! I am waiting for you upstairs!'
[Pause. Waiting.]
'Are you coming …?'
[She's vertigo turning coquelicot.
She's calling, singing me! Yesssssss, it's working! She's coming!]
10. tune
Oh her smile, plaint
and her eye, a gaze and when she gives in
an ocelli succumbing to an eye
she leads you on
and sets the tune - reddish-brown
Madame GILLETTE!
'May God grant you a lovely day!'
11. fisheye lens
Aiyn Soph's persistence conceived
a symbol
then a word, your Broken Sword word
three vaudin and a snake
language used these
to sharpen the curve
to build the line and to split
in between
but it was woe's well-proportioned
aim
that did what needed to be done
it put the shin in the shhh of it
it made the sound of a fiend
out of it - namely five
12. any woman and every man
'Inside every man and every woman
there is an emptiness so huge that it can be filled with the emptiness
of every man and every woman, any woman'.
'Really? Is that true? Oh, this is Tao, isn't it? Ying and Yang and that
such, no?'
'No, no, its just something creative I am doodle-playing with lately =
writing. Its a kind of fast translation like the one I did in Mr. Chang!s-Lue
from Ching-Ching's log. About recognition, you see? Something I got from
a text by the mentioned CHANG!S-LUE from Ching-Ching who had, after reading
a text of a Dutch translation of a New Age English version of some Chinese
Tao Master's translation of a Chinese text interpreting a thought of LAO-TSE'S
Tau-te tjing's teachings about relational aspects between women and men
… in general, you know? Etc. I can't remember which book I got the
idea from. Probably it was from a library book but then again, I would
have given it back to the library by now, I guess. Wouldn’t I? I
don't have it anymore.'
'Are you sure you gave it back? One can get steep fines for being late
with library books!'
'Yes, I know, but he was a great teacher! Both of them were actually!
And they were both from BC. Quite old, eh? And the text! Its no mediaeval
laïs or silly motet. Nothing of that sort in the nearest of its meaning!
Its New Eastern stuff. I like it!'
'Yeah, and this bit about the any woman? Isn't that a bit overstated and
steep? Do they come like that?'
'I suppose so, yes, literature’s got its ways, no?’
'No, I don't and anyway, what has Tao got to do with it? You are leading
me on! Actually, when I think about it, everything you write lately, well,
this AIYN SOPH shit and all … its from your previous poems and that
bugs me! What kind of crap is it that you are producing?'
'Yes, I see what you mean. And on top of it you might be write too. I
don’t know shit anymore what I write!’
13. flirting with AIYN SOPH's hand
When creation ex nihilo was done
the sum total of all the numbers in the world added up to 10. That singled
out the unequal number 11. Oh that was dramatic situations! It was such
a wrong number. And now even it was excluded from the rest. It felt it
should have been in with the one. Especially because it was so close to
the number 10, the magical number with all its possibilities of harmony
between Creator and Man. But masculinity, number 5, and femininity, number
6, still had to come together, it was explain to it. But nobody could
see how. And all the numbers started to complain.
'5+6=11? That's ridiculous’ they argued. Man and women to join!’
It was unheard of. And it all went through the grape vine fast and quickly.
All creation was involved.
AIYN SOPH in her wisdom then decided to see to this discrepancy. As mentor
of the world it was her task to unravel what was wrong. She opened her
hand in front of all the numbers and she showed them a small little ball.
It was only the size of a little dot.
And the little dot laid there in her hand sweet and silent like a small
innocent thing and was completely unaware of what was going to happen
to it. Then AIYN SOPH moved her hand slightly as if to wake up the little
dot. It rolled backwards and forward on her palm and, oops, it dropped
off her hand and fell to the floor.
When it hit the floor it bounced on it and in its upward bounce it shot
up high into the air. And then it dropped towards the floor again. This
time from higher and faster. It shot back up again. Higher. And down again,
faster. And it bounced upwards and down faster and faster, picking up
momentum. And it shot all over the room. Then it hit the staircase leading
down. It bounced on the steps going down. When it hit the bottom of the
staircase it shot against the ceiling of the cellar and back to its floor.
And up the steps again. And then to the ceiling of the room in which AIJN
SOPH had dropped it, all the time picking up speed and momentum. It shot
up the staircase to the first floor. And higher. The second floor. And
higher. Its momentum was nearing alacrity and when at last it first hit
the ceiling just under the roof its speed was as fast as lightning. It
also had expanding in size due to its speed. It had became bigger and
bigger the faster it went. The centrifugal force holding it together became
critical.
It was then that the blunder happened!
The little dot, when it hit the top ceiling the second time, exploded
with a gigantic bang so big and loud that the whole of creation shocked
into a freeze. It hit the ceiling, burst open and its contents splashed
all over the world. Gluey mucilage splattered onto the walls, dirtying
it. Mushy squash flicked onto the whole of the universe, its windows,
the door and all the furniture. And then there was silence.
And the silence lasted a while. Never in the history of AIYN SOPH’s
creation such a bang and such a silence happened and was heard. Everybody,
the numbers included, just looked on dumbfounded.
But it wasn't over.
After the deadly silence started to drone away and time had past the carnage
slowly started to move. From the ceiling the squash started dripping to
the floor. Ooze and drool from the furniture leaked towards a small pool
in the centre of the top room. Then the slobber in the pool started to
contract. A new centrifugal force was coming into being and slowly, inch
by inch, the debris collected itself and rolled into a little dot. The
little dot rolled itself into a ball. Its movement became forward and
backwards and then it made small little jumps picking up new momentum.
It started to roll towards the staircase that leads to where AIYN SOPH
was waiting for it. It fell off the first step and bounced to the second
and went down. It tacked down the steps gaining enough momentum to bounce
towards where AIYN SOPH stood calmly with her stretched out hand. When
it reached AIYN SOPH feet it made one larger jump and artlessly hopped
back into her waiting palm. Creation ex quis quis.
And the wonder of this: Now masculinity and femininity's call, 5 + 6 =
10, was all of a sudden in balance with what was supposed to be from the
beginning, equality. And all the numbers started to clap their hands.
Man saw woman and they both saw each other eye to eye. 5+6 = 10, that
was fantastic. And everybody was happy.
That night, when everybody had already gone to bed AIYN SOPH opened the
window of Creation and looked down at the world with a compassionate smile.
The sum total of all numbers was absolutely 10.
Nobody would ever dispute that anymore.
14. any time
'At Moore's statue, ok? Be early!'
'Which one? Douglas'? The Ballad of Baby Doe's?’
'No! Robert's, Ignoramus! Douglas didn't make statues. Will you early?'
'Oe-oe, Mister Ilitsj Katsjoerian is begging me!'
'Who? Ilitsj Katsjoerian? Who is he? Whose begging? I know a Leonard Katsjoerian!'
'No! I mean you, Mister Winestein Bernstein!'
'Oh, that. What about my cousin, the honourable Mister Reyngol'd M. the
Glier? Aren't you forgetting him? But come on, you will be on time, will
you?'
'Oe-oe-two,yes, begging it is! Definitely begging!'
'On time please!'
'What makes you so sure that I will want to come anyway?'
'On time I said!'
'Oh, you are a persitent one! Of course I will come!'
'Yes I know you will. Just come on time!'
'Moore's then? What time it was again?'
'Which one? Douglas Moore or Robert Moore? 007?’
'Persistent villian!'
'Yes, Madame Ilitsj Katsjoerian! Leonard is of the same opinion. He told
me that you will be on time this time. Will you be on time, this time?'
'Which Leonard are you refering to now? Bernstein or Leonard Cohen?'
'That's a good one! But start praying for your mirical! It will come if
you are on time!'
'Rascal you! Of course I'll on time, even early and just to pester you
I will bring Jackey-and-Jilly and the run of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's
flow with me. I will tell everybody to come and watch me be on time! My
husband included! He'll bring the noose! That'll serve you write, wouldn't
it, Mister Seduce?'
'Oe-oe-two yes, exciting it would be! Definitely exciting but just be
on time!'
'Would it, eh, work?'
'Yes it will!
'
And when she had said and had stopped talking she became what her instinct
was prescribing for her and she was staring at me. Her eyes had that sexually
seductive driblet brown and looked lukewarm. Inwardly she was jubilating,
thinking 'Yessssssss! It had worked! I've got him!' Her triumph showed
in her dry smile. But deep down in the abyss of her need for illicite
naughtiness her unrest started to erode her poise. She showed the impatience
of a woman in love. Her face turned almost animal like. And that was when
I too knew for certain that it had worked for me too.
’Moore's statue. Early!
15. Nirvana
One is for woman
two is for girl
and three?
what can be the use of three
three's for the clowns
and ups
and the what the you and me
had turned out to be
16. Touch
Oh GILLETTE GILLETTE how pretty your
eye
when reflected in mine
how exact the tone of touch
and strong in its colour, the dye
GILLETTE GILLETTE how lucidly
an eye for an eye, your eye in mine
and mine with yours
oh how exactly the fit
into the driplet of the bead
GILLETTE GILLETTE what strong zeal,
the sound
of our jostle when from its holy acme
our affection comes
how safely our secret tricklet of
gold
17. Colourless
SCYLLA, oh leaden one once free SATURNUS!
what dormant charm inerted your game?
what ill will immobilised your happy dance
what deamon doctor castled you
into that deadend lead
and CHARYBDIS, oh iron one once
fierce formed fire but now sloughed
and hardened to your cast
what unfair narrow magic wrung you
so fatally away from SCYLLA and me
18. harvest
Unmoved and relinquised
you lie in your sleep
austere and in pain
you wait in your dream
and homeless you live
in my diasporic exile
stir my love, wake up and come
come to your home
your home inside my retort
rhyme
oh come come come home
come and muse me
muse muse muse me
again
and again and again
again
again
19. memoires of a Parisian
AND, Words
Make pain.
Like poverty can make pain.
Mongane Wally Serote, Yakhai'inkomo
LAURA ANTONELLI oh the one from Italy!
Östenreichische länder
gypsy Barbecuur Cultuur
red
and the matchbox, whoosy
their ends were blue
20. the twin’s city of translucent glass
A womb in its warmth is a plaquered
interior
and place
Jasper + Crystal + Lapis lazuli +
Chalcedony + Emerald + Sardonyx + Cornelian + Chrysolite + Beryl + Topaz
+ Chrysoprase + Turquoise + Amerhyst + Perls + pure gold = pure pure gold.
it is our city! Our metropolian!
21. the city of translucent fluid
First the Primum Mobile moves
then the rest moves
Septem - Orbes, Plane - Tarvm.
we move towards
Systema Magicum
then we move towards
each other
then the gods emanate
APOLLO PHOEBUS HORUS
then the moon moves and the goddesses
haunt
CERES, ISIS, CYBELE
then the oceans open and let us in
PROSERPINA, you and PERSOPHONE, I
we enter our city
our metropolian our Atlantis
22. awareness scares
I see … seeing myself seeing
myself, seeing, feeling how you are inoculate.
Valéry, Young Prague
And when the night comes
again as it rides and the music as it games
again Laïs Bellecanto Dorothea I feel it again
Missa Ivrea it is coming again
when it comes as it scurries and
the cozen
as he forfeits again and the blackness as it pitches
high again and you as you trespass into my sorrow
Cysthia I feel it again Messa De Notre Dame
it is coming again spreading again
when it comes and pain claims pain
again and the low lover escapes fleeing exaltation
again and the sweet courtesan as she wastes away
again averring misery again I feel it again Beatrea
Ma fin est mon commencement lambasting again
and when it comes an addict's spurt
and as the cold kills the tepid again and gold
is sold for silver again and me for the incarnate
again Anneah I deem it again … seem it is coming again
debasing again excoriating again
Credo in unum Deum Patrem omnipotentem
factorem celi et terre Visibilium omnium et invisibilium
23. face
Autistic face
symbiotic face
separate face
oedipal face
pewter face
puberty face
adolescent face
mature face
- Powder on Her Face -
my face
my silver face
not yours
24. your Face
You + me + your name
three elements in a frame
your rudimental ascribe
not mine
your golden face
its silver imitate + the place + the schizoid ace
and 1/3 of it mixed with gris ardoise.
in KHAYYAM's hair?
25. chalice and blood
Sometimes, I felt as if my wings
were the arms of a man
rowing against the tide, my boat piled high with cargo.
John Yau, Radiant Silhouette
Born from the USA, I turned green
the chalice in your hand is of the same green
but drinking from it, it tastes bitter
born from my mother, I am yours
your hand holding the chalice is red
but drinking from it, it tasts sweet
and sweet
sweet like the taste of green blood
26. house of blood
Other times, I am a pebble dropped
again and again.
John Yau, Radiant Silhouette
The House that Jack build
he built it for you
he build it for me
I gave it to you
living in The House that Jack built
is living for me
living for me inside me
it tastes sweet
sweet like the oblation of red blood
27. angel in America - contra naturam
It is impossible that anything that
comes out of man's mouth
should be in vain … for every word uttered creates an angel…
Hayim Vital
Oh my Angel!
my dear Archangel!
my Principality!
oh Power!
virtue!
domination!
oh mighty Throne!
dearest Cherubim!
most cherished six-winged!
Seraphim
do not part from me!
28. Samsara
One is for the Matron who serves
me
two is for the sight of her body when she's naked
three is for her kisses
three kisses kisses kisses
that are mine
four is for more and more and more
and more
five is for the jive we jive together
Manbo number 5
and six
oh six is for the nix and tricks
of our mix
29. be it in the line
In the split aspect of measure and
a speech's width
the bird of prey pecks away your crumb
Brig o' Dread no broader than a thread
in the deft cleft of the tongue
that lies to you
a serpent lissomely lay licking
licking at your copper healing heart
Uf em Berge da geht der Wind,
da wiegt die Maria ihr Kind,
Sie wiegt es mit ihren schneeweiszen Hand,
Sie hat auch dazu kein Wiegenband -
change your name! change your name!
the day is night
the night that followed the day
there's a numbered twine, 139
it is consuming you
Ikke Brikke van Engel-land,
bring mi doch e sidne Band -
flemish doodle
poet in Calais – 13/01/2007
50 or more
seagulls hang eye high
in the wind – facing Cap Blanc Nez’s nose
beyonce, Cap Gris Nez the old man
with arms wide open, waiting
to catch the poet’s fluttering heart
it’s a strange winter’s
day
poet, seagulls, the Cap - 43
words in all
(almost 50 or more too)
1. Wintry streak in Old Ghand – 17/01/2007
A storm rages over the house
three piggies, there’s a tree, a Woman
bowing and knodding, knowing a secret
fuming in the street, the tempest
becomes a powerful King, there’s a Man
of Scurry, he escapes over cobble stone
and when the wind takes his hair
he looses his cap
outside the writer’s winter
pane
the howly, growly grizzly Wolfin thuds
- she’s the Icon of poet’s other half, his
beloved Queen in a cage too
2 women, many poets and the number of 7 – 18/01/2007
The World of Winter now resides in
my verse
and cold outside inside in it it is warm – Argo Spier
The poets and their yarn, their secrects, the houses
they have lived in all of them seven stories high
seven the tales they tell
7 the rooms they have entered
and left but say do you know Marisa - the Portugues
fado singer from Saint Giordio di Bilbao?
and Anita?
and speaking Muses
its probably not the time for it now
but the references
to trips taken oh that was a shaggy dog story
you and me
we saw a good deal of each other, didn’t we?
from Navarra through to Oregeon
but the Muses their lovely voices, really
apart from all the hearsay
and gossipy veiling there’s the intrigue
- oh, what frosty weather we had
on the Mullochs?
had to spent the whole without our clothes
they were wet
I agreed I disagreed
of sleezy affairs
motel rooms and fast Bed-and-Breaking
fasts
mythological clues
but yes, in the wind
- oh, my darling, I am blown so blown
away from you with you
its the wind of aftermath, so dispairingly
distressing, cumbersome, untending
of this verse of mine
which, you must agree, is a very strange one
please tell me
what can a poet without a Muse
do with a title for a poem
‘2 women, many poets and the
number of 7’
3. Fruits of toil – 18/01/2007
Cosyn and Dua’s Voedings Winkel
the gooy grocery on the corner
of Merelbeke street close to Hubo
so lovely they are friends
and husband and wife
and working together
selling foodstuffs how they measure
for measure build the reverie of relish
an day in and day out on Saturdays
the money they earn it takes time
and now in Winter in Spring there is the Black Bird
sitting on the rooftop of their house shop
it sings Autumn
Summer - Fruits of Toil
4. The Korenmark sound – 18/01/2007
A flute an acordeon and a Spanish
guitar, 3
Gypsies from Poland
And in the pedestrian borough
sale of 70% off on
all marked-up shoes jersies trousers
Armani and Bennitton
Colours
Red and blue
and citron fleeting glimpses
5. Cold fingers in the city – 20/01/2007
the coat of the man in the street
it too lies useless on the sidewalk, disregarded –Argo Spier, prev.
Desolate as the poet is a flower
with fluff on it
lies in the snow
the surrounding White of Winter
is quite stained
in the chill outside cold and angry
there’s an eccentric hand gesticulating
’bargain bargain’, icy
cold the nails that tear into face
- its Old Ghand hand
come ye al you poets come and remonstrate
use your verses and witnesses
to fend off the raw-boned fury of the streets the litter
that rages from all sides the sounds
there’s the Black Mud on the shoes the houses
are standing alone and are cold
- see? the dead bird has been tossed
from the roof
and aye oh the cold finger freezes
as the night begins early its late
jagged agony
- there’s no promise of a Revolutions
or roumers of the Storming of Churches
6. Nakedness – 20/01/2007
In the center of beleaguered Old
Ghand
Sint Baafs Cathedral where Belfort
towers sky high
the march is on it started from the place
where De Bruyne wrote his Fanfare of Honger and Dorst
- its a funeral swagger
and leading the prossession the Stroppendragers
and the Dixie Band shamefully snoots the drab
they all wear nooses around their necks
they will be hanged in Sint Amandsberg
their bodies on kartwheels
their heads on poles
the onslaught of the cold is coming
in the night
hard Winter is on the run nippy nippy tones
of sound
and all the drunks staggering along
all lost persona non grata all beggars
all closjaars and the escaping poet everybody
sway and halt and sway and tramp along
and when the gathering enters the
Kortrijkse Steenweg
at the Opera House where I saw her last
the entourage disragard the parcels
that they have brought along souveniers plastic bags
and all the unwanted rags
and the Nobles
at the End of the Road they too
take part in the dicarding ceremony
left undone what’s undone
- it will never again be done again -
it’s just is Winter
7. Facultive death – 22/01/2007
It happened thus that night that
every man
in the street of Old Ghand turned out
to be naked to the bone and after
the Big Procession froze to to a still an unwanton death
every woman in the town claimed
after that that it wasn’t her fault life
just wasn’t the thing she had wanted
- it cannot be re-used or un-winded
start over again
the Big Boss W which had come no
other Name
than its own drove this down into the hearts of the town
smen
- it was W who took it all
in was very cold
8. In agreement of the day – 04/02/07
For Joneve and Hildegard
Innocence but value the Abel poet
his communiqué and the purity of Hearts
the issue of playing it out at Stoke’s
- Does it makes sense? Settles it then?
his beloved the collective engarde
in his True Love stories she was the one
who recieved Clubs and Spades in the dealing
Diamonds for Ever second levelled the application
in the Script of Hearts
and in the play
he was the one who wins the transportative Buddha
asking in a Walküre’s-first-Act manner who
was the one that shedded the tear first
- oh, an incestuous affair!
'Say it say it again or don’t’
in his West corner of numbers the
Stage
was set for a philosopher the Stein man
you know? and he took your coat like a bloody
gentleman racing your neck hair
with a bleak finger and a polished nail
’Bedankt voor de kaart! Groet‘
and afterwards when burning Rings
of Fire closed in
the Silenced One it is only then that his cold
calculated artlessness rose up through floorboard
and set
and the stength of a woman beheaded
after being used as Slave came to nostrils
- she had no eyes eyebrows nose and lips
9. The hurt of Winter - 05/02/07
(Version Merskplas)
the lake its mirror of glass cold
ice water flowing from scowling Winter’s frigid
handblow
in Old Ghand the city is a park -
Blaarmeersen
the trees in it are naked and without reserve
as they approach the center circle
of prayer Silent Virgins in awe
bowing and sighing the Sisters of
Mercy
the Wälse scurry for their wounded
their gentle men in amour oh but hurtful
are their heroes dripping with blood
off now shunning the ill effort of conquest
and later in the day in freezing
chill all are lost
there’s no Lover in the streets the poet
is alone the only one that traces the luckless track
where no opera is nor horses
- nobody is bringing him home
10. the day of the snow fleece – 07/02/07
snowfluffs whittles mellifluously
the city of Old Ghand
and when out of their Heeren Huizen
the Stroppendragers come
once again they remove their nooses and thank
God for the manna of Freedom – they were Protestants
and in this Year of the Lord two thousand
and seven that I now write in
the Winterhas won it from Summer
won the White World of my poem with 10 verses
11. the day of the snow fleece – 07/02/07
sifting fluff over the city Old Ghand
is an old man
all its Notables and Citizens live
in houses
of stone except the McDonald’s building
on the Korenmarkt – its of glass
kneeling the Notables and Kin
and the City folk too thank the Absolute
for the beads crumbs he had wasted from Heaven
that was the only thing that was free that year
and from the gallows where the poet
watches
the white whittlings get trampled on in the streets
the sharp contrast of the blackness
of nights
- of worlds of 13 verses
12. 7th story view of Old Ghand – 08/02/2007
seven stories high see the Belfort
Tower
see the Sint Baafs Cathedral (of Old Ghand)
the buried sky that covers 2/3’s of the view
and the red roofs more to the front
houses
the single scattered tree bare without hands
its broken branch aninch of an arm ripped off
down the steps to the patio on floor
five
there’s the inner court and gardens closer
to home and the inhabitants of Petit Paris
(I live there)
in the inner city
next to my house is the house of
the man who died
four years ago of prostrate cancer and the garden
of the woman who’d spend three years on her lung machine
before she passed away her neighbour
he fell off his roof and broke his back we all know
his mother went dement at 80 and screamed
for two years across the garden walls
of all the houses
hating what other people do
was what’s wrong with her really
and people peep from behind their curtains
and out of their windows
they see the teacher meeting her
lover
on the corner at Story Boekhandel to the right
her husband had a ski accident and is paralised
from the neck down there are the
family
whose father got bitten by a bull mastif and developed rabies
- he died a terrible death just before Aller Zielen
- Heinkens’ mother commited
suicide
in Easter
lower down the steps to the flat
roof at two
the poet’s own garden and his deaf schysophrenic
wife and mute psychotic son the blind daughter of ten
who is bedridden now since Sint Martin
but on the bottom floor when you
open the door
to go out into the street it is cold foggy and damp
the Month of Winter had conguered it from there
can bee seen from the street level
the dead city
the ghost people hastening for their homes when night falls
- it is warm cosy safe inside from the byting frost
and sneet and the eternal
drag of death rumours around the
clock their lovely hearths
is about all that’s left when you cover your eyes with your hand
and squint through the dim holes in your fingers
you see only a 1/3 of the sky
(that’s the whole world)
13. new friends in the city– 09/02/2007
now that it has snowed on the borders
of all the countries od the USE
all separation marks are wiped out white
the space between us are white space
the dark nights are gone forever we are one
now ahh there you are my lovely love I see you
now
in your white tabula rasa cloth (no
its not a burka
you wear you are Mary Magdalena) that specify
your speck in the smudge of the world for you
in your lovely white
the white space of my poem
the white note towards you white words
14. Lovers’ winter song – 11/02/2007
The day broke cold again outside
her house
and getting up early at 5 she realised oh my god
she wasn’t married yet always the wrong lover
‘Oh, I want out’ she
shouted from her window
she remembered the previous night hot inside tucking in
late at 10 oh my god she has lost again the right lover
‘Oh, I want back in’
now on the top of her voice
the Music of a World comes in from the racket next door
Lover and Poet in bed they listen to it the Soap
confirmingly they nod to each other
yes its Mrs Winehouse’s
‘No, No, Noooo, Oh Noooo! I say No!’
15. Running away in winter – 12/02/2007
Scaling away early in the morning before 6
she leaps through the frosty frame of the window
now there’s the battle of soldiers in the snow
CNN had predicted huge fall out
downtown NY and LA and all the airports
were shut down not a thing would take to the air
breaking out she didn’t care
thought and was running
the winter was hard this year and facing it now
she just hoped she could still get a ticket
the hurry and on top of this
at the Box Office for Quick Flights
her bag got ripped from her shoulder
while she was explaining her urgent
need to leave
she lost all her money her make-up too
how can she survive now with no
fresh clothes how will she make it
out of town?
she panicked and almost cried
oh, what am I going to do? where can I go
in the drizzling sleet the snow and
the rain
she couldn’t decide whether to hail a cab
on a scam of emergency or go bum a coffee
in the nearest bar
it was then that the poet showed
his pity
and decided to come to aid entering her winter
and changed her storyline in the poem
for her
she needed an urgent change of drift
a line that’ll take her home back home straight back
into his arms … again
16. Late in the day
he rose from bed pulled the curtains
what he saw
depressed him the weather was the same
the day was the same the rain
sleet and fog this can’t be
true he thought
and looked at his watch and reflection in the window
the old man stumbled back to his bed
then back in bed asking where his
muse is
saying to himself ‘I am not home’ and he pulled
the blankets back over head
then the muse smiled
and he dream of a madonna and her tits
the next morning to his wife ‘My god
I had a lovely dream Madonna’
she always hated hime when he calls her
Madonna it wasn’t her name she said
women’s greater zin
1. poem for Beatrice dei Portinari
‘Beatrice is not a shade from the nether world of Dante's fantasy,
a neurotic phantasm like the troubadour Rudel's amor de lonh.’
- The Myth and Cult of the Virgin Mary, Marina Warner, 1976.
Of Beatrice ‘… quella che ‘mparadisa la mie mente’
(she who imparasises my mind)
- Divine Comedy, Dante.
His claim
- the proof of Muse’s tender hand -
on Rank Xerox A4 laser print, but she
is the wench who got off the bus
running across to H&M’s doing
the shift of late
and he, the aching troubadour
- for Muse’s lick and smudging tongue –
on blank tabula rasa, but he
is the inane stalker - lo naturale
é sempre sanza errore -
leaving from H&M’s, doing
the shift of mourn
2. writer’s plea
'E’n la sua volontade
é nostra pace'
(In his will is our peace)
- Buonconte da Montefeltro, 1300.
Sober-minded and cautious
the extravagant bard that you are
avoiding erotic erupt and preacher’s speech
for pity on your flight from Campaldino
and weary across the flowery valley
of neglect - her Salva Regina antiphon -
oh gentle Piccarda, Mystic Rose
will you spare the poet - me -
his crown of thorn
3. pilgrimage of the poet
‘My heart was shuddering with dread
For fleshly sins on which I fed,
Of which my life was made’
- Medieval English Verse, Harley Lyric no. 77, Brian Stone ed., 1964.
Along the routes of old crusaders
en force to his new Compostella
holy land and poet's transfer
his desire spin on tapestries of yearn
romance and love of late, licit love
- his love for his verses –
love itself that transforms
chaste bonfires of hopeless nights
chansons and elegies de geste
but bleak and wane his heart
hopeless his life’s disillusion in love
his poetry - adultery that’s
purged
by poetic lamentation
4. carried along
In the garden of love
and on the day of deliverance, frisky
the morning rose opens her pedals
in half-lit simmering of dawn
spreading her scent
now the night has died on the day
and it fell into its face
- my Mistress' toll is taken -
she started to decay
loosing her scent - grandeur -
and her majesty
the summer too will end
and the bleak debris of love
it'll wrinkle like waste
5. the nightingale’s argument
'A love-liking is come to me
To serve that lady, queen of bliss...'
- Kenneth Sisam, Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose, 1933. -
- Oh, that all women resemble the
immaculate -
the systematic diminishing of your, my love’s
female condition
what is it that makes the yearning and the dream?
A Roman de la rose?
the Knight of her Sacred Grail steals
into the garden and he
stems the rose
and this poem – my poem -
the phallic male condition?
- oh, in it I watch your mirrored
face
the ephemeral flawlessness of your do's
and imitation of mine ipso facto
but lovely, My Love, My Sweet Secret
let us start the harvest of the crop
and tax and use and exploit
that perfect platonic world of love
that's so foreign to us
every year
6. a word across the fields
‘The man who has been raised up seeks symbols of his high estate;
the one who has been degraded seeks symbpls of debasement’. - Mary
Douglas.
Natty the fragrance of perfume
Gentle Eve, here’s an apple for you
touch it with your forehead, your chin
and the rosy burley cheeck
the sign is in the cross’
your tout, in my Adam poem
7. because of heaven and earth
‘The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of sorrow?’
– Shelley.
'Si que d’un mes I paregra lo sens
(re ‘kisses’ – So that marks would linger for a month)
Joseph Anglade, Les Troubadours
Physical love – the agony
of your possession,
- its in your soul -
it sprites in the union of light
- our delight -
and in your aesthetic love – mother’s twinges
formidable Emmengarde, it is that kiss
that leaves the mark
that’s so lusty rumbustiously
and explicit
in lust’s divine sinfullness
beware! there’s foliages in the courtyard
a hiding imp and a scamp
***
but lover, truly you are magestrial
yet only, how remote you are
in your erratic way
- and in my spite -
8. the normality of the birth of love
‘Angelus con silii
Natus de virvine
Sol de stella’
(The angel of counsel is born of a virgin, the sun from a star’)
- Anonomous, twelve century hymn, laetabundus; penguine Book of Latin
Verse.
Viginity in partu
streches credulity, too far
and corporeal intactness
integrity post partum?
the birth of my love for you -its
most naturalness -it simply is there
9. gentle countenance
‘Gautier’s Chansons de la Vierge delighted his generation
and influenced the trouvére Rutebeuf, who was the attraction of
all Paris…’
– The Myth and Cult of the Virgin Mary, Marina Warner, 1976.
Most enchanting natural gift
lyricism contra veritas
the equal gift
of the rough ox
its ingenuity and perilous
snort
your love is but a pun
(believe me trouvére Rutebeuf
the unnatural love of chaff, it’s pleasant
attitudinising of the stricken swain
there’s nothing that compares
her love for the poet - me -
it is true wheat
10. adorable woman
‘Take me for thy wife and learn to sing
Quia amore langueo – for I am sick of love’
Religious Lyrics of the Fourteenth Century, Brown, 1932
Of sinful green fruit that fill the
orchards
and amorous conquests
Knights and their ladies sang
for of the other fruit, I have tasted more
and sickening volley than all
let us leave
the mad practice of love
the silly ordeal which drives us
randomly mad - oh the foe
over the garden wall
11. melancholy reproached
Me laisses qui par amors t’amoie?
(Are you leving me because I loved you with love?)
This very nearness of the divine
in your claim on lovers , it is fatal
to paragon of wealth, to mine
Vexed suzerain, your business
un mien sergent, yes, come swoop away
come and fall
on me in your bridal bed
Virgin Amazed
how can it be? The peril of love’s
pardon!
12. consequences of knowledge
‘The opposition between vice and virtue reflected the ancient conflict
between those who are in the world abd those who are not.’
– The Myth and Cult of the Virgin Mary, Marina Warner, 1976.
Mother-maid, daughter and wife
universal mediatrixes, look at the turn of the world
and come love come love me
- there are faces of resemblances
faces of Eve’s, faces of out of the world
fragile faces –
music, embroidery
sweetly contained bussinesses
your equations of innocence
- there are faces of temperament,
faces of stirring, womanly enterprise, look
come
come love
come Christine
13. number some, an equal
And some deliberate strokes
of crayon on the white wall - was
this your encrypted route to secrecy?
the guide was running
away with the lonely poet - leaving
without a guarantee
but – after all - the outcome
was short of fall
it’s day never ceased
till only towards the end
it was a good movie
14. fast-selling poem
‘Thou whose blessed breasts, filled with a gift from on high, fed
for all lands the unique glory of earth and heaven’
– St. Bonaventure, Meditations on the life of Christ, ed. Rosalie
Green and Isa Ragussa, 1961.
A wan young mother
holding the picture, facing
the kitchen stove
she’s making a hearth
tying the hot steaming focus
to the images of her icons
oh, hold your tongue, bride
quintessential motherliness
your cult of humility and poverty
will soon to be severed
with the gardener’s shear
the poet's kingly deliver
15. poem for Buonconte da Montefeltro
‘That unicorn that was so wild
Aleyd is of a cheaste;
Thou has itamed and istild
With milke of thy breaste’
- R.T. Davis, ed. Medieval English Lyrics. A critical Anthology, 1963.
And he, the vainly poisoned toubadour
- for Muse’s click has touched his epaulette –
on shining rasa, he
is the vagabond - lo naturale
é sempre sanza errore -
entering H&M’s, arriving
to your breast
his proof
- the claim of Muse’s certain hand -
in Cyberspace’s naught and zero, but she
the Mistress getting on the bus
driving from H&M’s, going
home
she
Other storytelling poetic sequences by Argo Spier
Bogy Road - A multi-levelled search into the essence of Wallpaper poetry
and glimpses of the power and darker sub-conscious side of Necro poetica.
Sampel Four -Wallpaper poetry and Necro poetic seances, moving into the
absurd with the printing out of wini.ini files as poetry.
Mucus Gravel - A compilation of sea and farmer poems, hilarious Wallpaper
poetry and beautiful songs.
Raam - The only work in his mother tongue, the Afrikaans language; a Kubrickian
space narration with translations of poems into various languages.
Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café - Containing The Blackwater Stories,
Wallpaper poetry and dreams.
Santa Christiana D'Aro - Wallpaper poetry and a brilliant and homely story.
Belim Tower Road - Wallpaper poetry, containing perfect illustrations
of Necro Poetica, the resurrection of words already said and cold and
the creation of fragile Vestalian sound poetry.
On the beach of Ville St. Gillis Croix de Vie - Miscellaneous and uncompleted.
Mister Page on Page International Airport - Miscellaneous.
A Lover's Sundae Sarum - Anniversary love poems.
Douche and Addition - Poetry and columns.
Zinzli come home Albi - Summer Poems from Chur.
Seasons of Sarum - Storytelling poetic sequences and a deep drive into
Sarum.
Green Muse Trying - Columns and Storytelling Wallpaper poetry.
Blurbs on some of Argo Spier’s publications
Green Water Pain -
[When Night grew with the Dew]
'… with fingers that pat into
the core of feeling'
'Green Water Pain contains the right
mix of art-historical issues, love verses, vague sadness and frivolous
ditty-like rhyme. It is a sensitive journey and to the pointe poetry.
The intermingled references throughout the story to the poetry Paul Celan
gives it its eary palpate'.
Was it Mucha's?
No it wasn't Mucha's, it
was Jan Zrzavy's Cleopatra 1 and the Still-Life-
with-Lillies-of-the-Valley, it
wasn't Mucha's, it was
Frantisek Bilek's How-Time-Models-Its-Poet, it
wasn't Mucha's, it was Maximilian Pirer's
Medusa washing her wriggling hair
no it wasn't Mucha's, it
From Medusa's wait
Nights grow with the dew and slowly
night after night they swell like love puffed virgins
hungry women
night after night at night they wink their eyes
and wriggle their snakes
oh you vile guilty ones laughing sweet
when spawning your basilisk egg
screaming loud when breeding your feral foul
when hauling your little snakiest babes
from Medusa's wait
Mr. Changs! from Ching-Ching
[Summer Love from Chur]
'... hilarious, sad and yet lovely.
Soft tender insider poetry'
'The story of Mister-Chang!s-Lue-from-Ching-Ching
refreshes and will bring a tear to the eye ... but it is also a story
of a very compassionate and understanding smile!'
'In the morning, in front of the
Mirror on the Day of the Story of One Day in the Life of Mr. Chang!s Lue
from Ching-Ching, Mister Chang!s Lue from Ching-Ching saw the impartiality
of his Teeth. He saw how Independent they were. Each Tooth went its own
Way and refused to conciliate with any other Individual Tooth. They all
travelled away from each other with ever increasing inflated Speed, and
those that had left first faded into the distance like Fleeting Days in
the Lives of Poets. Mr. Chang!s Lue from Ching-Ching looked at his own
Eyes watching him from the Mirror. To his surprise he saw that his Eyes
were also showing a similar Pattern of Behaviour. They were fading. Travelling
towards unknown Destinies'.
Castle and Flower
[Winter love story in verse and exercises in the Art of Imitation of Haiku]
I dedicate this short draft and exercise
in the art of imitating Haiku, to the three “Witches of Eve”,
Maya Nuda, Maya Vestita and there bigger sister, known since the beginning
of time as the cruellest and most incisive, Nancy Muse, who, in the slow
months of the year of 1997, castigated my cringing soul and making me
run, beg crawl and return to the feeding dens of their love for me.
All of what is written down here
on paper happened in actual life. It happened with me in the same year.
The Year I refused to be what I am not: a Poet!
A Winter Love Story in Verse and
Exercises in the Art of Imitation of Haiku - When leaning she laughs -
When shines a Moon - Humanoid your Face.
THE MOVING MYRIAD
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
Laggard winds and clarion breezes … colour, laïs and a circle.
The Moving Myriad was written in
the weeks before the author was to appear in court on a charge of refusal
of payment for a misprint of one his mayor publication, Green Muse Trying.
The Moving Myriad gives a good insight into how the author's mind functions
in catastrophic events and how he battles to come to terms with his persecution
by the KOLV VZW printing house. The association he makes with the prosecuted
medieval chanson composer and poet JEHANNOT DE LESCUREL who was hung in
1304 for promiscuity and immoral love is transparent. DE LESCURAL was
author and composer of one of the first three-voiced laïs in the
history of polyphonic mediaeval music. His song and composition, Gracieusette
Gillette, of which the original text is given in the footnotes along side
the English translation of it, is theme grande in The Story of a Myriad
and its recurring echo's throughout the book tells the story of a tender
and indestructible love.
… thought provoking and tender with the delicate honesty of a fearful
heart… Just a lovely sequence and completely worthwhile to read.
LWCFSD Poetic Society.
Recognition Song for Madam Gillette
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
clarion breezes and the colour of life
Recognition Song for Madam Gillette
and its recurring echo's of the licentiousness of carnal love tell a fragile
story of a tender and indestructible love, the love of words.
The author uses the sad history of the prosecuted medieval chanson composer
and poet JEHANNOT DE LESCUREL who was hung in 1304 for promiscuity and
inmoral love. DE LESCURAL was author and composer of one of the first
three-voiced laïs in the history of polyphonic mediaeval music, Gracieusette
Gillette. At the time writing the author too was prosecuted and fined,
but not for immoral love, but for the refusal to pay for a misprint by
the Kolv Vzw publishing house in Ghent, Belgium of his book called Green
Muse Trying.
Thought provoking and well structured.
A story of the delicate honesty of a fearful heart but a lovely sequence
and serious alchemy. … The poet is a charm and his seduction power
is great.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY.
Sym-
metry breaks. Russet sound
and brass replaces guise; pewter and alloy, tin.
And into the foreground a dark myriad slowly
motions. It breaks from the clinging archetype;
while in the widening space of the rearing
no man's land, the ABEL man runs.
And there is a call. It calls as
if calling
from a hinterland. It calls you.
Legally a Muse
Aspirations and motivations, the
theme of love-and-war and small worlds are the ingredients that make Legally
a Muse a story of light complexity and lovely predictable suspense. Its
about the forbidden zone of makeshift communication and the overkill of
innocence in the face of instinctive rivalry.
'We were in a movie. And she couldn't
help it. But she took her script serious and did at that moment something
that she had never done before. She bent over and kissed me full on the
lips. The teeny-whiny little margin of what had become of the write and
the wrong disappeared. And she kissed me again. And this time she ventured
deeper into the forbidden zone of makeshift communication. Plain adulatory.
Her heart pounded fresh and I was a writer. Some flesh. She stuck the
tip of her tongue into the small slit between my lips. I felt lithe and
ordered another round coffee'.
Oliver and the Art of Sharing
Boundless self-centricity verses
its counterpart, the perilous desire to share inner feelings, and the
challenge between these two rivals as well as the deadly pursuit of cause-and-effect
throughout 'Oliver', mould the story as it slips from happiness to a quest
for happiness into an unpretentiousness and very recognisable readable
piece of writing.
'An unbounded compassion washed
over me. From then on every single motion I made in the Old City became
a journey of joy into Wonderland. The Wheel of my karma had started to
turn and I was caught in its positive tolling. My soul and I were reincarnated
in the body that was with us and we both were excited like children going
on an errant with their mother'.
Machines of Art
[From the Argo Spier Prague Interview]
'The material used in the Praha Interview, originated on a walk in Prague…'
'The Praha Interview, originated
on a walk in the mountains surrounding the little town of Tsciertschen
in the Swiss Canton of Graubunden. Argo Spier, a pupil of the South African
poet, N.P. van Wyk-Louw claims to be the Master-of-the-art-of-recombination
of words. The interview collects and recombines parole, creating a meta
language and poetry ... the scrolling kind. As are his poems, it is picturesque
and interlinked. It is a story, Argo Spier is a storyteller ... and his
stories are his work, Wallpaper poetry and Necro Poetica, the ghastly
rituals of writing poetry, his kind'.
'Poetry! You want to know what poetry
is! You want to know what makes a poem a poem! A poet does not know answers
to fit questions like these and the last person to ask what the essence
of poetry is, is a poet! I have not discovered this so called essence
yet and probably never will! I am still searching for the it of it like
every other natural born writer under the sun. I just don’t know
the answer to it and I am not the write person to be interviewed about
it!'
BOGY ROAD
[POEMS OF INNOCENCE AND JOY]
A Wilgcoffee stand-alone publication
'... utterances and everyday dialogue shaped into shocking rhyme'
'... working with flat characters
and a simple plot, SMUTTY creates a racy story with a constant night marsh
and chilly touch as it reaches its tentacles into the subconscious. Bogy
Road has a newness and a fresh vagrancy. It contains séance-like
poetry which excites'.
LWCFSD Poetic Society
Then she opened her mouth and showed
me her tongue. JUVANTE JEZU,
it was split! It was split like DI THE LEVIATHAN'S. She spoke with a voice.
'I am not dead. I am alive and I am a woman not a feman!
Honestly I can also be a man!
I am the poem you are writing!' she said and then she opened her mouth
again and hissed into my face.
I saw her skin color.
It changed from amethyst turf to moist mud.
I smelled the vagrancy of revitalized life seeping through the air like
a cool drug, breezing, promising, inviting, sweetening, growing, ripening
and segmenting.
Blue Sweet -
[Mr. Page on Page International Airport]
'... desolate spaces of feeling,
accumulated debris of used words.'
'Blue Sweet is a neat but strange
step in the spoor of Wallpaper poetry storytelling. It contains sediment
of gall, its unscrupulously honest and there is a typical touch of classy
hilarity. The right mix of ordinary utterances, irrelevant dialogue, stark
expression and the inevitable dramatic drive, makes it the perfect setting
for a true Sduttian story of a Mr. Page
on a Page International Airport.
And you’re lonely.
And you. Don’t know which. Way.
And your words. Are juxtaposed with images.
Of long Bien Temps. Ago.
Blue Space. Up the slopes. The Hex.
And you’re lonely.
And you. Don’t know which. Way.
And your words. Are juxtaposed with images.
Of long Bien Temps. Ago.
And you are.
… daring wallpaper poetic storytelling and a sweet suck on…
With minimal strokes and well selected
words the author works his way through the vast amount of accumulated
encyclopaedic debris left behind on the road of literature and reshapes
waste to beauty. With its 6 separate stories Blue Sweet, carries the reader
over the threshold of hesitation into the surreal world of the process
of creative writing. Vast spaces containing human feeling emerge as the
pace is set and kept throughout the book … a decorous contribution
to the debate re the essence of creative literature.
The master poet is here, once again,
at his best and he uses his seduction power with great ease, skill and
unscrupulous honesty. Blue Sweet with its irony, pathetic mien and off-beat
bravura … a daring statement, lovely and an experience in depth
to read.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY
Cocked Poise
[When I castled your Eye in my Loess]
' ... bracing and garrulous ... yet a gentle read and a tender story'
'… intricate and to the bone,
a referral to Seasons of Sarum. Cocked Poise has several deconstructive
doors offering contemporary art-historical rumpus. It has fingers touching
in deep water, the ritual of writing tout court'.
'No musician', I said, 'there’s
no musician
on the beach, other than me! There’s nobody
other than me, to stain your sky. There’s no mountain,
no valley so high,
no sea so high,
as the day, the almighty day, I castled
your eye in my loess.'
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
... refreshing and loquacious...
Taken up in this publication are the sequences Zinsli came home Albi,
which contains the so-called Chur poems and originated in Switzerland,
A lover's sundae sarum, love poetry written in Austria, a third sequence
written on the beach of Ville St. Gillis Croix de Vie, France and the
in 1997 well received Canterbury Carillon which was written in England
as a contribution to the defamed child abduction and murders in Belgian
in 1995-1996 and presented in schools across Europe
'… intricate … core material
from the author's Seasons of Sarum. The sequence has its fingers touching
into the sub planes of the great poetic undercurrent unconsciousness.
The ritual of writing tout court'.
LWCFSD Poetic Society
[THE POET IS A NOMAD]
The diurnal alternation of light,
and poacher night, its weight,
and the weight of day,
and earth in its dreary sleep,
and sea, and earth, in the wake
and depth of douse,
and the stabbing stone, its height,
and the moon,
the immortal moon,
its silver dish, and your sun,
its flame,
and the flare of shining flaxen
gold.
- Your re-enactment of IT, of the Primal Scene,
that is what makes the poet a Nomad. -
The naked star, its meandered scatter
outside of the ring of the sky,
the rambled maze
in which the poet's frail reward
is solitude and sand,
and in which, wolf and coyote,
jackal and fox,
and howl, carouse,
celebrating death, resur-
rection,
and birth and birth,
and stirring dying days,
and surviving twilight.
- The dawning of your re-enactment of IT,
of the Primal Scene, that is what makes the poet
Sample Four
[The Masked Man of Sainte Margarita]
' ... the endless generation of
words, images, themes and stories'
'Sample Four employs Wallpaper poetry
(the endless generation of words, images, themes and stories) and results
in Necro Poetica (the ritual of writing). It is a Sduttian and Argo Spier
pushes his own genre to the limit by incorporating a transcript of a TV
Soap Opera and the so-called Computer poems, the latter which are print-outs
of the wini.ini file of his own computer. The dark and cult-like undertone
throughout the book hint towards what edge Argo Spier wants to drive language
and poetic storytelling. Sample Four is also an encyclopaedia of sound,
pictures and non-sensible sense and an intriguing story of four poets
in a bar in the middle of the Karoian desert discussing meta aspects of
writing tout court'.
next day ... static life
they gathered on the beach of Miramar
(they knew about the nightly raid)
Phaedo Phaerus Timaeus
and
the Masked Knight of Sainte Marguerite
sat on a rock feet in the water
don't be metaphysically naïve
the soul belongs to the world of fluid forms
that's why it rains so much it's easier to fight
that way when all is wet
the earth dogged
're you sure?
absolutely poems are written
MUNICIPAL PAINT OPERA LODGE CAFÉ
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
The Story of Helena and the Secret
Pleasures in the Palace of Joy.
The master poet is here, once again, lover and at most, in control. His
seduction power is great and he is just the Master Lover. The speed, versatility
in matter choice, use of words and themes and skill makes it the most
beautiful and boldest story written at the change of millennium. Municipal
Paint Opera Lodge Café with its irony, pathetic mien and on-beat
bravura is a most pleasant experience to encounter. The reader will just
love it. It is wallpaper poetic storytelling sec.
LWCFSD POETIC SOCIETY
somewhere
backstage Vienna another life VALENTINE
winter spring summer autumn
rain
subversive thoughts authentic Passions JOYCE
JAMES sure waiting behind the doors shoes
dreams writing poems landslides roofs
shoes numbers room numbers upstairs
sky
don't read what you don't write
slippery mud slices slippery slices
slipping under feet Macintoshes more
rain more steep rain poems
my many poems
wait! wait! wait! open the door
who's behind that door door door
do you hear hear hear the echo echo?
people notice poems everyday when
I write
poems everyday deconstructing poems
writing
people write about poems filamentary writings
signs of the Zodiac SAGITTARIUS VIRGO
WASSERMANN fire earth water breath and men
people many people Northerners
Southerners United East Indian
Companies
they write about poems my many
poems
they read about poems my many
poems
they read naughty things in poems very naughty
things in my poems naughty things with married
women children Muses of Dark Pools death
poisonous life lies lies lies lies lies
Santa Christiana D'Aro
WALLPAPER POETRY SEC THAT FAST SCROLLS
THE PERILOUS 'HOLIDAY' ADVENTURES AT SANTA CHRISTIANA D'ARO.
Look ... you put flowers on the table you make it nice they knock it over
when reaching for the milk and butter there is water in your plate water
on your bread water all over you you don't like that you don't want to
make it nice anymore you knock the bread on the floor it mushed up the
floor you get up you slip on the smooch you hurt your back you don't like
that you think why you had put flowers on the table why you had made it
nice why look at you you are like an old idiot you don't like that nobody
likes that nobody likes an old man they ask you hey why you walk like
that like an old man all crooked and bent askew you put flowers on the
table or something someone knocked it over when reaching for milk and
butter or what all that water in your plate water on your bread water
all over you you didn't like that you didn't want to make it nice anymore
you knocked the bread on the floor it mashed up the floor you got up you
slipped on the smooch you hurt your back you didn't like that you thought
why you had put flowers on the table why you had made it nice why look
at you you are like an old man you don't like that nobody likes that nobody
likes an old man everybody's gone ask you hey ...
Municipal Paint Opera Lodge Café
…. seduction power, exuberance
in cadence, speed, complaisance in matter-, word- and theme choice, appropriateness
of thrust and the brilliancy of hidden rhyme make of 'Lodge' a push of
one in a million. And with its irony, pathetic mien and on-beat bravura
it is an experience to apperceive. The rendezvous of the poet and his
beloved on the steps of the Opera lodge Café at Backwater Bridge
is just too beautiful an experience … too beautiful to describe
in words other than his own.
somewhere
backstage Vienna another life VALENTINE
winter spring summer autumn
rain
subversive thoughts authentic Passions JOYCE
JAMES sure waiting behind the doors shoes
dreams writing poems landslides roofs
shoes numbers room numbers upstairs
sky
don't read what you don't write
slippery mud slices slippery slices
slipping under feet Macintoshes more
rain more steep rain poems
my many poems
wait! wait! wait! open the door
who's behind that door door door
do you hear hear hear the echo echo?
people notice poems everyday when
I write
poems everyday deconstructing poems
writing
people write about poems filamentary writings
The Story of Caroline
A Wilgcoffee stand-alone publication
A quest for the sanity of love and a drive into the unconscious …
stark and a never ending story…
The story of CAROLINE and her double
diagnosed male persona with overt personality traits, T'ALBERT, EUGENE
is one large encyclopedic peeping box in which emotion intermingles with
about everything to tell the story of the creation of the story of CAROLINE.
… well structured and the multitude
of theme lines are running a steady course throughout the book only to
intertwined in the end into a tight knot.
… hilarious at times, chilly at others, with poetry and prose interlinked.
There's the 'reality-at-home' and the 'reality-abroad' and there's the
merge of these two with very recognizable patterns... An exciting story
of a writer's love for the love of words. - LWCFSD Poetic Society
Then, and honestly, I couldn't helped
it, I devilishly thought why not drop a pebble in as well? Just for the
tease.
'If you think I am so kind, why don't you tell your wife that?', I said
and added, 'Or do you have a husband?' and burst out in laughter. Victory!
However it was short lived. She stung me immediately where it smites.
Chapeau!
'I already have!', she touché-ed.
I repressed a frown. The tight elastic band around this cheap unbounded
novelette was squeegee-ing tighter.
'Yes...? Everything...? Oh dumbfounded love!'
'Of course not! But if he is to ask me ... sure I will tell her!', she
replied.
Raam in 5 talen: Afrikaans, Nederlands, Frans, Duits, Engels
A WILGCOFFEE STAND-ALONE PUBLICATION
'Een Kubrickiaanse reis doorheen de grenzen van taal'.
RAAM, een Kubrickiaans ruimte epos,
beschrijft niet alleen een reis in de ruimte, maar is zelf een reis ,
een reis doorheen de ruimte van taal. De lezer wordt meegenomen doorheen
een veelvoud van goed gestructureerde taallagen, lagen die in elkaar verstrengeld
zijn en die in elkaar overvloeien, afzonderlijk en toch onafscheidelijk
van elkaar. Met een bijzondere en suggestieve stijl en een zekere geladenheid,
creëert de schrijver in dit prachtige en compacte werk de illusie
van een geboorteproces van taal en van een taal die zich ontwikkelt vanaf
het vroege archaïsche begin van klank, menselijke klank, tot volwassen
geworden zingevende expressie. Naast de originele versie in Afro-Afrikaans
van de dichtbundel RAAM, bevat deze publicatie ook Nederlandse, Franse,
Duitse en Engelse vertalingen ervan en een inleidende artikel over RAAM.
[AFRIKAANS]
De tijd wordt zwaarder
in de verte verschijnt een speer
een vernauwende buis
vuur
een schijnende monoiliet
vreesaanjagend in de schaduwkring
die wachtende wildehond
canus lupus : roofdier of wolfshond
en het sterrebeeld het getal 58
[Français]
Le temps est saturé
dans le lointain un point est apparu
le tuyau se rétrécissant
ou le feu
le monolithe luisant
terrifiant
dans le cercle d'ombre
le loup qui attend
canus lupus : fauve ou chienet la constellation
avec le chiffre 58
[Deutsch]
Die Zeit wurde bleiern
In der Ferne tauchte ein Punkt auf
eine sich verengende Röhre
oder eine Flamme
ein gleißender Monolith
Kälte verströmend
Im Kreis der Schatten
wartete der wilde Hund
Canus Lupus:
Urhund oder Wolfshund
und die Sternenkonstellation Nummer 58
[English]
The time grew heavy
in the distance the point
the narrowing tube
or the flame
a shining monolith chilling
in the shadow-circle
the wild dog
awaiting
canus lupus: vulture or wolf dog
and the star constellation
with the number 58
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