Sunday, December 2, 2018

Warren Falcon's poetry at linked below

You may find my complete and ongoing oevre of poetry at this site online:

Photos by Warren Falcon - Photographed in Keene, NY
[all rights reserved to him]

From childhood our song: 

Hurry awake sleepy bee 
Softly sings the breeze 

To sweetness we are called 
when the sun high shall be 
freshened with tears our departing 

behind the barred door wait 

a lock of wound hair 
silk pouch of my gated heart 
it will be a hard arrow to pierce it 

What Can This Day Be Said Of Remorse

I live at the bottom of a hill near a 

broken fence beside tracks of steel. 

On the other side a stream moves upon itself 

not confusing itself as ice for rocks alone. 

A memory in the sound of water, a dazzle of 

sky takes a silly surface tone from what runs 

beneath outrunning rocks because it can; 

desire that force which drives the sand. 

The movement of water too is undeniable, 

solid in its course though sand, as does water, 

knows nothing of remorse. 

At the fence I wait. No train yet 

which will be a movement, too, beside 

the wet, and these thoughts here. 

That you are tissue essential and fabric 

to my own particularity. 

I send you a sound wonder, a welcome again 

to that place you dwell here within, 

Time the only disparity. 

Snow on Telford gravestones, tall 

houses on cupped hills in squared 

parcels back lit with sunset's down-light, 

juxtapose a Wyeth isolation and beauty 

which is the dutiful image of you, heart 

breaking through remembering our first meeting. 


Which is the dutiful image of you? 

Heart broken remembering the first meeting, 

then the departing? 

The distant gazebo of that small 

town wears white lights garlanded 

round, and snow. A boy without 

gloves reads alone. 

He is no fool who takes his time and 

place to know. 

I rediscover you a gift here still as 

I have in good counsel curtsied and coughed 

often enough, my own hand to my own groin, 

to discover a fissure again, again to repeat, 

that you are tissue essential still and 

fabric to my own particularity upon a hill, 

a house, one fence above a stream and rails, 

a blinking boy turning wet pages knows that 

you or someone similar, only a few years 

ahead, already familiar, dwells inside, 

compels his reading just before sunset 

squinting at words beyond and past the 

fence and the stream, the train late, 

footprints dark blue in the patient drift. 

Does not it all bear 
the familiar arc say 
of just-dawn color 
mauve-play at the liminal 
curve where sky beseeches 
bounded space to give 
its shapeless-nest a 
Cause, a nape conformed 
convex from Orbis what 
has been scored by breath 
pressed upon it? 

Who then falsely may decree 
any matted clot, spark-charged, 
blood engorged, who may not 
body-charge ahead and into 
'other' merge so must be flung 
expunged behind neglected Moon 
or plunged through the bruised 
ring of abjected Space? 

Hear me now 

Thrice trace 
an outline 
Give form to 
now dust me (I am)  
awakening surprise 

Here me how 
and there 
and yet 

there again 
after hammers 
and hosannas 
outward turn 

Warren Falcon November 24, 2018 - Keene, NY

Monday, October 22, 2018

When computer hijacks texts & makes cyber cuneiform cyphers - homage to Kahlo

Frida Kahlo. The Broken Column. 1944. 

....when you read this below


read "Frieda" or "Kahlo"....on the other hand, yesterday I went to work on a long poem since 2011, "when fishermen cannot go to sea they mend their nets", about Frieda Kahlo, her image and images and the ongoing collective imagination of her, the event, the phenomenon still ongoing/unfolding in progress and when I went to the site to read the text over before any future tweaking slash and burning came upon cuneiform translations, better than what I can write...thusly:

Here is "the Greater Relation" perfectly rendered. Find the hidden word which surds the calligriffins...why is the one word not rendered into glyphics? only Rilke knows....but the one word appears to be an ongoing ancient "hint"....

The weak translations of cuneiform revelation follow...

"All isreflux."
First "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."

compensations for blood-, 
earth-, carbon-, metal- 
deities. Incorporating Sky, 
an edible notion the more 
potent, sacrament of plants 
- fungus, febrile root, vine, 
leaf, pulp, spore, entire 
chemical choirs of angels 
gather in chew or brew, puff 
and spew, fiber fever swallows 
Uroboric Fractal which are
not so inclined to give us
ourselves utterly given this 
parity of storming  
exacting deities

"All isreflux."
Second "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."

Arab gift of the non-alloyed 

Zero unmeasured by mass, a 

better name for god depending 

on thermal history's twisting 

vector, ghostly mirage, if 

any are to be had - the base 

in spite of or within the 



the blacksmith heart hammering 

verdigris, chambers, ventricles, 

into shape, Newton's grave conju

gations, living time solidified, 

hardened, stiffens into dilute 

renderings base metal, chaste 


chasing plutonium wire unaware, 

bears the blunt end at the end 

the Aeon of the Fishes still 

barely beyond Bronze Age's just 

sharpened edge fluted, preferring 

obsidian one hacked, chipped, 

scraped hard flint


volcano born into conjugal vessel

Quetzal plume conjoined to Serpent 

skin extension of crash, returning 

God, boat, and horse delivered from 

the red beard of the bloated sea 

confronting yet one more deity 

requiring blood-canvas attempts 

failing to distill, to come to 

terms with what happened to her 

at 16 years of age, piercing metal 

violating flesh 

newly woman, turned her into some

thing completely utterlyastonished, 

livid and unforgiving pain burning 

her to vapor, yet, still, each  

canvas she falls ever backward 
within the cruel alchemical vas

glass splinters into 

unrelenting nerves, 

encased steel-plated 

Virgin takes a 

cyclops for lover  


[screen shot photo of papal mass for prisoners at end of 

Each viewing of a Kahlo painting 
a viewing of her life, body and soul, 
its alluded metal serpents, cyclopic 
hulking male tyros (Rivera, Trotsky), 
volcanic, engorged Titans of Malinche, 
chingares (goring ones as the bull 
gores hungrily) swallowed, too, hoping 
both to remain and to break free of 
Her, the Great Saurian Mother, Plumed 
Serpent, Quetzalcoatl, inherited deities 
extracting from Kahlo and Mexico literal 
blood, for paint is blood too, gashes in 
brush strokes she could never quite 
conceal/congeal (and thus her paintings 
turn hemorrhage to good purposes), 
becoming herself the clot, her flesh 
an unwitting tattoo of existence's 
beautiful and terrible forms. A life 
with needles, stitched, she pitched 
repeatedly into the long throat of 
the Alimentary Great Mother, 

Uruboros tail-in-mouth, recreating 
Her self in hard passages, throat 
to anus to birth canal and cave, 
galactic center point waiting perhaps 
at the other (no) end, carbon jesters, 
angels teeming on Quetzal quill tips, 
twinkling fires in the pitch, sometimes 
called stars, or ravens, black heralds 
of colors yet to brilliantly come.

Still, such timidity ends in engorged blood, meat requirements, rendering vaporous sublimity too thin for fingers, why forks were invented. If modernity, it's forks and faxes, returns anything of value to us stretching into denial which is all our futurity, it is the return of images, official and unofficial, which return us in turn to our official and unofficial selves, limping shod or un-, ens-not-Ens (being-not-Being) as we are chafed to particular part-selves multiple-imaged as they want or dream to be - 

Who are we?

Frieda with her Twentieth century stifles a yawn and "stuffs the universe into her [and our] eyes" (a line from a poem by zen poet, Shinkichi Takahashi).