[Old Pines. Photo by Warren Falcon. 2010.Click on image to enlarge it]***
Pissing and Time, A Letter To a Younger Poet, the Older Coming Nigh Unto Sixty
"Accept no gifts from New Agers." - N. Erhlich
Rather, sir, never look a gifting New Ager in the mouth. Theirs are only for smiles, bright bright full of "love and light" and not for eating for that is too fleshy animal. They, the "Nagers" do not eat, they sift plankton-angels behind and through their ears and thus have no use for rear ends, nothing passes there but rarefied air wearing sandwich signs advertising the "deity du jour" which usually wears their face. They can't tell which wich is witch, their ass or face, but those of us who own both, and with hungry workable mouths, note clearly the witches and never look them in either face to avoid merciless laughter at them.
Thanks for this, the poem you sent. Much poetry is going on there for I think of poetry as event, and a venting (as in air vents and such) and your poem events, shapes, conducts via the language, the lines shaped and takes the reader through its paces to the mile markers descending down the page dependent upon margins but straining against them. Such is poetry. Always, for me at least, a straining after Beauty, capital B, though the content and style not be the "B" at all. But that's the edging of it. Flight from or toward above or below the board. Still it's a surprise always to see what has arrived on the page. And what one allows to stay for much is to be excised without remorse. Life/death demands as much (read below about city trees).
Your poem ends, "There is always a fix. Until there is not." It lands speaking of fixes...life fixes life until it does not...death is fixity sure. But I hear Rilke in his 9th Elegy shout out, "But our having been, can it ever be canceled?" meanwhile there's all that roars in your poem between the thunder claps and the finality of the last line...reminds me of that wonderful line of Stevens, "Let be the finale of seem".
But first, sad note. My tiny bathroom window segments a section of the back buildings/yards between me and 11 St. When I take a piss I've been able to see between the shaving cream can razor alcohol bottle mandatory styptic assorted bathroom detritus of shelf this skinny tree, tall because of the buildings no room to spread it's limbs. I've watched it 4 seasons now and through this past hard winter watched the snow pile delicately so it seemed how softly weight comes on on contracted limbs. I just noticed yesterday mid-piss -
the stops and starts of that newish ghoulish "prostate rhythm section" sans kegels, performing a Gunther Schuller "Score for Bladder and Valves", Pissing-and-Time O Heidegger now become a meditation and a strain long staring at drains for centering and now rarely a splash but a trickle such is enlightenment -
I noticed that the tree is gone. Empty space. Only prominent back windows to apartments reflecting nothing at all (perhaps the piss meditation's new focus) and blank grid brick and real loss all kenned with prick in hand. My little friend of nature back there (the tree, NOT my prick) was a constancy, rare eye contact, real shared intimacy, said anatomy in hand being, at last animal nature, too, communing with nature other than human nature.
That last big snow storm we had took one tree out on my block of trees and I felt genuine sorrow amidst the chips, this chunk bitten out of the tree-ey block of relieving shadows, obscene sunlight gloating in the open wound, dancing on bits of bark splayed into the street for wheels to press further to ground. A few weeks later I heard more chain saws and wood-chippers (inaptly named, 'monstrous growling grinders' terrorizing all) on the street. The CITY was taking down trees, cutting limbs back, sawing and hacking with little hatchets away, men in white and green jumpsuits (the things humans design for such endeavors are quite amusing...how much $$ was spent on project of uniforms for tree trimmers, root rippers, limb lobbers?) strapped to trunks and ladders, odd to see such a sight in the Metropolis, inhabitants on the block leaning out their windows emptier of reflections
shock and sadness to watch the needed surgical assault
Jumpsuited demi-gods O protect our heads
our Land Rovers and our Coopers our drunken youth
staggering/leaning against trunks-o-tree&car stuporous leering toward dorms
was tragic truly the animal soul in each looker framed screamed in agony for loss of nature, what bits we have of it, in the city in spite of self-conscious parks occasioning jumpsuits and metal edges, "Nature must be dealt with duly, sharp and not dully"...
I had not realized that the trees behind me, those between 10th and 11th between the buildings, were being cut down, too, some of them, trimmed, and, too, my beloved little dopple-cockle-dangler tree once swaying me whizzing or trying o the slow slow dying at the tiny aperture framing that white radiant thinness supplely changeable through seasons always bending compliant to the wind now that vision is ended. My life my hand seem emptier for the lumpy limb of flesh that I/it remains.
The last time I noted and felt such a loss was just before I moved to NYC. I lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Chimney Rock, an area famed for apple orchards. A whole orchard near me was cut down. I heard the chain saws tearing away and next day drove by the old orchard only to see scarred trunks, stacks of limbs and cord wood and Mexicans hard at work. That will be the second poem but I'll start with the most recent still "in the works", both poems for an old friend I knew there, now here:
Here's Breath for You -
Upon Purchase and Buyer's Remorse,
A Letter Poem to a Literature Professor
Dear Low,
Not to worry.
I am the man most pursued in last night's dream.
That emaciated thing at my back keeps tracking me.
I remain just out of reach. Classic. Even there,
as here, I am escaping something, a life time of
practice in this 'Kingdom of the Canker'.
It was no banker who followed me last night
but a starved lacklove rejected by 'Canker' and, well,
by me. Who'd want that part, all start and no finish?
Replenishment has often enough meant hiding out
and a demand that it keep at least 5 arm lengths away.
I will try, I tell it, to look at it but I find its presence
most disturbing, its handful of leaves continually
proffered leaves me in a quandary. What do they
mean, this offering, though my father was a lumberjack?
Perhaps this is a track of sorts to follow for an end
to the mystery.
I am stumped.
Again, not to worry.
After a life time (now almost 60 years) of identity crises
ongoingly/daily - which is a low grade fever in the personality,
such is poetry - I am very weary of it as I now move into yet
another identity, OLD MAN. And who gives a damn in that
new 'Kingdom of the Cracked & Crank'? Invisibility, or worse,
pee pants.
Do I become that thing which follows me in my sleep,
leprously white, pale wanderer of the empty pockets,
eyes dark and full of something deeply known?
I am not yet ready to know such things though the
dream indicates that I am for it is very near.
How can I expect the culture to pretend to be interested,
it having pushed the thing even farther away than I ever
could? And since this has turned too goddamned
confessional I do confess that I am beginning to lose
heart for it, all this pushing, this running away, which is
perhaps good news to the very few who know me truly.
Rather,
I sit on the cultural dunce stool in my corner of the room
reading, reading, tracing, tracing the chase of 'logos'
through time. No rhyme or reason can I make with my
earnest forefinger. Still malingering shadows of what is
in those dark eyes just over there dim my creased page.
I pull at curtains to close out tighter whatever daylight those
eyes may bring to my knowing. I am such a monk anyway,
live hard unto myself, sacrifice daily goats on the altar
to the blood thirsty deity in me and who dwells just outside my door.
Grace, yet, daily unfolds, usually in the coffee cup, first sip,
and morning prayer without too much buyer's remorse which
I am convinced is what that first squall of the just-born infant
is about...'So much for corporeality...desiring only the womb.
I could not read the fine print of the contract writ small in
capillaries, that upon me there will be a vice, a clutch of
alien air, a fall into too much light and clouds of Mercurochrome.
I regret me I regret me I regret me...'
One adjusts. Continually. The persona is adaptation
appearing to be solid but sleep reveals the neutrality
of the animal. Dreams tell us otherwise when we remember
them as it takes an ego to witness, to remember.
They reveal that we are caught up into something
so much greater than flush and stir. It's a wonder we make
do as much as we do and still call ourselves by name,
our family a species of animal, 'homo sapiens'.
And I regret self pity. I'd reject it if I could
but it adheres, last resort of old coots born
honestly into it no matter the copious Mercurochrome baths,
the smelling salts obviating the needed nipple.
What is all this singing bathed in tears born of tremendous desire
and fear? Whose arms would hold fast and safe, embracement
against the brace of all us we fallen stars who do burn brightly out
or, more like me, wait privately in quarters counting days as if each
is the last until that dread thing finally comes in, after a life time of
daily threats and close escapes, with hopeful relief. Hopefully
there will be no buyer's remorse for purchase of Death.
''Here, '' I'll try to say 'ponst that day',
(one must become Shakespearean in such company,
last payment on the installment plan) ,
''Here's breath for you. I tried to use it well.''
Today the Market reports a run on Mercurochrome.
Birth goes on. I am for rebirth, a dirth of days
makes me suddenly Hindu, foregoing gurus and
bindu point. I've made my own here.
Selah.
Still, methinks I'll have your ear for a little while longer,
a handful of leaves only for my thanks, one foot well
into 'Cracked and Crank', the drunk tank a memory
worn out. Doubt is my companion.
Love, too. No remorse there. Buys me time,
aftershave and loads underwear for the trickles ahead.
Thank the gods for all that.
Oh. And one last good cigar.
W.
The ego feared for its position, frightened that it would dissolve back into the inner self from which it came. . . "
SETH: In these continuous exterior religious dramas, the Hebrews played strange role. Their idea of one god was not new to them. Many ancient religions held the belief of one god above all others. This god above all others was a far more lenient god, however, than the one the Hebrews followed. Many tribes believed, quite rightly, in the inner Spirit that pervades each living thing. And they often referred to, say, the god in the tree, or the spirit in the flower. But they also accepted the reality of an overall spirit, of which these lesser spirits were but a
Part. All worked together harmoniously.
The Hebrews conceived of an overseer god, an angry and just and sometimes cruel god; and many sects denied, then, the idea that other living beings beside man possessed inner spirits. The earlier beliefs represented a far better representation of inner reality, in which man, observing nature, let nature speak and reveal its secrets.
The Hebrew god, however, represented a projection of a far different kind. Man was growing more and more aware of the ego, of a sense of power over nature, and many of the later miracles are presented in such a way that nature is forced to behave differently than in its usual mode. God becomes man's ally against nature.
The early Hebrew god became a symbol of man's unleashed ego. God behaved exactly as an enraged child would, had he those powers, sending thunder and lightning and fire against his enemies, destroying them. Man's emerging ego therefore brought forth emotional and psychological problems and challenges. The sense of separation from nature grew. Nature became a tool to use against others.
Sometime before the emergence of the Hebrew god these tendencies were apparent. In many ancient, now-forgotten tribal religions, recourse was also made to the gods to turn nature against the enemy. Before this time, however, man felt a part of nature, not separated from it. It was regarded as an extension of his being, as he felt an extension of its reality. One cannot use oneself as a weapon against oneself in those terms.
In those times men spoke and confided to the spirits of birds, trees, and spiders, knowing that in the interior reality beneath, the nature of these communications was known and understood. In those times, death was not feared as it is in your terms, now, for the cycle of consciousness was understood.
Man desired in one way to step out of himself, out of the framework in which he had his psychological existence, to try new challenges, to step out of a mode of consciousness into another. He wanted to study the process of his own consciousness. In one way this meant a giant separation from the inner spontaneity that had given him both peace and security. On the other hand, it offered a new creativity, in his terms.
At this point, the god inside became the god outside.
Man tried to form a new realm, attain a different kind of focus and awareness. His consciousness turned a corner outside of itself. To do this he concentrated less and less upon inner reality, and therefore began the process of inner reality only as it was projected outward into the physical world.
Before, the environment was effortlessly created and perceived by man and all other living things, knowing the nature of their inner unity. In order to begin this new venture, it was necessary to pretend that this inner unity did not exist. Otherwise the new kind of consciousness would always run back to its home for security and comfort. So it seemed that all bridges must be cut, while of course it was only a game because the inner reality always remained. The new kind of consciousness simply had to look away from it to maintain initially an independent focus.
I am speaking here in more or less historic terms for you. You must realize that the process has nothing to do with time as you know it, however. This particular kind of adventure in consciousness has occurred before, and in your terms will again.
Perception of the exterior universe then changed, however, and it seemed to be alien and apart from the individual who perceived it.
God, therefore, became an idea projected outward, independent of the individual, divorced from nature. He became the reflection of man's emerging ego, with all of its brilliance, savagery, power, and intent for mastery. The adventure was a highly creative one despite the obvious disadvantages, and represented an "evolution" of consciousness that enriched man's subjective experience, and indeed added to the dimensions of reality itself.
To be effectively organized, however, inner and outer experience had to appear as separate, disconnected events. Historically the characteristics of God changed as man's ego changed. These characteristics of the ego, however, were supported by strong inner changes.
The original propulsion of inner characteristics outward into the formation of the ego could be compared with the birth of innumerable stars - an event of immeasurable consequences that originated on a subjective level and within inner reality.
The ego, having its birth from within, therefore, must always boast of its independence while maintaining the nagging certainty of its inner origin.
The ego feared for its position, frightened that it would dissolve back into the inner self from which it came. Yet in its emergence it provided the inner self with a new kind of feedback, a different view not only of itself; but through this, the inner self was able to glimpse possibilities of development of which it had not previously been aware. In your terms, by the time of Christ, the ego was sure enough of its position so that the projected picture of God could begin to change.
The inner self is in a state of constant growth. The inner portion of each man, therefore, projected this knowledge outward. The need, the psychological and spiritual need of the species, demanded both interior and exterior alterations of great import. Qualities of mercy and understanding that had been buried could now surface. Not only privately but en masse they surged up, adding a new impetus and giving a natural "new" direction - beginning to call all portions of the self, as it knew itself, together.
So the concept of God began to change as the ego recognized its reliance upon inner reality, but the drama had to be worked out within the current framework. Mohammedanism was basically so violent precisely because Christianity was basically so gentle. Not that Christianity was not mixed with violence, or that Mohammedanism was devoid of love. But as the psyche went through its developments and battled with itself, denying some feelings and characteristics and stressing others, so the historic religious exterior dramas represented and followed these inner aspirations, struggles, and searches." END of EXCERPT
Seth Speaks by Jane Roberts can be read online at this link...you can scroll down to Chapter Twenty, "The Meaning of Religion" to read the entire chapter:
Seth Speaks [critical thinking mandatory - just because it is channeled does not mean it is true]
I think: the history
of religions is this
just, only the sign
reads MODERN STEEL
not POSTMODERN as it
now should to be precise
true to an age bereft
on Stagg Street thrust
once again into Christmas
- deer & such - though
Celtic too - Cernunnos*5
snorts from forests rough
deeply onto a green where
sits beside a silver stream
an orphaned god abandoned
carved upon stone with bronze
(before steel) but still
(the god is) stone fearing
it is no longer
real yet sentinel to
“an archaic authority” (Julia Kristeva)
Let me then work
my poem (all of
them) around in
furtherance of
what can be said
without such drama
of centuries past
& to come
lines ending in Stillness
a suggested Vastness from
which each comes/returns:
Cave - Image - Sky - Expanse - Singular Branch & Many
Plenty Are Stillnesses Advances Even In The Rot The
Dissolve From Clot Toward What It Is Or Was & Always
Proper-Name-Enough-For-Me >>> >>> STILLNESS
at which I stare
which holds my gaze
with shades of It
& of Itself
that is is a death
or like unto it -
Stillness unbreathed
or in need of It
(Breath)
now having been only
once(Rilke) *
who (it seems)
becomes (relents)
known form
though (It is)
returned
or re-rested
to Itself beyond Christmas
and yet and yet
the kneeling boy
in the evergreen
the shattered orn-
aments ever gleam
the needles' net
a permanence enough
gold-leafed & trumpeting
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