Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Whitman Assemblage #1

December 19, 2011

A Lincoln Elegy

sorrow strikes something
deep down in melancholy
dismal tears. heavy‑

hearted funeral
rites, black-bemoaned mourning, sobs
sunk in sighing and

silence. pitiful
violent lamentation.
loud weeping bewails

weeping’s lament of
weeping. depression deplores
anguish, deplores the

deep-grieved regret of
pain of mind, passionate pain,
regret afflicted

with tender-hearted,
moving compassion. downcast
sympathy casts sad

obscurity, the
gloom of midnight, a sad shades’
gloomy tenderness,

full of pity. soul-
wept dejection, cloudiness,
grief-heavy total

darkness, serious
gloom of a partial forest.
the cloudy of mind

sunk in mind-gloom, the
night’s somber affliction mourns
burdensome distress.

extreme anguish of
body, extreme anguish of
mind. harassed by the

silent Almighty,
weighed down by torture, humble
suffering, dull shades

of deep prostration,
loud, oppressive misery,
plaintive disaster,

a calamity
of trouble and affliction,
a mournful wailing

of calamity.
distressing humility—
mute grief, eloquent.

http://www.listsofnote.com/2011/12/eloquent-silence.html

Mario Savio Assemblage #1

November 30, 2011

The Conscience of Kierkegaard

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is replaceable.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is irrelevant.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is impossible.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is contradiction.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is autocracy.

This is not that time.
This is the time of extreme
moral paradise,

the court of vast last
resort, when the chrome-plated
levers in the bleak

machine stop in a
wasteland of abridgment, sick
with dissenting stars.

Jean Dubuffet

November 18, 2011

***************

Art is an orgy
of chameleons huge with
monkey dementia

***************

Art is the highest
degree of normal—super
normal, which is mad

***************

Art is plunged in snow
like the unlimited steppes
of delirium

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it’s not

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it is

***************

Art is art as long
as it isn’t grasped by man’s
raw smitten fingers

***************

Art is not in bed
with the State; it sleeps naked
in the dirt with roots

***************

Art is mimesis.
Art is mimesis. Art is
mimesis. Art is . . .

***************

Art is contrary.
Art is homogeneous.
Art forgets itself.

***************

Art is afraid of
extinction—but it scorns all
continuity

***************

Art is painting but
painting is not art; painting
is mood carpeting

***************

Art is dirt in the
service of rubbish; art is
fashionable mud

***************

Art participates
in the creative process
by not being love

***************

“The Soft Machine” Machined #2

November 13, 2011

repatriated
by grey strata of subways—
terminal postcard

rotting in ozone
chrysalis—sun stuttering
in all-night purple

cafeterias—
smell of cobra jazz covered
in iron heart of

goof ball sleep—rasp of
green slimy iridescent
shit rubbing on flesh

somewhere in the cold
mouth of heavy knife time—boy
torch moving, rusty

lamp, tongue terms—round disk
of morphine, script gristle in
rooming house bathtub—

shrinking bread over
lagoon of old saliva—
village of built racks

“The Soft Machine” Machined #1

October 30, 2011

obsidian pink
of the fish city—spectral
palaces of cold

blue fluid heavy
as word dust stacked like lust in
shuttered silence—we

came out of the mud
in blue image forever
trailing patterns of

demagnetized glooms
from carnival rooms splintered
in rotting orgasm—

we all live in the
fish city—dead postcard of
a place forgotten—

muttering burlap
music, addicts waiting in
the vines—blue addicts

in the attic of
crystal birdcalls—the city
from when we had names

Luis Buñuel

October 25, 2011

***************

Somewhere between chance
and mystery lies the grave
seduction of smoke

***************

Truth doesn’t matter . . .
A daily cocktail of truth
cannot change the world

***************

What is lovelier
than life without memory?
Amnesia is God!

***************

A paranoiac
imagination is the
freedom of poets

***************

Why can’t the Devil
in all His luminousness
make me his consort?

***************

When you’re naked, age
matters; when you’re in the grave,
age doesn’t matter

***************

Fortunately, an
exquisite sense of horror
protects me from life

***************

Oppression of love:
essential spurt of reason,
then bitter regret

***************

For a writer, the
margin of conformity
tastes of word torture

***************

Alfred North Whitehead

October 6, 2011

***************

Religion will not
regain its old power till
we pray to Science

***************

Abstinence is not
simplicity; abstinence
is the death of God

***************

Civilization
advances by extending
its distrust of art

***************

The human body
is an instrument for the
production of vice

***************

To make the past live
we must perceive it as the
eternal present

***************

There are billions of
molecules in the human
soul—they dance like fish

***************

Ninety percent of
life is pain; the rest is Christ
nailed to a cheap cross

***************

Immortality
is the everlasting search
for anesthesia

***************

Of what value is
the attainment of knowledge
if you have no mind?

***************

Solitariness
is a bagatelle; being
alone is pure zest

***************

Amid the flux, there
is something that survives: the
need for a large truck

***************

Put your brain in cold
storage; thinking is merely
abstract inference

***************

The Circle With a Hole in the Middle

September 21, 2011

America is
a crisis of now, empty
fiction of shadow

dreams, museum of
broken forms. Tomorrow is
unprecedented

X—science and art,
the virgin twins, foxholed in
golden skies of love.

America is
a caravan of crazy,
a century of

something else, something
in the shape of a question,
but not our question,

something in the shape
of change, friends, but not our change,
a thing whose grammar

is not human, whose
tone is the tenor of time
as a thing that keeps

a record of things,
things to come. A design call
for the body, the

head, a prime design
for time, for women, for Man,
for the hidden three . . .

For the rare music
of improvisers, meta-
language of free sound

in a suite dancing
naked in the hall with all
the neighbors, colors

dialing feelings,
an evening song opening
the town like beauty.

[assemblage composed of words from Ornette Coleman LP titles]

Meister Eckhart

September 5, 2011

***************

He who would be pure
must be transformed by the light
of a thousand books

***************

When God called at home
I had gone out for a walk . . .
Thwarted by action!

***************

A serene person
needs but one thing: the thick hide
of a simple ox

***************

I am secure in
the knowledge that God cannot
see my puny soul

***************

He who has mastered
detachment is the hinge on
the door of sorrow

***************

Contemplation of
the Eternal Birth will plant
you in the hard ground

***************

There exists only
yesterday—tomorrow was
many years ago

***************

God expects but one
thing of you—thank Him that you
know not what it is

***************

A thousand years hence
the eye of creation will
see only darkness

***************

The knower is a
creature whose heart is empty
of all compassion

***************

André Breton

August 18, 2011

***************

Leave your memory.
Leave your future. But never
leave your Dada road.

***************

Love is when you meet
someone who tells you love is
imaginary

***************

To see art, to hear
art means nothing . . . To write art
is worth even less

***************

Convulsive desire
produces contradictions
hidden in doomed words

***************

In the world we live
in children will never have
to happen again

***************

The exaltation
of beauty is a fleeting
moment of dream death

***************

Dalí’s the plaything
of incommunicable
despairing freedom

***************

Between virtue and
vice is the shadow of a
fear I cannot name

***************

The past hesitates
like an affair of the heart
itself forgotten

***************

My wife has ceased to
be a waking event . . . She
renounces substance

***************

The Books’ “Free Translator” Retranslated

July 26, 2011

One can see the boy
and girl control when I know
the patient’s shape, the

patient’s movement—the
day two years on, the wind, the
mouth at risk, walking,

chewing gum. Like a
black dog in the snow of an
easy sleep, I can’t

believe my eyes, my
pen a new friend to record
the hole of Adam.

Symmetric mouth and
high-speed legs, Knee-Dummies brand,
it’s a lift-up just

to count the dollars
again. The dead numbers may
not be counted. Keep

the nose and go back
to easy sleep in the hole,
my new friend. I can’t

believe your eyes and
I can’t believe my pen. A
storm girl’s solar jot,

a Lula bag of
meteorology and
raccoon hats. Plants are

speaking. They speak plant,
speaking carefully to the
sewage system tree.

[via Latvian-Italian-Portuguese-Turkish, Bing translator]

Picasso

July 24, 2011

***************

The chief enemy
of truth is the harmony
of the beautiful

***************

My mother sings like
an alarm clock . . . She’s the egg
of sterility

***************

I have removed all
traces of reality
from my diary

***************

If the Pope were a
Minotaur I would be a
monk-soldier of love

***************

There are only two
types of women: the mirror
and the photograph

***************

Everything is a
museum, and everything
is in the canon

***************

What is a cat? The
elimination of the
unnecessary

***************

Children are useless . . .
The problem is where to put
them when they grow up

***************

The truth is a lump
of sugar that dissolves in
the bath of old age

***************

When you’re willing to
die today you can put off
life till tomorrow

***************

John Coltrane

July 14, 2011

Om

Vedic rites. Vedic
rites and ceremonies taught
by the mother of

Abdul Kalam. All
this, and I provided the
soul of his father.

Medicine and food.
Plants, hymns, butter: Slaughter and
fire, I suggest. His

father was a boss
in the world—operations,
manufacturing,

the world in the will,
the world awarded with will.
I clear all. I hum.

[The recitation from John Coltrane’s “Om,” Chapter 9, Verse 16 of the Bhagavad Gita, via Hindi-Swahili-Urdu-Gujarati-Chinese (traditional), Google translator]

Duke Ellington

July 6, 2011

***************

Bop is dangerous . . .
It’s like the murder of God
with a blue Bible

***************

A critic is a
man in ruins who wants to
fiddle with your art

***************

The best jazz is an
energy cloud carried on
the tonal supreme

***************

The wise musician
is never satisfied with
what he can master

***************

Hume

June 15, 2011

***************

If the sun does not
rise tomorrow, tyranny
will still rule us all

***************

A propensity
to hope must be proportioned
with vivid sorrow

***************

Any man seasoned
with the imperfections of
reason is a knave

***************

The moral beauty
of Christians gives rise to the
worst of history

***************

The inclination
to perceive miracles is
the brain’s poverty

***************

Custom is the great
guide to avarice and the
blood-spill of labor

***************

Persons acquainted
with the evidence of pure
design see not truth

***************

The healing temper
of an oyster attests to
its divinity

***************

Real passion is
in all cases sufficient
to establish vice

***************

Max Ernst

June 1, 2011

***************

Birth is the conquest
of Christian humility . . .
A nudity bomb

***************

Expressionism is
the decorative coupling
of eye and psyche

***************

The ugliness of
pride is the ugliness of
felt reality

***************

The irrational
has got nothing to do with
the irrational

***************

Collage is simply
irreconcilable with
juxtaposition

***************

The spark of a good
idea is lost for all
time in its finding

***************

The common thrust of
taste does not suit a woman’s
virtue or beauty

***************