Many Musics, Eighth Series *part 1 of 8*

[cenacle]

Continued from here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-seventh-series-*part-4-of-4*-5768/


Many Musics, Eighth Series

When did it matter most?
When I smiled at another & believed.


i. New Work

On high, where the mountains snowy knuckles
& the roads deep veins, the pressure lessens
& a hope elevates.

Chatter on the plane is what
some reck breathing for. If I disagree,
then nothing for it but to make
like those veins & new rush heart & mind.

******

ii. And Again

You were come new, & I had my gift
ready for you. But something, &
then something else. That smile,
something, something else. I chased,
again, a little, a little more. That smile,
something. It was only a dream,
that smile, you were come new, &
I had my gift for you. Something I kept.

******

iii. Myths Breathe—

These glaring beasts of night, still,
the softest touch in my breathing,
the hustles with new sun. I'll start
explaining myself by simple numbers
when any of you can nod & smile &
finally account for the remain.

******

iv. Spring Thaw

Winter dawns in that strange youth,
tossing newspapers at locked suburban
doors, talking myself through inner worlds
finer than the day to come. A pretty girl,
a pen in hand, even the simple gesture
of a smile & a handshake. Big, simple,
inner worlds I did not yet know how
to conjure. I'd come home, fingers & limbs
numb, & the sharp yips of the thaw.
Thaws hurt, then & now, & bigger
inner worlds still call to be made.

******

v. Sobornost [After Herzog]

In his cage, he remembers. The scent of unknown
flowers, chemicals really, the wind from
the window he'd quickly come through. Two
quick breaths, then his, the gentleness
he crushed, but then let go a little. Maybe
it was God's urge, he ignored the chemicals.

In her room she smokes. There is music
on the radio, too soft for lyrics, as she likes.
She sees stars through the ceiling, always
has since, even more now. She's learned
new ways to laugh too, less personal,
more forgiving for the many hands striking
empty air, & again, & again, & somehow yet
call this a life.

******

vi. Render

New work seems best to root from
the rest, the stars themselves tools
to remind of that banking melody,
day the old enemy for reasons too
familiar to sum, night the welcoming
thighs, the encouraging beat, smiling
hurried breath, & so on. And yet.
And yet. There is that older than
my paths & songs, roots dangling for
a hold. There are liners in those skies
tonight, tomorrow, beckoning for a ride,
maybe just for a song. There's sexy
glare in the gratings in the ground,
& three possibles for any smart denial.

New work is bedded through each new
hour, & a willing to still feel leaning
way over the edge, a willing, a hunger,
a slave to it maybe, to what
great notes can be found in that
next moment of balance between
possible fall, & wild ascent.

******

vii. Just Play Through— [After Burke]

If I can see also ligaments & light
where I now see just tits & ass,
If I can feel the man's love of his
personal savior as much as I love
  my pen & a tree to write near,
If I can embrace to hold my heart's
urging truth that the vastness of any soul
  is on the far side of coin & office,
If I can act with humor, with doubt,
with hope, keeping beat & breath,
If I can learn better to give it &
take it, & accept the brutalest beauties
  of this world,
Perhaps I can live long & come to my end
with an easy smile like to your own.

******

viii. Temple of Dreams

Found in a clearing shaped like a temple
in full moonlight, potent without
flesh nor bones, a place, a portal,
a tool, a salve, recked ancient by men
yet dreams do not bide by miles or hours.

I wonder over this as I marvel too
that the Universe on luckier nights
seems most like sugar sprayed wildly
across a darkling canvas. At my best,
I think there's space enough for metaphor,
science, for every slight & unsure passage through.

******

ix. That Slender Myth

Tonight, again, I know nothing.
I am nobody. Singing to manifest,
crawling the dust. Recking the web.
Praying the hours hit the same vein
that preacher does tonight, spittle
& fists, sucking the moving sidewalk's

attention to his gesture & word,
the word, next word, he'll hustle
another to his unhappy explanation
by night's end, loose eyes from
that slight skirt, those misshapen green
leaves, irrelevant stars above,

yes. "Only suffering defines this human
dimension. Suffering & submission &
the relief of letting another direct
your path hereon." I know nothing.
I am nobody.  I cannot say you
are wrong yet I will not sing your song.
What lights my days staggers me with
wild, uncertain music, & what caterwauls
my dreams sexes my mind even better
with the possibles here & hereon.

******

x. From a Dream

And again I'm in the classroom
And again that old bookstore job
And again this courtyard, this black pen,

Which are dreams, which to keep?

And the few meals remembered from years
And the click-clicking chess-clocks
And the faces that remain unknown

What else is passing by too?

And again it's springtime, mercy's cool air
And again I watch the homeless man prowl
And again, & still, I know nothing
but still add to the noise

I'd walk home tonight, from this courtyard,
with each & every one of you, if you
could breach my dreams at last, & land inside my skin.

******

xi. Two Men

There are only two men.
One sells the fire. One blazes.
Will you purchase your days with one
or learn how the other burns?

******

xii. The Red Bag

When the glaring lights have left
When the music has slowed to smoke
Where there is sniff of good blood & then no more
When touch brittles maybe to break
When best taste is old & cold, hurts

The red bag, doorway, back to dreams
The red bag, the path, come
The red bag, come, trust, come here.

******

xiii. Tomorrow's News

When the ships overhead descend,
if they were to slave, use the world
as crops, as men do now, but badly,
would it take no more than a flash
of glowing wings, a hard bark about
judgment & punishment, to subdue
resistance & fear to submission? Who
would challenge God's arrived minions
but some of the children, a handful of the freaks,
& a scattering too few to whelm
the millions well-raised for the lash
& unexplained condemn from the skies?

******

xiv. Emandia

I fell asleep, sad again, & looking far
into the darkness I could see the cankerous
shaft in me, its veins twisting maybe deep
as blood, oh yes, could see how it bore
through, then, the most lost, secret
sweet of thens, barely a seed with limbs,
unaware my unspent life, to now,
taking in all it could, a blind, unhappy,
frenzied mortal feeding, consuming
& yet not all, for there was something else,
an opposite, what?

Another shaft, of music, culminating music,
a shaft of forest breezes, ocean waves,
leaves, curling inward, open hands, even
closed ones, the coming harmonies of
mutual gain & get, putting on another's
dream to understand, the pink & purple
& green colors of want, & I wished, seeing
both plain now, to near the one & dismiss
the other. But I woke this morning
with both still. Knowledge of the canker
does not free, nor does the music diminish.

Each feeds me still, of each other, &
the play is mine to let the canker
thrive or follow, yes, I am nobody,
yes, I am nothing, yes, I still sing.
Become again, anew, the wild violet shaft
crying, thrusting inexorably into the
twining grasp of this great gaping universe.

******

xv. Claude Monet

I wish I knew you, Claude Monet,
as your teachers did, & as you
knew your colors. How many cities knew
you too, as you painted their churches & canals,
Claude Monet, I wish I knew you as a friend,
to sit & watch the day with,
know your rustling breath, study your
beautiful hands. I wish I knew you,
Claude Monet, as your dreams which recurred,
as the canvasses you stretched, your paints,
your brushes. I wish I'd been a wheatstack
or a water lily you studied for hours to figure,
to find where eye & colors & the movement
of hand might coalesce now, & forever.
I wish I had known you, Claude Monet,
as something you loved enough to keep.

******

xvi. Carry Me Back

Later there was a film about her,
the dead girl traveling north where
all comes from, it had gotten easier
since she'd been dead, the pressures
were fewer from body & clan, & the scene
that really convinced me was when
she'd made it to the shore & it's snowing,
big chunks of snow, like cottage cheese
or something, & she begins to disassemble
herself to understand, at first
the pleasure of watching her vague
garments reveal a slender torso,
pleasing breasts, soft ass, even shaved pussy,
but then she uncouples them from
herself, they had come later after all,
& the skin softer as she news & undoes,
her blood unremembering its hungers & imperatives,
oh yes, & the glisten of early songs,
first songs, it comes apart easier around her,
as the cottage cheese snow diminishes,
& she is left just with the wish
to understand before she even knows why.

******

xvii. Atop Mt. Cloudy Day

You reach the top or end of
something & all there is
is to look down or back.

******

xviii. After a Time
[F.B., "Hot Air Ballooning Off Normandy," oil on plywood, 20th cent.]

When you start losing your legs,
the world seems more ferociously moving,
& you find yourself looking up,
more & more, for an offer of wide wings,
a soft ride in a striped air balloon, or
maybe that long swim to the bottom
finally coming due.

******

xix. Manneport near Etratat

The plaque to Monet's paintings tells of
this great rocky gate but another view
says that it is a leg taking a long step into
the sea, toward something new, greet
the far landless depths, learn some things,
remember others, great rocks dream too,
& the sea will enjoy the visit, tales from
new company, yes, I think it's time
everybody saw this too & accepted tis
a journey begun, more steps to come,
& at the stateliest of gaits.

******

xx. Homer's "Weather Beaten," 1894

"For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."
—Wendell Berry, "The Peace of Wild Things," 1969.

I wish to crash with your waves,
not against them, not ignore them
for not being man-shaped or talking like men.
I wish to uncouple from my simple ideas
of dawn & dusk, as though light disappears
entirely, feel like the sky my colors changing,
wish to disintegrate like driftwood,
without woe or metaphor, & eventually
spread what I hark out to every point
of the globe, wet & dry, feel every pulse,
every breathing, now a fiber knowing
its weaving, no longer harried or hanging on
because I know everything needs me too
& is seeking to keep me my place.

******

xxi. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #1]


Remember some things. This is the lost purpose
or forgotten, obscured, of the tangled gate.
You will enter as a group, pretty dancers
offered as a king's sacrifice, but I know
what you will find. Each of you will arrive
but alone, but only by heeding me in this.
Through the tangled gate, neither left nor right,
on & on & on, now into the great mouth,
the great beastly mouth. On in, one by one,
heed me in this. On in.

******

xxii. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #2]

I watch you roaming the tangled gate,
& you try to understand, where were
the dance steps I taught you? Which color
thread is the clue to which path?
You sniff & pause, & press your hands &
breath to the walls, those of clay &
other vines. You wish to know, to feel
your blood walk calmly the gate as though
through the stars themselves. Heart's
deepest feeling the map to all
the worlds of creation. I watch you.
You sing, you talk softly. You move slowly,
you run, you stop. Nothing orchestrates
you, Ariadne, not you nor the stars themselves.
I watch you, note by note, glance, glare,
green leaves blow places you don't know
within, where lead & know & how let off,
& the gate untangles past all ceasings of cease.

******

xxiii. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #3]

You wonder who let the elixir in,
& you look around for a face or
office of intent, look back, far back,
now far on, beyond your station,
the stars in your night skies.

You wonder who let the elixir in,
& marvel a little at how time & space,
how foolish, how funny, now let it
some more, look far, look back,
beyond your station, your roots, your dreams.

You wonder who let the elixir in,
  as though the plan, its masters,
their secret book, its language
to master & teach, stare harder into
the fire, grow blinder, listen till you see.

You wonder who let the elixir in
as you wonder on want & what will delight
perpetually a moment's sugared laughing,
what will calm the many tongues & their guns,
oh tell how, sing why, by the beg, by the pray,
you wonder who let the elixir in when
look, your hand is on the tap & see it flow.

******

xxiv. The Tangled Gate [Sketch #4]

We sit together, you & I, & at first
our breathing distrusts, because
this room isn't big enough & it has
no windows. But our hearts are listening
too, looking for the music even as we
still tangle in tongues. They beat,
there is the beginnings of music,
there is silence, how music continues.

We sit together, you & I, & this is
ten thousand years ago & this is tonight
& this is when the earth has blown all to light.
This room isn't big enough but here
we are & the music between us has begun.
You call me ugly & I return yours with
a nod, & we both start laughing.
This is how I remember those days best.

We sit together, you & I, & you are
gone some years now, & your laughter
remains in my mind. And this room still isn't
big but I can see now the possibilities
of windows. Make them with fists,
or maybe open hands. Every day's deciding.


******

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, i, New Work - Starting a new Series, I think I was high up in an airplane . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, ii. And Again - An airy little wish . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, iii. Myths Breathe— a grouching . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, iv. Spring Thaw - Those were dark days among people, much lighter when alone with my imagination, music, notebooks, books & pens . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, v. Sobornost [After Herzog] - There are two Werner Herzog films, "Happy People: A Year in the Taiga" and "Into the Abyss," that were on my mind while writing this . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, vi. Render - slinky rant . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, vii. Just Play Through— [After Burke] - I miss Burke so much, he taught me so much . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, viii. Temple of Dreams - This temple figures in my writing over and over and over through the years . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, ix. That Slender Myth - Preachers in the streets drive me madly wild . . .
*** Many Musics, Eighth Series, x. From a Dream - Sad, remembering, dirgey . . .

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VIII, xi, Two Men - Funny little question . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xii, The Red Bag - This poem is a bit obscure, but it is leading toward other poems to come . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xiii, Tomorrow's News - Crazy-not-crazy thought . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xiv, Emandia - Another poem looking on to others . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xv, Claude Monet - love poem to a hero . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xvi, Carry Me Back - a poem, a vision . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xvii. Atop Mt. Cloudy Day - fragment of a climb . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xviii, After a Time - [F.B., "Hot Air Ballooning Off Normandy,"] [link: http://jamesdjulia.com/item/lot-2436-fb-french-20th-century-hot-air-ballooning-off-normandy-22069/] - another fugue of sorts . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xix, Manneport near Etratat - [link: http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/438823] - Monet's picture led me to this gauzy dream . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xx, Homer's "Weather Beaten," 1894 - [link: http://prints.encore-editions.com/500/0/winslow-homer-weatherbeaten-1894.jpg] - a look at Winslow Homer, any of his pictures, leads me deep in . . .

[Stonehenge]

If it wasn't for your many musics, etc, we wouldn't have any posts at all.

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VIII, xxi, The Tangled Gate [Sketch #1] - This is the first of four sketches for "The Tangled Gate" poems, based roughly on the myth of Ariadne and the Beast and the Labyrinth and the Thread, from Greek mythology . . . but already I am changing it to make it my own . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xxii, The Tangled Gate [Sketch #2] - The Princess is the Heroine of this story, and so I am just at this point learning who she is . . . how she is eventually not Ariadne at all . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xxiii, The Tangled Gate [Sketch #3] - variation on the earlier "Iconic Square" poems . . . just playing and seeing what hits well . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, xxiv, The Tangled Gate [Sketch #4] - more playing with rudely sketched characters . . . readying to launch . . .

[cenacle]

If it wasn't for your many musics, etc, we wouldn't have any posts at all.

I cleaned it up some, the list of topics, so others' pieces will show too, when they post....

[cenacle]

Continued here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-eighth-series-*part-2-of-4*/