Literature Lost

Saturday, September 25 2011

Literature Lost

Verbum volent, scripta manent.

Writing is not remains -
Its own life it retains.
Though it can't fly away,
It runs every which way.

Don't lament writing lost,
For loss is writing's cost.
The Other's gluttony:
Same as lost memory.

So you begin anew -
Praying this time: have you
A piece of what you made.
But the price shall be paid.

Epoy 2

This is a new poem about an old friend to whom I dedicated an old poem with the same title.

Sunday, September 25 2011

Epoy 2

With a child's name you write to me;
And with a child's face that I see.
You're on your little planet - standing,
Stretching, searching for something - hiding:
Behind baobabs, ents, and vases.
Are there foxes and roses in your planet's places?
Are they like a hundred other little things -
Especially those which only memory brings?
If so, then you have not understood truly,
And one act you've neglected regularly.
I am inclined to believe, however,
That we have already tamed each other.
And all things else are wheat fields, spring wells,
Four o clocks, and laughing star bells.

We are beings, each with a different there,
Who met in a here which is now nowhere -
In a moment when we were both at hand.
Each other, through ourselves did we understand,
Like a balloon, to the end of our fingers, tied -
The essential, from our sights did hide:
That nothing but ether to our hands did we tether.
Until the Fates deigned our strands they should sever,
Past clouds and stars did our rubber bubbly fly:
Just like a little soul spiraling to the sky -
Our very own imminent uncertain death.
The eyes of our hearts are awakened fully:
Only now will we begin to see things truly.

With a lady's hand you write;
And with a countenance I've yet to sight.
You're in another world - striving,
Living, growing as someone - moving:
Beyond living memories rooting you down.
You find dogs and daisies all around town,
And one Cacabell: flower like no other -
Who is beyond recollection's offer?
If so, then you are a child grown,
And to you, the truth has been shown:
I am with you well within your world,
Past your visions that are unfurled -
I am wheat fields, spring wells,
Four o clocks, and laughing star bells.

Itch

Tuesday, July 26 2011

Itch

I have an itch below my belly,
it appears from time to time.
In fact it's climbing up my tummy
as I'm beginning to make this rhyme.

It starts as tiny tingles:
titling just above my skin.
Then - it pelts with little prickles,
my pelvis from within.

Now as things do stand,
an annoying itch it is,
for itching now my hand
is to handle this.

First I use a single pat,
which is hardly worth a thing.
So I double - triple that,
which still, I find not working.

So now to rubs my hand moves,
and they give pleasure and relief.
Yet inadequate it still proves -
which is just beyond belief.

Without choice, I curve my fingers:
each one looking like a claw,
and I scratch this itch that lingers,
until my skin is bloody raw.

Despite all the pain it's causing,
there's an unfolding ecstatic bliss.
when the skin, the tips are breaching,
in this corporeal kiss.

So I am now past the point of stopping,
and am now beyond salvation,
as I, am itch, is skin, is fingers, are scratching, is being,
in this dissonant sensation.