Toward Attention

Evil & Poetry

Och posted a poem by Edwin Muir about the Antichrist here. Some lines that I found striking:

When he forgives
It is for love of sin not of the sinner.

he turns his cheek
To goad the furious to more deadly fury,

I am always very alarmed to hear elements of myself (or, elements of myself in certain moments) in the persona of the Antichrist -- there is something about Evil that is, in fact, comfortably familiar: but when my familiar evil is shown to me, it looks terrifying in its ugly ordinariness. 

I hope that Och keep posting poems, even though, if the number of comments are any indicator, they receive less reading attention. (I bought the collection of Welsh texts he selected a poem or so from recently, it was so good.) A crappy blogger, such as myself, who makes occasional attempts at poetry (which also turns out crappy, but is still enjoyable to write), always loves to read good poetry.

Ouranos: Greek Joy (for Evangelos)

~

On all the urns and pots I know

the Pan has horns and hooves, and so

I did not recognize him when

he took th'appearance of a friend

who's kind and manly, not man-beast,

with twinkling eyes that should at least

suggest some playful, Puck-like spark:

a mischievous and tuneful heart;

and though I've seen his sandal'd toes:

I should have known, but so it goes. 

~~

In my defense, his winsome smile

abides content and gentle while

life's maelstrom whirls and bites with teeth

that gnaw away all festive wreaths;

he calms this storm with song and flute -- 

no bacchanalian dissolute

would play with quiet heart to mute

the din which passions convolute 

as though to drive both hosts and guests

into a hostile combat-fest;

and so his grin did not suggest

a satyr's plotting, debauched, jest,

I only heard peace-making words

amidst the violent strife-filled chords

that poison many a home, and towards

his guests submitting, as to lords

with rights to claim his service. Not

a faun, but angel, did I then spy -- 

a gracious Ouranos, a sky

who rains on all who happen nigh:

all guests and family, all  are nourished

beneath his canopy, where all flourish.

~~~

Nonetheless,

I always feel a hint that I am humorous material --

within this total charity that's real, and not ethereal.

I knew, but should have known better.

~~~~

Zyemlya: A Circle of Wind and Leaves (for Anna)

In the axis of the foreground

the green-gray world-pool of your eye

holds the circling background:

a century of autumns chorus the clouded sky:

"the tenor we anticipate is found,

let earth and heaven gather here!" while I,

with gods exhale mute praise to what is nigh,

a Showing, weaved through dust and breath, around

which silence travels not without a sound

of gladness.

Poem for Cynthia Revilla

I

do remember a girl with two sparkling eyes

and a smile that the world would smile with and surround

in triumphant procession at sorrow's demise,

whom she slew with her laughter, whene'er it did resound.

This portrait to some may seem idealized,

they may well think it has not its feet on the ground,

I admit that it's hatched over years, yet surmise

that in memory's distances, truth oft abounds.

~

On few

occasions I've pondered, with curious mood,

just what kind of a man would be meet for such grace;

a gentleman, surely, a figure not rude

in his manners or gait or the lines of his face.

His presence: commanding, command that was hewed

from Suffering's mountain, shot through with that trace

of a soul that fed gentleness Angelic Food

through nightmares that would have made others debased.

~~

And I know

That if he does not seem quite as I describe,

but a complicate tangle of virtue and vice,

you should always recall what St. John doth prescribe:

that we love one another, that this shall suffice.

Holy Love -- no mere affect -- has power to scrye

the infinite Trinity; this Love beyond nice

that we suffer obediently, and so we die

to the tendrils of sin that only the Christ,

His Face in your husband's, can purge from your eye,

unveiling his destiny, for which the price

of the Cross' scalpel is a joy to share.

~~~

Heroism and Drudgery

Make thou firm the pillars supporting the sky

with green thumbs that labor and hearts that do sigh

to love with a brilliance that shines through each trial

and trims all the fat of old sins from this pile

of dustly divinity, which moans with  the cries

of seven begettings' evils that wise

men can purge in repentance's crucible.

My Brother

The buck-toothed boy sits jacknife on the chair;

he grunts while he shods himself, his twitching straw hair

leaps with every foot-thrust in his dirty sneaker pair;

his eyes scan outward, intermittently his stare

does break from the wallpaper, and our eyes meet.

Distance Between (For My Wife)

There is no letter next to me

I'm not sure that I'd write

much worth reading should

some pen touch some piece of paper --

yet for words I fumble 

as my intent stumbles

drawing out these bumbling

lines. 

~

No saccharine affect joins me

no high-pitched reveries serve me --

but you don't really deserve these,

at least, not you.

"Deserve" may be a loaded word,

for oftentimes these things can herd

the truths I'm seeking well, and gird

Beauty in His shimmering. 

But, I am mute this night.

~~

The spaces announce more to me 

than speech,

our hearts unsated in phone chats

about driving,

and rented cars, and I am missing,

lost somewhere elsewhere in sunny San Fran,

ghosting you.

Political Sectarian Acids in the Public Square

I cannot dismiss the sense that this

is all dissolving

for ever-y time they think to pitch

a fence surrounding

the spaces that let them breath as though

their hearts were flound'ring

they always impale the hands of those

who're busy pounding

back at them with the ammo prepped

for this transgressing

~

Meanwhile where are those great-souled men

who're oft reminding

the rest of us how we got to here

and how we're sliding

back into a mess that looks

much like a dystopic book

that details the sins that cook

within greedy hearts that brook

no room for the other

no will to well-suffer

the pain of one's brother

nor aim to discover

the Good

Dismissing Lilith

Your whispering

of better things

builds hope, but life destroys;

this pilfering

of all but sin

would leave me with no choice

to curb it in:

let daylight bring

me truth about your ploys

and I shall win

a good beginning

where I am.

~

You seem to have me hypotized

myself I cannot save --

your saline eyes

and praline lies

would lure me to the grave

where I, your prize

would pain despise

yet warmth would flee away.

~~

I shall build my nest

upon the test

of Fire, not comfort's delights

and labor, lest

I should confess

at life's end to be a kite

so blown about

by winds that shout

"ephemeral wonders are right

to occupy all of your sight

such ultimate ends do give flight

to mortal beasts."

~~~

A Poem for Sasha

So one chapter ends and another begins

(though her story must end, it's not soon, I'd wage),

a boyfriend with palm-trees and camera she wins

although faces are lost with the turn of the page

and submerge into memorable reminiscings,

forsaken so that they might not be a cage

but sweet nectar that only one's family can bring

as a plane ticket carries her onto the stage

that is hers, and not someone else's.

~

We shall think of her there, awash in the light

of a West-Coast-ed sun, far away from the sight

of her friends and her family, who can't set aright

their old sense of the places she haunted, and bright

is the spectre of her that seems to alight

on the moments that call her to mind.

~~

Busy in kitchen the recipe sleuth

would spend hours, if needed, on finding the meal

she thinks fit for her love, but for us -- ah, forsooth!

we receive not a word, which we dare not to steal,

and wrest her away from some blissful glad hour,

dark'ning her visage with a note that might sour

the quite-frequent reveries in which her heart flowers,

reminding her of currents she brought there.

~~~

And yet,

love is slighted not easily, and so it does block

all the cracks of these insults, which, sealed by the caulk

of love's covering graciousness, which bears with the shock

of abiding through months while awaiting to talk

as she steps over names set in stars in the walk

-- we delight in imagining her joy.

~~~~