Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Sonnet Anais

Wildnerness. It's everywhere I look. We may think sometimes, that we are apart from wildnerness, in the way we live by the invention of clocks. The sun, though, is wild. The rain is wild. Love and sleep are wild. If you love, you love wildly. How else? How else?

The above painting is The Dream by Le Douanier Rousseau, and on the right is Untitled by Marcel Dzama.

The way a fantasy swims around my head

I think I'll drown for tender, yearning dreams

that never die, 'til he brings me to bed,

and every gasp is sent down full blood streams.

I'm constant, gorging on my plans to ruin

his ordered life and sense for blind romance.

I trust Anais for the tactics strewn

across his mind; a wild electric trance.

I, naturally, want the timing perfect,

but the stress of execution is profound.

Pursual's weak and clumsy, I reflect.

The only way it works is without sound.

When bodies, though, are lead to be unbound,

too many minds are left alone, confound.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

By Turns of Birds

I have Beethoven's string quartets on in the background. Without ever hearing his music, my life would have suffered - without me even knowing! That is a stunningly tragic thought. I am, though, only human, and subject to mood. Right now, I'm in what I could call a Flamenco mood. No, I don't know what that means, really, but I think it has to do with roses red, black and gold... If you could grow roses of any colour, but only one colour, which one would you pick? It would smell as sweet, of course (if "sweet" is how a rose smells). . .

Above is Great Blue Heron by Eleazar Albin and to the right is Woman With Bird by Bolero

I am melancholy's cloudy trophy,
love's sweetest face is a map
of mellow hills and valleys
leading me to Lethe.

In the highest wisdom
I find a flood
of tears, when overthrown by ecstasy
I feel nothing below

My clearest thoughts
are like birds
too easily disturbed
into endless journeys.
(good memory serves
to haunt me the hardest, while real birds fly farther from the familiar....)

Boredom pours its thickened liquor
through my lymph and marrow -
the more I take into my gaze
the more perceptions narrow.

Though I do not strain, darkly, to live,

I do not, either, fall to bed
without assurance of some light.
It is the moon that keeps me
in the company of humans

and if the globed glow makes me mad
so be it
---- at least I've seen it.