If you go, let me go with you.
I want to travel the grey road
beneath green hills, to where blood flowed
and gathered in pools from souls we knew.
Let us gather in the homes of the few,
now happy, chanting an old ode,
memorized and changed into code--
a song from which our bright bones grew
But give me some new song to sing,
to sing my way out from beneath
these hills to where sun and stars sting,
to love despite this grief underneath,
to walk beneath the moonlight singing
till oaks are my shade, with bells ringing.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A Crapload of Potential Poems Written as Prose Poems
Disclaimer-these are all rough drafts posted here for the purpose of workshopping, so if phrases from appear in future work that I might try to publish, it will not be as it is presented here. For other readers-do your worst, as I would appreciate the feedback.
Poem #1
We are waiting for a paradox between the grain sown, the grain dying, the growing and dead and rising again, while waiting not for destruction, but for a light, blinding and revealing. I do not question the crumby soil or deep-veined trues, but my belief in them as if they are only waiting for men silent and thief-like to wheel them away to show the god waiting in the machine, waiting for the curtain to lower and fall, to bow and strut and wave, receiving creation as a genuine gift.
#2
It was near midnight and Johnny Cash was on the radio. The stray streetlamps glowed only as nightlights for the hollers, and the road was empty of cars. The gunpowder of 4th of July lingered in the air, turning in my seat I watched you fast asleep, and wonder why the moonlight and willow strands of your body could leave me worshiping you, but loveless. I admired your perfections, the way the lip's curve reflected the brightness beneath, but I was afraid that I could destroy it with ordinary desire, not for the stars or moons, but for the fingers to hands to arms, and toes to feet to legs running in the copse, lying beneath the open trees.
#3
I walk with a ghost, who is love vanished, and who is love replaced by the noon-time beauties that walk before me, around me. But the ones walking before me I am incapable of embracing; I cannot accept them, as if I cast myself into a myth, where I sing for the past and stillborn future.
#4
The angriest of men do not keep ledgers of all wrongs--real and imagined--but are half drunk on memories and dreams--the subtle changes in clouds over a vacant field while recalling a childhood where others buried themselves beneath their chores--domestic and churchly. And I step away and towards the glass doors all around, seeking refuge in destruction, and fearing its reprisals. Why not disintegrate upon impact? Fire extinguisher to door, and have it burst in flames: a ghost to carry away my un-reckoned hurricanes. But ghost-less, my ledger counts random destruction and the longing, fatigued beneath the sun, for all these bones to be mended.
#5
There is a leech, long and metallic, attached to my spine, and at night as I try to sing myself to sleep I listen to its mechanical whirring, and as my consciousness dissolves I feel my blood slip. As it siphons, I play with its centipedial legs, with care disabling the with closest legs, toying with it, picking it as with a scab. What pain that it might be, it's also a toy, an undying dog; something so sweet in its persistence that I love it.
#6
As I walk over the ground it feels as if it rumbles, its folds and bumps rise and fall as waves. I am unsteady, swearing off edges or heights, and favoring fields and streets clean and safe.
fragment
The ground with its bumps rumbles as the ocean when I walk--I am unsteady and reach for something
akh-kha
#7
I know nothing right now, not with this oceanic turf that pitches beneath as I walk.
I feel a danger to myself, and need something for courage and something for my nerves, but it is still not the end. I am a danger to myself, but not to you.
But an explanation: I have days, months, years (all discreet units so the stench from failure fails to carry over) where My heart feels loveless, where time seems endless and life and death seem to be two sides of the same coin, and only appear as the obverse of the other and if I were to die that life would carry over, but in the way that I imagined Australia when I was younger. I can't run and can't jump, and life breathes through my veins, echoes in my lungs in asthmatic fashion.
I am a danger to myself, but only slightly, like a dodgy tackle where I get a bit a leg and a bit of ball, but the other guy still falls, then rebounding in a fit of profanity. I am a slight danger to myself and unsteady, like the one time on the boat where I felt the fancy to throw my glasses overboard. I might get hurt, but I might only think of it.
I am a bit unsteady, unsure of whether to live more in the past or in the future or in the present, and if I live for this present moment, does it do me any good to compare how well I'm living in this moment to other times? It's circular and dizzying, but I want to take your hand and kiss it, take your head and cradle it, and wander together towards some sort of train (i'll take whatever is available) and declare my passions, coded into some language that only the two of us know.
Hopefully, not in so many words, but I'm verbose when drunk, coaxed out of my melancholy slumber, and all of this would require drink, perhaps more for you than for me, but what the hell, I'm on a roll, making a toast out of my fragility, singing a sad song for the glasses I tossed into the sea.
#8
The fear is sweet, as sweet as the chilling eastern wind in january, and so it is-- 2 hours after midnight, and sleep seems to be death. I'd rather watch Bob Dylan videos and forget my tiredness, and lose myself in the ramblings of the old man. why should I sleep? my eyes turn towards the darkness, towards the black wheel that spins above the snowy earth, and the stars bleeding into the its rim yell out in invitation and terror. I bite my lip; it looks so sweet: to lose this turncoat corpse, and seditious mind and blend into shadow.
fragment
But, but... I dread this sleep, this ordinary sleep free from any ties to death. Afraid to leave this charmed and cursed day, afraid to face a fresh brigade of moments and somehow turn them to my favor.
Poem #1
We are waiting for a paradox between the grain sown, the grain dying, the growing and dead and rising again, while waiting not for destruction, but for a light, blinding and revealing. I do not question the crumby soil or deep-veined trues, but my belief in them as if they are only waiting for men silent and thief-like to wheel them away to show the god waiting in the machine, waiting for the curtain to lower and fall, to bow and strut and wave, receiving creation as a genuine gift.
#2
It was near midnight and Johnny Cash was on the radio. The stray streetlamps glowed only as nightlights for the hollers, and the road was empty of cars. The gunpowder of 4th of July lingered in the air, turning in my seat I watched you fast asleep, and wonder why the moonlight and willow strands of your body could leave me worshiping you, but loveless. I admired your perfections, the way the lip's curve reflected the brightness beneath, but I was afraid that I could destroy it with ordinary desire, not for the stars or moons, but for the fingers to hands to arms, and toes to feet to legs running in the copse, lying beneath the open trees.
#3
I walk with a ghost, who is love vanished, and who is love replaced by the noon-time beauties that walk before me, around me. But the ones walking before me I am incapable of embracing; I cannot accept them, as if I cast myself into a myth, where I sing for the past and stillborn future.
#4
The angriest of men do not keep ledgers of all wrongs--real and imagined--but are half drunk on memories and dreams--the subtle changes in clouds over a vacant field while recalling a childhood where others buried themselves beneath their chores--domestic and churchly. And I step away and towards the glass doors all around, seeking refuge in destruction, and fearing its reprisals. Why not disintegrate upon impact? Fire extinguisher to door, and have it burst in flames: a ghost to carry away my un-reckoned hurricanes. But ghost-less, my ledger counts random destruction and the longing, fatigued beneath the sun, for all these bones to be mended.
#5
There is a leech, long and metallic, attached to my spine, and at night as I try to sing myself to sleep I listen to its mechanical whirring, and as my consciousness dissolves I feel my blood slip. As it siphons, I play with its centipedial legs, with care disabling the with closest legs, toying with it, picking it as with a scab. What pain that it might be, it's also a toy, an undying dog; something so sweet in its persistence that I love it.
#6
As I walk over the ground it feels as if it rumbles, its folds and bumps rise and fall as waves. I am unsteady, swearing off edges or heights, and favoring fields and streets clean and safe.
fragment
The ground with its bumps rumbles as the ocean when I walk--I am unsteady and reach for something
akh-kha
#7
I know nothing right now, not with this oceanic turf that pitches beneath as I walk.
I feel a danger to myself, and need something for courage and something for my nerves, but it is still not the end. I am a danger to myself, but not to you.
But an explanation: I have days, months, years (all discreet units so the stench from failure fails to carry over) where My heart feels loveless, where time seems endless and life and death seem to be two sides of the same coin, and only appear as the obverse of the other and if I were to die that life would carry over, but in the way that I imagined Australia when I was younger. I can't run and can't jump, and life breathes through my veins, echoes in my lungs in asthmatic fashion.
I am a danger to myself, but only slightly, like a dodgy tackle where I get a bit a leg and a bit of ball, but the other guy still falls, then rebounding in a fit of profanity. I am a slight danger to myself and unsteady, like the one time on the boat where I felt the fancy to throw my glasses overboard. I might get hurt, but I might only think of it.
I am a bit unsteady, unsure of whether to live more in the past or in the future or in the present, and if I live for this present moment, does it do me any good to compare how well I'm living in this moment to other times? It's circular and dizzying, but I want to take your hand and kiss it, take your head and cradle it, and wander together towards some sort of train (i'll take whatever is available) and declare my passions, coded into some language that only the two of us know.
Hopefully, not in so many words, but I'm verbose when drunk, coaxed out of my melancholy slumber, and all of this would require drink, perhaps more for you than for me, but what the hell, I'm on a roll, making a toast out of my fragility, singing a sad song for the glasses I tossed into the sea.
#8
The fear is sweet, as sweet as the chilling eastern wind in january, and so it is-- 2 hours after midnight, and sleep seems to be death. I'd rather watch Bob Dylan videos and forget my tiredness, and lose myself in the ramblings of the old man. why should I sleep? my eyes turn towards the darkness, towards the black wheel that spins above the snowy earth, and the stars bleeding into the its rim yell out in invitation and terror. I bite my lip; it looks so sweet: to lose this turncoat corpse, and seditious mind and blend into shadow.
fragment
But, but... I dread this sleep, this ordinary sleep free from any ties to death. Afraid to leave this charmed and cursed day, afraid to face a fresh brigade of moments and somehow turn them to my favor.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Мысли для сегодня
Одна неделя Вера Сергеевна была с сестрой в Нижним, а была у нас (Петя и я) была ее мама. Один вечер после ужина бабушка со мной смотрели телевизор, а по нему “Летят журавли” передал. Он, конечно, классический фильм про ВОВ и жалости ее, и бабушка начала говорить об опыте ее; она начинала среднюю школу и увидела как старше школьники уехали на фронт и как никто вернулся. Она говорила про трех братьев своих, да из них один строен танком, но чуть не 160 сантиметров. Он и не вернулся.
Я думаю, что сейчас трудно понимать ужас Второй мировой войны, так как проблемы нашего века нас волнует, и редко мы можем думать об прежних проблемов. Также, мы можем смотреть памятники в Москве, во Владимире и в Волгоград, как можем мы понимать чувства--страх и смелость--из их, которые погибли и пережили?
Война зла. Но иногда надо драться против тех, что представляет ясные зло и страх, и требует, что жизнь подтверждает к идеалам ненависти их. Поэтому гибели из каких войн хуже других.
Нормально, с праздником мы желаем счастья или удачи, но сегодня наверно лучше желать памяти--память о том, что должен не приходиться еще раз.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Spambot
I have just been spambot-ed epically by a Miss Jane. If anyone sees a big block of Chinese, please tell me, so I can get rid of it all.
Also, I recently read that spambots are the prototypes of sexbots, which might have been one of the single scariest things I've read in a long time.
How are yall doing anyway?
Also, I recently read that spambots are the prototypes of sexbots, which might have been one of the single scariest things I've read in a long time.
How are yall doing anyway?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
My Idea for a Church Library (A Library for Church Rebels of the Future)
Some time ago, our church took the books out of the church library and turned the space into a coffee bar (which is nice enough--if you like coffee). I'm in need of projects, and I would like to find some other space in the building and turn it into a library. Anybody who knows me knows that I have spent a good chunk of my life in libraries (library cards from three states, Russia, and two counties in Oregon, not counting university id cards that work as library cards), and some of that time has been in church libraries, and I've volunteered for the WV library as well. This close familiarity of religious libraries has allowed me to observe the strength and weaknesses of these types of libraries, and, if I were to able to organize such a library, I would set if up in such a way that it would be strong so that it be both unique and helpful to lay congregants.
The weaknesses are simple, and I've read my fair share of crap, but I've grown past it and I have dispensed with it. These books are romances, end-times conspiracy theory books, hackneyed testimonials and books by Chuck Colson, who is a real piece of scum. (Would I say that to his face? Yes, though I would try to be more polite than that, maybe saying "Sir, you are a real piece of scum".)
So that is simple enough, and now what should be included? Things to be included should be commentaries and other such books that would be helpful in a lay scholarly. Likewise, books that accurately describe other religions and traditions should be included as well. I'm not terribly knowledgeable, so I'll let this part go without specifics, though it should be chosen thoughtfully. The thing that most interests me about church libraries is the necessity for readers to encounter lives outside of themselves, and to be able to better understand their lives, through books that explore the peculiarities of life. In other words, an ideal church library would have books about social justice, novels and poetry. The great theme that unifies all of these works is human suffering. To bless and alleviate human suffering is part of the original command to the church as outlined, directly or indirectly, in every part of the Beatitudes. There would be lighter works, sure, but, seriously, what do we need with them? Every three minute song on the radio would confirm and speak to someone's happiness, and if people are in a neutral emotional place, they should be led to consider the state of others, and bring comfort to others in their actions as they might be encouraged in a book by Ron Sider, Tony Campolo or Wendell Berry, or they should be encouraged to understand through fictional works the emotional pain experienced by those around them, and seek to ease that pain through empathy. As the great reverend John Donne once wrote "No man is an island entire to himself; every man is a piece of the continent, apart of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind", and to forget our elemental humanity means that we forget that we are not individuals 100%, but rather we are like leaves on tree--alone but still connected to a broader form. A serious lack of empathy is also a lack of reflection and honesty, and so we should recognize it in others, and offer comfort.
I want to talk further about sorrow and empathy and the ultimate necessity of these things at some other later point, but for the moment I need to answer some possible questions. What kind of novels and poetry? Religious? For the first--many kinds, and for the second--no, and certainly not just Baptist or Protestant writers, but writers of any religious persuasion or even those without any sort of faith. The reason for this is that these selected writers are concerned with the human condition, and read as a diary after the Fall, containing greater and more subtle shades of the human experience than it is usually displayed in canonical texts. These great texts were written with inspiration coming downwind of Heaven, so the scheme is usually greater than what we really can articulate. Likewise, the great human error has been to quarrel endlessly about the author of our mortal "narrative", when often we are in agreement of its themes and signs. To illustrate by example, Lev Tolstoi, the great Russian writer of "War and Peace" and "Anna Karenina", even now buried in the ground belongs to no established religious tradition (even his bones are in excommunication from the Orthodox church), but his writings (sometimes) belong to the looser, un-established trends of Christian Anarchism, which in turn nicely dovetails with the traditions that fall within the Anabaptist spectrum. Where would we be without Shakespeare, Dostoevskii or Camus? A bit of scum, floating in the sea, isolated from our brothers and sisters.
The weaknesses are simple, and I've read my fair share of crap, but I've grown past it and I have dispensed with it. These books are romances, end-times conspiracy theory books, hackneyed testimonials and books by Chuck Colson, who is a real piece of scum. (Would I say that to his face? Yes, though I would try to be more polite than that, maybe saying "Sir, you are a real piece of scum".)
So that is simple enough, and now what should be included? Things to be included should be commentaries and other such books that would be helpful in a lay scholarly. Likewise, books that accurately describe other religions and traditions should be included as well. I'm not terribly knowledgeable, so I'll let this part go without specifics, though it should be chosen thoughtfully. The thing that most interests me about church libraries is the necessity for readers to encounter lives outside of themselves, and to be able to better understand their lives, through books that explore the peculiarities of life. In other words, an ideal church library would have books about social justice, novels and poetry. The great theme that unifies all of these works is human suffering. To bless and alleviate human suffering is part of the original command to the church as outlined, directly or indirectly, in every part of the Beatitudes. There would be lighter works, sure, but, seriously, what do we need with them? Every three minute song on the radio would confirm and speak to someone's happiness, and if people are in a neutral emotional place, they should be led to consider the state of others, and bring comfort to others in their actions as they might be encouraged in a book by Ron Sider, Tony Campolo or Wendell Berry, or they should be encouraged to understand through fictional works the emotional pain experienced by those around them, and seek to ease that pain through empathy. As the great reverend John Donne once wrote "No man is an island entire to himself; every man is a piece of the continent, apart of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind", and to forget our elemental humanity means that we forget that we are not individuals 100%, but rather we are like leaves on tree--alone but still connected to a broader form. A serious lack of empathy is also a lack of reflection and honesty, and so we should recognize it in others, and offer comfort.
I want to talk further about sorrow and empathy and the ultimate necessity of these things at some other later point, but for the moment I need to answer some possible questions. What kind of novels and poetry? Religious? For the first--many kinds, and for the second--no, and certainly not just Baptist or Protestant writers, but writers of any religious persuasion or even those without any sort of faith. The reason for this is that these selected writers are concerned with the human condition, and read as a diary after the Fall, containing greater and more subtle shades of the human experience than it is usually displayed in canonical texts. These great texts were written with inspiration coming downwind of Heaven, so the scheme is usually greater than what we really can articulate. Likewise, the great human error has been to quarrel endlessly about the author of our mortal "narrative", when often we are in agreement of its themes and signs. To illustrate by example, Lev Tolstoi, the great Russian writer of "War and Peace" and "Anna Karenina", even now buried in the ground belongs to no established religious tradition (even his bones are in excommunication from the Orthodox church), but his writings (sometimes) belong to the looser, un-established trends of Christian Anarchism, which in turn nicely dovetails with the traditions that fall within the Anabaptist spectrum. Where would we be without Shakespeare, Dostoevskii or Camus? A bit of scum, floating in the sea, isolated from our brothers and sisters.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
I've been enjoying a lot of music lately that combines trad roots with rock elements. Consider this a visual (sometimes) mix tape.
Fairport Convention documentary clip
Audio of the Fairport song "Matty Groves."
Led Zeppelin deserve a place (or several places), and so here is their song "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp". For geeky points, note Plant yelling "Strider" at the end.
My Brightest Diamond covering Led Zeppelin's "No Quarter"
I'm going to have to move ahead a few decades on this one, since trad was not fashionable for the eighties and nineties. It also moved around a bit, with bands from America and Scandinavia indebted to Fairport Convention.
A clip about the Decemberists' album "Hazards of Love".
A solo Colin Meloy playing "We Both Go down Together"
Opeth "Harvest"
One of the more old world sounding songs from the Fleet Foxes "White Winter Hymnal".
Esper's "Travel Mountains"
Two White Stripe songs that I always count as one.
"Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn"
Video game highlights set to "St. Andrew (The Battle is in the Air)" by the White Stripes. As you can probably tell from the title, there are bagpipes in the song.
One noble YouTube user has paired Midlake's "Acts of Man" with F.W. Murnau's film "Sunrise".
Part of the movement returning trad music to Britain are The Smoke Fairies, with their song "Sunshine".
Fairport Convention documentary clip
Audio of the Fairport song "Matty Groves."
Led Zeppelin deserve a place (or several places), and so here is their song "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp". For geeky points, note Plant yelling "Strider" at the end.
My Brightest Diamond covering Led Zeppelin's "No Quarter"
I'm going to have to move ahead a few decades on this one, since trad was not fashionable for the eighties and nineties. It also moved around a bit, with bands from America and Scandinavia indebted to Fairport Convention.
A clip about the Decemberists' album "Hazards of Love".
A solo Colin Meloy playing "We Both Go down Together"
Opeth "Harvest"
One of the more old world sounding songs from the Fleet Foxes "White Winter Hymnal".
Esper's "Travel Mountains"
Two White Stripe songs that I always count as one.
"Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn"
Video game highlights set to "St. Andrew (The Battle is in the Air)" by the White Stripes. As you can probably tell from the title, there are bagpipes in the song.
One noble YouTube user has paired Midlake's "Acts of Man" with F.W. Murnau's film "Sunrise".
Part of the movement returning trad music to Britain are The Smoke Fairies, with their song "Sunshine".
Church Rebels of the Future
Right now my brother has a note on his desk addressed to him (and others) as "Church Leaders of the Future". As you could probably tell I did not get such a note. In my family I'm the liberal, so that my cousins can be liberal. This role is similar to my place at church; I'm willing to say some stuff and do some things (even though I consider myself to be quite orthodox), so that others will have a little bit of breathing space. Everything can be quite repetitious and a bit of a echo chamber at church; it's nice when a different voice can be heard.
There's not much use in being baptist (or Protestant) if you don't try think for yourself, and learn without parroting.
There's not much use in being baptist (or Protestant) if you don't try think for yourself, and learn without parroting.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Soccer!
Meiska, you can skip this one.
An article in the Times about Arsene Wenger, manager of the Arsenal.
An article from the Daily Mail about the Arsenal youth program.
An interview with writer Aleksander Hemon about soccer, and his essay "If There Was a God, He Would Be a Solid Midfielder". I photocopied the essay at school, and would recommend reading it, very perceptive about life and using the people and events he has known through pick-up games to explore more of life.
An essay from Zadie Smith about American writers and their hair. About halfway through the piece, she writes about Hemon's bald, immigrant head, and his passion for soccer.
Ukraine, icons and soccer.
An article in the Times about Arsene Wenger, manager of the Arsenal.
An article from the Daily Mail about the Arsenal youth program.
An interview with writer Aleksander Hemon about soccer, and his essay "If There Was a God, He Would Be a Solid Midfielder". I photocopied the essay at school, and would recommend reading it, very perceptive about life and using the people and events he has known through pick-up games to explore more of life.
An essay from Zadie Smith about American writers and their hair. About halfway through the piece, she writes about Hemon's bald, immigrant head, and his passion for soccer.
Ukraine, icons and soccer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
