Showing posts with label American democracy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label American democracy. Show all posts

12.06.2018

Meditation on a funeral




HONOR GUARD

Soft muted early winter light
outside the National
Cathedral.  Great whorl
of reds & blues, at dazzling height

O rose window, still glowing bright.
The honor guard (Marines,
Army, Navy) forms lines
like intricate toy soldiers (boy’s delight) –

maneuvering, in wonderful coordination
powerful precision
beneath the boom of cannon,
brass band’s hopeful invocation.

The dignitaries have assembled.
Paired front aisles unveil
in allegorical detail
old icons of authority (kings trembled

once, when they beheld such signs 
of a succession crisis).
On the right, witness
the mourning son & heir – thin lines

of tears streak from his hawk’s eye,
flank his aquiline profile,
his anxious beak.  Meanwhile,
on his left, an accidental guy –

the crown-usurper (with a face
like a disgruntled frog).
Even Sully the dog
got more headlines than such disgrace,

the preacher said (speaking in tongues).
Haunted, defunct princes,
princesses acquiesce...
the fatal, dominant thug belongs

                 *

to us.  Chief executive,
or executioner?
Headsman (for our
gentler Republic)?  How can we live

in a democracy, ruled by despot?
We cannot.  Our choice
is clear, as once we faced
when Lincoln gave it voice – the violet

is trodden underfoot by hate.
What’s at the root
of all our discontent?
Man’s thirst for domination, set

in place since his umbilical was cut;
rage at the shrinking womb.
Like Jonah’s boat-turned-tomb
of alien Leviathan, the doors of Night

close, flooding, overhead... the child’s
unconscious & primordial
nightmare (abyssal
mystery).  Note each tyrant’s wild

psycho-disgust... the fluttering hands,
the flickering deceit
– detached from all sweet
reconciliations, lawful bonds.

The flag-draped casket of the patriarch
squares with the glowing rose
window.  Still hearth glows,
somehow – Wisdom’s scintillating ark.

12.6.18

4.18.2018

ship of wind




EGYPTIAN BARGE

A prairie fire like a freight train
fed by wind (your searing
Word).  Not for hearing
but for doing... here it comes again.

Will cauterize your poetry
to cinder of Egyptian
barge.  Lips burn
ice friezes (hay society).

A replica of ancient Greece,
delicate, peevish...
stern Rome’s thievish
siblings (disguised in fleece).

The Pilgrims’ covenant of winter
light – bewildered, free –
a broken redwood tree
(toppled by Oldman’s greedy splinter-

group).  The milk train of the nations
merges with its blistered
rails.  Longfellow heard
rain fall... Berryman damnations.

Who shivers like a flame against
the edge?  Is it Henry
hisself (decrepit Limentani)?
The canoe in the garage (All Saints’

Day shrine)?  Her candle, wavering
above extinction... hum
of rock-dove (columbarium).
Rose bridge of lips, life-savoring.

4.18.18

6.28.2017

anyone know your knots?


SHADE-CANOE

The lowly starfish, neither fish
nor star.  Rather
fish out of water, or
spark from Ocean River.  Wish

upon which?  Empty choice, perhaps –
like this rickety cedar
gazebo door, spannered
over the void for mosquito apse

(fine Roman iron).  Door always open.
Natural Bridge – sublime,
like Jefferson’s government;
only supporting vault, for all men,

women, are created equal.
Contracted limestone
hieroglyph, whose one
whole marbleized body-spiral

corkscrewed like Nut – bolted
to high arch-campanile.
Mostly invisible.
An Arctic burg (igloo-solid).

The hollowness of raven-beak –
scars like tattoos for Cain;
Jonah from Spanish Main
become Columbian Mayflower (seek

& ye shall find Canonicus, O
jolly Roger).  Darkest
camera oscura (west
of black hole, near Tasmania)

                *

filled with simple cave-sketches –
a wave-curve with a graphene
heart-keep (anyone
know your knots?) nyet – catches

hermaphrodite french wombat stray
(whom-batt to you) – punished,
burnished bronze, banished
by Moi (Great Man Two Hernee)

for coming naked from the sea
right into Nineveh
(some Who-She-Whooshee
mania).  Like Mirror Lakes, see –

glass bifocals, in Mendelssohn.
Reflective retina
bent through Ravenna
or shade-canoe of rusted iron

in Ferrara (almond mandala)
whose double curve
lets light swerve,
portable & potable.  Some farfalla

redbird’s bedrest (or robin’s nest)
you carry like pemmican
for Father Hennepin;
some amphora from Galilee (the best)

floats into harbor on a buoy
bobbing with airy Ariel
corked in oak barrel –
Jonah ex machina, sailor’s ahoy.

6.28.17


4.28.2017

haunted scent



ANCIENT SPRING

My soul, like a woodchuck hidden
in Old Charley’s Oak,
must be lit by a stroke
of lightning even to begin –

like that gold spearman on the dome
in Providence, icon
of limpid Everywomban –
Williams’ independent spirit, come

to revolve like Gabriel Crozier-Torch
around his merry Morning
Rose (see Alighieri’s singing
sky).  An Ocean Island (search

Queequeg’s tattoos).  A green Tahiti
lapped by peaceful Ocean
River – Night Sea span,
gold-threaded geometric Ratio,

squared rail-split Israel rondure
(Galilee of Lincoln-
logos, all for one
& one for all).  O armature

of lovely Law!  Fleet safety net
bracing each breathing sheep
with her own fleece... keep
dangling in catenary grace!  Yet

lift the lilies of your haunted scent
until the spirit in us
brims past avarice,
hot pride – guide to your tent

                *

under Polaris & the prancing
Bears, where free children
ripple the utmost common
well.  Like Addams, balancing

book-learning with hand-work,
art with science, freedom
with obligation... some
justice for the beaten fork –

the disenfranchised, cheated poor,
collateral damage
beneath our idol-image
(smoking low sulfuric Boor

of plump kin-pride & greed).
So Hobo Henry muttered
by the mud-brown flood
of Mississippi river.  Honey-mead,

sweet sea-salt air of tamaracks...
the vaulting spire of Dante-
tracks filter the ray
that flies orthogonal – strikes

Roman iron with Hebrew vine.
Gold thread (Apollinaire’s
trompette marine) bears
light into the grain combine –

sun through the moss-green shade
above the ancient spring
(a Restoration thing).
So in a Maker’s aye all things are made.

4.28.17

1.05.2017

Twelfth Night hullabaloo


OKLAHOMA COAT

I recall those Tudor trumpeters
fanfaring Henry 5th
at the old Guthrie.  Fife &
drum for Toby Falstaff – his theater’s

in the round, all right.  The sonic boom
of a real cannon shook
us out of our seats.  Look!
that’s Jessica T., with the broom –

playing Cesario! – or is she
Queen of Twelfth Night,
planting a silver bullet
in her wedding cake?  Most probably.

I remember reading The King Must Die.
The rites of succession
were crude by comparison
with today.  His finger in every pie,

the Prince had a plum job – lasted
one whole year.  Then
he fell for the Star-Queen
& they found another sacred bastard.

Today we have the Electoral College.
You must be gerrymandered
in order to graduate her;
everybody obeys the original Pledge

of Allergic, with His 12 Dependments.
& one day Malvolio ate
the bean – it was so great!
Tasted like the Ten Commandments

                      *

wrapped in almond nougat, or agate –
Mal became President!
Chef beyond Precedent!
Crowds thundered – Lock up the Maggot!

The Queen fled into hiding, dragging
little Tom Thumb (her twin
brother) into the griffin-
wagon – where they belonged (Sing-Sing)...

Twin Cities was a refuge, then.
Blue heron, bald eagle...
Nothing felt so regal
in that rickety barn, where it all began –

yet somehow, through dread Minnesota
winters, yon honeycomb
tholos kept warm.
In her threadbare Oklahoma coat

bees nested, Woodpecker feasted,
Thunderbird broke the tree;
a little acorn Charlie-
horse became a baby Easter-

chick.  Her Royal Henress brooded
over all the shady dealings
stumping the common wailings
of the groundlings – trampled by hooded

Midas moony-men (roundheads
of Malvolio’s pale clan).
It was just a party plan.  &
Wise Men had their own (not Herod’s).

1.5.17

12.06.2016

Martin Luther King's home town



Sarah & I just got back from a 3-day trip to Atlanta, visiting relatives.  Martin Luther King's town, Jimmy Carter's town (even FDR's town, in a way).

Trying to come to grips with the Donald Trump reality.  Perhaps one good thing that might emerge, out of Arturo Ui's resistible rise, would be a reconnection with fundamentals of American democratic government.  As a matter of survival.

My first thought : Trump has one primary, subliminal, unconscious agenda.  Which would be : 1) to corrode institutions of democracy through administrative chaos, the flouting of legal and cultural norms; 2) to impose authoritarian tyranny, in order to bring "order" out of said chaos.

This is the playbook of Hitler and Putin.

Subliminal because Trump gives every sign of being a sleepwalker, a narcissist, a creature of show biz for its (his) own sake, a puppet of impersonal power-surges.  Or perhaps that's just his schtick, and he's a man of infinite guile.  Either way he is not a friend, he is the implacable enemy of liberal democracy.  If it's not his own design, he is subject to the designs of other, similarly dark forces.

How to oppose these forces?

40+ years ago, in 1972-73, I had a vocational crisis, a personal crisis, a nervous breakdown.  I was in college, at Brown University.  I was becoming a poet, and couldn't deal with it.  Moreover, I was morally/psychologically shattered - unable to orient the religious values instilled from childhood, with the 19-yr-old late-60s collegiate artiste I had become.

I survived this impasse.  I dropped out, wandered America and England, came back.  But what finally helped me to integrate the moral and the aesthetic, the spiritual and the poetic, was an encounter with a Russian poet of the early 20th century, Osip Mandelstam.

Mandelstam offered the model of a new synthesis.  I was drawn to the echoes of Rimbaud in his dense, wild, riddling stanzas; yet, by way of his wife Nadezhda's memoirs, and his own critical essays, I absorbed the rational cast of his mind, underlying the lyricism.

Mandelstam, the Acmeist, the Petersburg poet, the student of Gumilev, defended the Enlightenment values of Pushkin, of Chaadev - both rational and liberal, both Classical & Romantic.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men [people] are created equal... endowed by their Creator with inalienable rights... among these being life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..."

Two centuries of struggle - between the vision of Lincoln, Whitman, and the Founding Fathers, on the one hand, and the forces of greed, fraud, pride, intellectual vanity, ideology, violence, and oppression, on the other - have battered and weakened the power of this egalitarian vision, which lies at the root of Western democratic politics.

What I found in Mandelstam's writings and example was a foundation even deeper - going back, through Christianity, with Christianity, to its origins in Hebraic iconoclasm (Moses' people against the dominion of Pharaoh) - the very same spirit infusing the message of Martin Luther King.

Mandelstam's notion of the Redemption (sketchily outlined in his unfinished essay "Pushkin & Scriabin") parallels themes in his essay on Chaadev.  Both are concerned with human freedom : both come to the same conclusion.  Human (political) freedom is grounded ultimately in a fundamental spiritual (eternal) dimension.  The freedom we look for, hope for, & recognize in our secular systems of government, is an expression of sacred (eternal) soul liberty.

There is a poetic dimension to Enlightenment ideals : Chaadev & Gumilev, Wordsworth & Blake, bore witness to the philosophical concept of the dignity of Man (as imago of God).  Such dignity entails equality, and (inalienable) human rights; the very thing - the notion of a common, universal human Good - that autocrats and plutocrats hate & fear the most (it is their personal nemesis).

Roger Williams - the apostle of soul liberty, the student of Edward Coke (the lawful rights of Englishmen) and forerunner of John Locke (lawful government is popular sovereignty) - understood all these things 100 years before the American Revolution; articulated them in his foundation of the first civil government on the principles of religious tolerance and political democracy (the Colony of Rhode Island).

One of my gr-gr-etc-uncles, Thomas Gould, was a friend of Roger Williams; he rented Roger a portion of Gould Island (in Narragansett Bay) for planting a hay crop.

I haven't expressed myself too clearly.  I guess this is a rant or screed in the manner of Williams' "Fox Digg'd from his Burrow" etc.  But the basic idea is, that the Modern concept of liberal democracy is not at odds with the Reformation notion of soul liberty, nor with the Medieval notion (ala Mandelstam) of the Redemption : these things are rhymes.

God is not mocked.  The splendor & creative power of humankind (imago of Creator) entails her (our) human rights.  Government is the servant of these human rights; otherwise those who claim its authority, actually have none - are frauds, imposters, usurpers, despots, tyrants.  They must be cast down - cast down by the people.

old American poet in Atlanta

2.18.2016

Une Saison en Fever


SUNDAY PALM

The muted still-gray river
slides past cottonwoods
& snow, makes hay towards
New Orleans.  Fevered février

saison de décision.  Party
of the partisans puts up
game faces – trumpets
bray wide, nosing opportunity –

battle flags ahoist, strong words
spray sound (Spartan array).
She moseys on her way,
accompanied by big black birds.

My soul, you tap your Sunday palm.
Must carve down, serpentine,
through plated clay – shed skin
to utmost bone.  A Lenten hymn –

let it all go.  Beneath gray stone
lies diamond – the fiery
akme of the maker,
kamen of Cape Horn (cross-thorn).

The Rio flows toward the Gulf
into the center of the earth.
Where molten rock gives birth
to metamorphs of sheep & wolf –

of black & white, of red & gold.
This alchemy’s a Union
sparked before the sun –
along still waters (as of old).

2.18.16