Here is a cluster of Index labels under the subject : HG poems (label : subject/HG poems).
I haven't linked to every term in the numerical series for some of these labels (i.e. criticism2, criticism3...), but only to the initial term (i.e. criticism). (See Index for more on this.)
Showing posts with label India Point. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India Point. Show all posts
5.24.2007
2.27.2005
2.18.2005
2.17.2005
a passage from mostly failed poem, India Point (not impersonal enough):
29
An autumn harbor had become like home,
a womb for Orpheus the hobo. Vessel
for vessels too – Providence (the bumble-
bee), Kriti River, Rosevean – all handsome
figureheads for voyageuring – back to her:
source or star of his desire for justice,
Marian image or magnetic matrix,
measure of all happiness, harmonious
Polaris out of Mendelssohn. The locus
was a consolation prize – yet place itself
was not the consolation. Percival,
bereft, looks up transfixèd into clouds,
into a sheepish flock (of cloudy speech)
shaping a vanishing point (just out of reach)
*
and on stone-heavy shoulders of a church
leaving a light snowfall (whispering, watch).
Under the Bruegel-skies of late November
a hobo stumbles on, hunched-over, broken-
down, his fortunate misfortune taking on
a common nature – weathered, as it were.
He goes into the snow, anonymous.
Loses himself in night's immensity.
Above, the pole star, shining steadily.
Then (on the Feast of St. Lucy) it flowers.
Just as the almond tree in midwinter
ignites each calcine-rigid human heart
framed on the hexagon - so the fire star
crowns (blazing toward Jubilee). Enter.
11.24.02
11.20.2004
1
In mid-November, a dark autumnal day,
leaves shuffle underfoot, drift in the wind.
Each leaf a little hand stretched out –
a letter, inscribed with tiny branches,
limbs. A letter from a tree gone bare,
expecting no reply. Soon snow will fall.
Each day I walk down Dove Street
with your shadow – talking to you,
talking to myself. Drab gray alleyway
cluttered with crooked telephone poles...
here gray pigeons waddle, wavering
and purring, across gray asphalt,
underneath gray skies.
Shadows
of turtle-doves, wings flitting overhead;
glimmer of gold oak and maple leaves;
desolate, diminished Jack o’lanterns
huddling with crazy smiles against
gray doorsteps (lumps of faded orange).
Hidden in the twilight season, camouflaged
in gray, whispering down a hidden street
with you, my phantom (leftover from
Halloween). Toward the harbor – where
dim light from a low star threads
across gray water, and doves collect
along the iron rail, and shuttling leaves
float, mutter... whirl against the pier.
9.16.2004
Here's the path I take to India Point, over the freeway bridge (cf. poems posted recently). From a photojournal produced by Donald Tetto.
9.11.2004
a little more from India Point. (passage to more!)
1
Autumn gathers everything together.
The ache of Orpheus rhymes with the atmosphere.
The air makes an arc of cold, toward Halloween
or Veteran's Day. Lovesongs are no more.
On the bench at the Point, he waits for the ships.
Oil tankers, long lean hammerheads (Rosevean,
maybe, or Providence - a windy microcosm slips
anchor, skims across skipping waves –). . . lips
whisper a hollow sound, through a dry reed:
surrender the romance of enunciation,
Now. The form was broken on the Golden
Gate, forever. From shady earthbound seed
(soft pussy willow bud) came the desiccated
husks. Yet he'll behold his Beatrice (constellate).
*
Yet she will not be the star of your design.
A changeable moon rides over the rigid pine
and her name (unspoked, unspoken-for)
won't let you croon sweet Nod, forever. . .
forlorn for nevermore. It was never translated
(she never bothered to read it herself, either).
This then was the cruelest impasse. Crux
of dilemmas. Cul-de-sac. Unable to sing her
back into his arms. The hapless flummox
fosters laughter. . . a sadist's paradox.
The skipper's iron yawn pulls away from shore.
Something of reddish iron takes tincture
(leached, homeward, from the heart it makes);
slight leaves curl slowly toward hibernal cure.
9.16.02
2
Along the promenade at India Point, at noon.
Two kinds of blue, of sky and limbeck bay
divided merely by a sketch of land – a green
marsh (going pale) and the smooth cones
of the oil tanks (throned, expressionless).
And something leaden like a plumbline
or something iron like an anchor draws
him toward autumn (with everything else).
And autumn is an old stone church, with snow
just dusting the cornices, the slate pavement;
a cool wind out of azure sky, strewing
carnelian maple leaves. He'll hunger then
for Indian summer – ripeness, ruddy perennials,
a hearth in the heartland. Break open the seals.
*
Something iron in the dividing line, spun thin
to lightest gold, like dawn – threadbare, glassine. . .
the line between my here and now, and yours.
The difference between ghost and angel, it was
the border between a feeling and a thought,
between listening and action (granite fathers,
mica sons). As if, on the circumference
of a wheel, the shadow of another wheel
impinged (weightless trine within bronze)
at eventide (as October light declines).
And it's not the maternal muttering, May-
fair's foreground, nor glittering of stars'
cosmetic romances (in Holy Wood). Strange,
steadfast. . . must pierce to marrow's otherness.
9.17.02
3
The sound of the hurricane was not the twirl
of an old fantoche. It seeped from stony habitus
of one who is what he is: freedom in the whorl
of one infinitesimal (rudimentary) snarl.
Orpheus, left alone on the docks, leans out
toward his image, shimmering in the sea.
Shaken by her shade (it shapes his hurt)
he would not die, withal – and the fiery heart
of the whirlwind felt like a pillar of smoke
by day. Follow the lead of the plumbline
to the anchor, summoned the sprite. Swift arc
from the prow of the Point, the line beckoned
as though a pearl gleamed there – a sunken
epiphany – consoling harmony, beyond his ken.
*
Transparent, behind your back, they rise:
the misty, vernacular academies.
Fogman, Everyman know them instantly
(rhymes or rhythms of innate identity).
Sullen, foiled, brittle antinomy, toughened
by lack of justice. Yet. . . your Book of J.
Where she curls around corners, a spy
playing hide n' seek, in Hell. Labyrinth
of concrete. Where flame flickers fitfully
and droopy Charon whines for every penny
beneath an abandoned India Jade tree
at the corner of the house. Only (after 132
heartache years) the rooster sex waltz will be
redeemed. . . by an unlikely, yearning, iron trinity.
9.18.02
1
Autumn gathers everything together.
The ache of Orpheus rhymes with the atmosphere.
The air makes an arc of cold, toward Halloween
or Veteran's Day. Lovesongs are no more.
On the bench at the Point, he waits for the ships.
Oil tankers, long lean hammerheads (Rosevean,
maybe, or Providence - a windy microcosm slips
anchor, skims across skipping waves –). . . lips
whisper a hollow sound, through a dry reed:
surrender the romance of enunciation,
Now. The form was broken on the Golden
Gate, forever. From shady earthbound seed
(soft pussy willow bud) came the desiccated
husks. Yet he'll behold his Beatrice (constellate).
*
Yet she will not be the star of your design.
A changeable moon rides over the rigid pine
and her name (unspoked, unspoken-for)
won't let you croon sweet Nod, forever. . .
forlorn for nevermore. It was never translated
(she never bothered to read it herself, either).
This then was the cruelest impasse. Crux
of dilemmas. Cul-de-sac. Unable to sing her
back into his arms. The hapless flummox
fosters laughter. . . a sadist's paradox.
The skipper's iron yawn pulls away from shore.
Something of reddish iron takes tincture
(leached, homeward, from the heart it makes);
slight leaves curl slowly toward hibernal cure.
9.16.02
2
Along the promenade at India Point, at noon.
Two kinds of blue, of sky and limbeck bay
divided merely by a sketch of land – a green
marsh (going pale) and the smooth cones
of the oil tanks (throned, expressionless).
And something leaden like a plumbline
or something iron like an anchor draws
him toward autumn (with everything else).
And autumn is an old stone church, with snow
just dusting the cornices, the slate pavement;
a cool wind out of azure sky, strewing
carnelian maple leaves. He'll hunger then
for Indian summer – ripeness, ruddy perennials,
a hearth in the heartland. Break open the seals.
*
Something iron in the dividing line, spun thin
to lightest gold, like dawn – threadbare, glassine. . .
the line between my here and now, and yours.
The difference between ghost and angel, it was
the border between a feeling and a thought,
between listening and action (granite fathers,
mica sons). As if, on the circumference
of a wheel, the shadow of another wheel
impinged (weightless trine within bronze)
at eventide (as October light declines).
And it's not the maternal muttering, May-
fair's foreground, nor glittering of stars'
cosmetic romances (in Holy Wood). Strange,
steadfast. . . must pierce to marrow's otherness.
9.17.02
3
The sound of the hurricane was not the twirl
of an old fantoche. It seeped from stony habitus
of one who is what he is: freedom in the whorl
of one infinitesimal (rudimentary) snarl.
Orpheus, left alone on the docks, leans out
toward his image, shimmering in the sea.
Shaken by her shade (it shapes his hurt)
he would not die, withal – and the fiery heart
of the whirlwind felt like a pillar of smoke
by day. Follow the lead of the plumbline
to the anchor, summoned the sprite. Swift arc
from the prow of the Point, the line beckoned
as though a pearl gleamed there – a sunken
epiphany – consoling harmony, beyond his ken.
*
Transparent, behind your back, they rise:
the misty, vernacular academies.
Fogman, Everyman know them instantly
(rhymes or rhythms of innate identity).
Sullen, foiled, brittle antinomy, toughened
by lack of justice. Yet. . . your Book of J.
Where she curls around corners, a spy
playing hide n' seek, in Hell. Labyrinth
of concrete. Where flame flickers fitfully
and droopy Charon whines for every penny
beneath an abandoned India Jade tree
at the corner of the house. Only (after 132
heartache years) the rooster sex waltz will be
redeemed. . . by an unlikely, yearning, iron trinity.
9.18.02
prodigal today. this is from India Point, a chapter of a sequel to the sequels titled Time Flowers. will post a photo of the real India Point, soon.
9
Bands of muffled sunlight over the water
above low gray cloud banks. The Bay is
wintry today. The old man you see,
patched in ragged bundles, tottering
like Orpheus taking baby steps (she let go
her hand) looking for the key perhaps,
back to the womb (as he is, lapsed
from world-lap). Orpheus the hobo.
Autumn brings on the cold distances.
His vagrancy resembles a jumbled
freedom, aimless, trembling
since her touch withdrew. Since
then, a little touched. Head-wounded,
light-touched, sounded, he sounds.
*
Ripple of finger-water over the keys
long ago in Mendelssohn (pianissimo).
Quadrilateral structure fanning from
your palm, a fugitive touchstone
unfurls through lightweight bone:
light-weighted simultaneous drum-
ming above chambered metronome
and spiral nautilus make homespun
harmony. Time comes undone
as prodigal Hand begins to roam
and quiver like Northern Light some
motionless afternoon, near the drone
of the river (where you tossed a stone
from shore deep into Hobo Kingdom).
10.30.02
10
Steady breeze across restless silver.
Light flickers in a hobo face. Dry
maple leaves race along the pier
(late afternoon, early November).
Oily staves, blackened lumber creak and
wobble in the wind like living creatures
bent around the dead sunflower
of sunken hull. Meek fingers
make a mask for an aging face (ark-
nave for absent child). Tired hands
recall prodigal canvas, and the keel
sets stuttered sail into empty park,
heavy prow jaywalking anchor-figurehead
(lambent pinewood, mewling abba, abba).
*
Light through crosshairs of a stringent compass.
The old man in us, Pater on path P, NW.
Snow on the shoulders of St. Michael's
coming down (All Saints, All Souls).
Autumnal magnitudes, after the spark
goes dim, after the luminous departures.
With tardy reason we remember
how the coracle urged onward toward
her shore (a circle in a wider world) –
O Orpheus-heartache, so tragic-somber!
Mendelssohn children run into the wind.
Animal nature, mother-wit descend
from heavenly lamps, bare bearings,
potter's pole. Snow-crossroad beckons.
11.2.02
9
Bands of muffled sunlight over the water
above low gray cloud banks. The Bay is
wintry today. The old man you see,
patched in ragged bundles, tottering
like Orpheus taking baby steps (she let go
her hand) looking for the key perhaps,
back to the womb (as he is, lapsed
from world-lap). Orpheus the hobo.
Autumn brings on the cold distances.
His vagrancy resembles a jumbled
freedom, aimless, trembling
since her touch withdrew. Since
then, a little touched. Head-wounded,
light-touched, sounded, he sounds.
*
Ripple of finger-water over the keys
long ago in Mendelssohn (pianissimo).
Quadrilateral structure fanning from
your palm, a fugitive touchstone
unfurls through lightweight bone:
light-weighted simultaneous drum-
ming above chambered metronome
and spiral nautilus make homespun
harmony. Time comes undone
as prodigal Hand begins to roam
and quiver like Northern Light some
motionless afternoon, near the drone
of the river (where you tossed a stone
from shore deep into Hobo Kingdom).
10.30.02
10
Steady breeze across restless silver.
Light flickers in a hobo face. Dry
maple leaves race along the pier
(late afternoon, early November).
Oily staves, blackened lumber creak and
wobble in the wind like living creatures
bent around the dead sunflower
of sunken hull. Meek fingers
make a mask for an aging face (ark-
nave for absent child). Tired hands
recall prodigal canvas, and the keel
sets stuttered sail into empty park,
heavy prow jaywalking anchor-figurehead
(lambent pinewood, mewling abba, abba).
*
Light through crosshairs of a stringent compass.
The old man in us, Pater on path P, NW.
Snow on the shoulders of St. Michael's
coming down (All Saints, All Souls).
Autumnal magnitudes, after the spark
goes dim, after the luminous departures.
With tardy reason we remember
how the coracle urged onward toward
her shore (a circle in a wider world) –
O Orpheus-heartache, so tragic-somber!
Mendelssohn children run into the wind.
Animal nature, mother-wit descend
from heavenly lamps, bare bearings,
potter's pole. Snow-crossroad beckons.
11.2.02
6.22.2004
I've been entering literary contests lately, keeping me busy. You see your writing from another angle.
Interesting article in NY Times science section today about math & origami!!
Some more from Shakespeare's Head. I'm trying to focus my attention to continue this, which I left off a year ago.
Interesting article in NY Times science section today about math & origami!!
Some more from Shakespeare's Head. I'm trying to focus my attention to continue this, which I left off a year ago.
4
There is a struggle toward a common light,
a frame of reference, a shared resolve;
the enterprising covenants revolve
around a painful common sense (of being right).
So they gathered once at Shakespeare's Head
(each head, each pair of eyes a theatre,
a globe) to try each phrase – each character
puffed out and flowering in air, a wingèd
moth or butterfly (conjectural, extemporal,
provisional). From dialectical balancing,
an expensive delicate set of riggings
begins to whistle in the distance, rise
and fall, as if breathing on the morning sea;
and the mast answers – tall, tree-like, fatherly.
*
Orpheus knows the moody marsh he mirrors
is only his own (splintered from flocks of errors).
And Hobo, with his rusty O-ring, rows
into marginal shallows, among rustling
reeds. Length of arm is the beginning
of native estrangement – so it goes on
reaching, into infinity (anonymous,
primordial, a someone) – still selfward,
like a hobo's law of identity (A = DUD).
Like the thingness of things – various,
ephemeral, enormous. Like the ring
itself, gleaming dully in dun-colored
palm. Heaven-earth tethered there,
polar, in steadfast silver – breathing.
12.12.02
6.18.2004
2
The silver of the Bay reflects the sky.
As in a Fibonacci microcosm,
Orpheus reflects the scene (home,
she's not at home). One almond eye
is all of Shakespeare's Globe – quintessence
in the garden, behind Shakespeare's Head.
Garden or marsh, Itasca or Shadda (wed
wetlands and low clouds with innocence) –
birchbark or balam, long canoe or tarada,
Mississippi or Euphrates, Hiawatha,
Haji Hamaid – waters will reflect your
silvery Dragon's Head, your starry
mornings. Rippling conjunction,
hovering shadow – cradle for the sun.
*
Out of the manger-matrix comes the star
reflected in the paysans, where you are.
Reflected in the water by the shore,
reflected in a waiting shepherd's eye,
reflected in the sand dunes too, nearby.
The light was early – never seen before.
And natural law (in curvature of glass
slanted to a singer's thirsty throat)
found balance at the point of rest
between power and peace – a
general outline of the lacrimae
between brute force of interest
and salty conscience of the just
(black iris, fiery aureole its eye).
12.10.02
[Reminder: Shakespeare's Head is a building in Providence. The name referred to a sort of tavern sign which used to hang outside (portrait of the Bard). Was a gathering-place for journalists, literary types, revolutionaries around 1776.]
What does this poetry mean, though, to the literati? I'm outside the committee paradigms and the bingo lingo. Toodles, chums!
11.06.2003
10.21.2003
5.02.2003
It was a good day to walk to India Point today. The grass still green, the leaves just coming out. A lot of activity in the harbor : tugboats, dredgers, freighters. I bought some mini-binocs just to watch them (feel free to notify Homeland Security). There's a Russian sub there, used in film "K-19", now a museum, complete with Soviet flag etc. : the Julietta 484. The center book of the Big One, Grassblade Light, is an octagonal Russian-style poema, plotted on an Orphic search (by way of Petersburg) for my cousin Juliet. Sort of like Kafka said, sit on a park bench & the world will come & lie down at your feet.
Translato-logorrheia : Stubborn Grew et al. happened because one day I was able to pick up a Mandelstam mask & put it on.
Rhode Island has more hair salons per square inch than. We're a very small very Big Hair state. Passed one coming back on Hope St: Hairoglyphics. As I may have mentioned already a hundred times, RI Statehood Day is May 29th. The state motto is "Hope". Bob Hope & I share the same birthday (5/29). He's the stand-up, I'm the sit-down.
Grassblade Light has 7 chapters in 8 sections. Each section has 28 poems of 28 lines each, with a center poem of 64 lines, making 29 poems total, in a [14/1/14] array (there are variations - it's a matter of broken symmetry - but the total lineation is almost exact for each section). The poem moves generally from RI to Russia to the Mississippi delta up to MN (the "North Star state") and back to RI. The central chapter 4 is a double chapter, 2 sections centered on a single line : Love is our North Star high up above.
Translato-logorrheia : Stubborn Grew et al. happened because one day I was able to pick up a Mandelstam mask & put it on.
Rhode Island has more hair salons per square inch than. We're a very small very Big Hair state. Passed one coming back on Hope St: Hairoglyphics. As I may have mentioned already a hundred times, RI Statehood Day is May 29th. The state motto is "Hope". Bob Hope & I share the same birthday (5/29). He's the stand-up, I'm the sit-down.
Grassblade Light has 7 chapters in 8 sections. Each section has 28 poems of 28 lines each, with a center poem of 64 lines, making 29 poems total, in a [14/1/14] array (there are variations - it's a matter of broken symmetry - but the total lineation is almost exact for each section). The poem moves generally from RI to Russia to the Mississippi delta up to MN (the "North Star state") and back to RI. The central chapter 4 is a double chapter, 2 sections centered on a single line : Love is our North Star high up above.
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