Showing posts with label despotism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label despotism. Show all posts

2.15.2020

O for a muse of fire




YOUR VALENTINE

From your Valentine, scratched the prisoner
in Rome, young martyr-to-be.
To daughter of Asterius – maybe
a Morning Star? – love to configure

with philosophy, so (269 a.d.).
Skull crowned with flowers
along with more & divers
relics (Santa Maria in Cosmedin)

– & some of them in Dublin, too
(Whitefriar St.).  Ante-
dating troubadours & Dante
with his severed head & body (rue

the day with smoke of juniper, acacia)
he died young, for liberty
of conscience – thought is free;
fled upon wind, Asterius (Astraea).

The epileptic heart dances offbeat.
Dante & Beatrice
found simplest way
to unity – their cosmos whole, complete

in charity.  So ran my Yeatsian effusion
from the green island;
these pipes, my steely friend
summon her countertop restoration

in the green night of Dante’s neighborhood
where phosphorus gleams
amid Franciscan tombs
like camouflaged green acorn (woo’d

                        *

from wood) to be kingdom come
in your creaky dreambed
Ophelia (Juliet, Cordelia…)
– O rondure of love’s gentle realm!

& poetry burbles of it night & day
to multitudes in their sleep
compartments, while the creep
of despotism creeps from sordid victory

to victory (absolutism corrupts
& empowered absolutism
corrupts with most extreme
prejudice).  So the public servant sups

alone in his cold cell, & the journalist
languishes for speaking truth
in cellars of Pharaoh Badnooth
& enemies of human happiness request

your presence in the Furious Throne Room
where kids die miserably
every day, for lack of liberty
& prison sing-song will pronounce your doom.

O for a muse of fire, cried Hen’s herald –
who solders every soul
with mettle from the molten
whole.  Who clears the air, to yield

a solidarity of understanding
in the sheepfolds of Jerusalem
& Greece… Gregorian hymn
with ocarina harmony (Cahokian thing).

2.14.20

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

11.27.2018

the Winter King (a mummer's play)




BLUE LIGHTNING

Hobo, sprawled among November reeds,
cattails.  His scattered bones
ache on jagged edges.
A chill is in the sky.  Light feeds

the icing-over swamp, the acid-
green vomit (absinthe
effigy of spring).  A plinth
of plastic raft supports his dream-kid,

Henry Hawkeye – duffed.  In mummer’s rags
of scruffy black, to match
his sullen rage (a match
is all it takes).  Here comes Antigone’s

antagonist... here comes Creon, Jason...
Here comes Le Grand K
himself, all brassy
mass and armored mirror – one

half bull, the other carny barker
in a cream straw hat.
Just look at that!
He laughs, he sneers, he boasts, he barks

surrounded by his bulky thugs,
stiletto-dames –
No Shame in Crimes
his badge declares (pinned with slugs

to his forehead).  The plastic raft
quivers to his stomp.
This is gonna be a romp,
he crows, & circles Henry, fore

                   *

& aft.  Wispy, cloudy, quiet Henry’s
cornered.  By the water.
No weapon (though an otter
peeks up near the scrim).  He’s

holding only a tiny pocket mirror,
which he flecks upward
toward the pale sun.  Hard
to say what will come next.  Your

ghost dance, Hobo, flickers photons
like Planck’s constant
from an old field tent –
where photos of Kennedy, Abe Lincoln,

Martin Luther King hang, haunted (black
& white).  The King
is dead, long live the King,
Ave Maria, Henry whispers back.

& suddenly a mass of flame pours out
like pale blue lightning
from a Chartres ceiling
down upon a maze, blazing partout

across the center of the raft.  Truth
is our Law, O shallow
princeour commonweal.
She rules, & will spring forth

againlike that torch-bearing Liberty
all clothed in copper green
welcoming everyone...
So Hobo saw.  The raft was empty.

11.27.18

1.14.2017

rowing to Kiev


RAZOR BEAK

The human family of human
families – clay
honeycomb array
in earth-colors – aims for a zone

of radiant plenitude – sustained
chord from a horn of plenty,
hived in community –
a milk-&-honey land, ingrained

along a cedar path of goodness
clear as winter air
warm as Apollinaire
chanting his biplane with finesse

Parisienne.  A Spirit of St. Louis
circling the blazing crown
of Liberté floats down
into the eagle-nest of Chartres

whose rose rim complements that Gate
of soaring human freedom
anchored to the thrum
of one great river’s beating heart.

So pictures flicker in the stream
of Mississippi dream
for one forlorn sunbeam
or hazel-mote, her gypsy scheme...

one footloose soul, one rambler
who would be gone from jail
before the frozen hail
of Hitler-Stalin-Xi-Putin (& gambler

Kim Jong-un) congeals into one
mammoth concrete hulk
of tearful despot-sulk –
one massive Man of Unknown

Snowjobs – Don the Golden Duck-
&-Coverling, the Beast
who gives offense the most
& smears the human face with muck.

So honchos of the earth lift up
their horns, a little while;
they cannot reconcile
their pride with that ineffable fop

who spins the elegant galaxies
here to infinity

              *

right from eternity
& lifts the heart to ecstasies

of fellowship & harmony –
the sparkling of justice
mercy   righteousness
high paths of gentle charity

Saturnian rings of human union
knotting the universe
within one Paradise
plainsong (trompette marine).

The turbid tumult of the beaten-down
rattles the reeds, troubles
the swarming crows – bubbles
explode – all the high-flown

rhetoric disintegrates under
the trampling of grass
by panicked herds (alas).
& yet there is another thunder

gathering in clouds above the oaks,
beneath the sea – low hum
of some beehive continuum –
sun-wheel, whose fiery spokes

feather to wings of Thunderbird –
enormous golden shade
whose raptor-beak’s a blade
of dragon-prow – Norsemen’s weird

serpent-egg on river-tree
sailing to Kiev, now –
St. George’s silver plow
upturning soil to poetry

salting the roots of tyranny
to shrivel them at last
beneath a trumpet-blast
of global human sovereignty –

the almond salience of a union-dome
bright coins of humanism
ringing a cataclysm
for every fraudulent kingdom

& every despot on the earth.
This eagle’s razor beak
has just begun to speak –
a tender rain, wisdom & truth.

1.14.17

1.09.2017

after Bruegel


BRUNE STEEPLE

Horsehair flickering a panorama
of rustic proverbs.  Bruegel
as the crow flies... oil
congeals a plangent winter summa.

Infant beginnings at the end.
Light-hearted kids under
a hulking storm.  Her
hunchback flimsy beggar-friend.

A village in the blank weather,
the dread season.  Human
high fellowship.  The reign
of love rings in the killing air.

Absolute zero.  Vanishing point.
& will the center hold
within this trench of cold?
The Flemish realm is out of joint.

Remember when the honcho came?
The strong man, offering
rewards or suffering,
no quibbling.  The gilded frame

worm-riddled.  & where ravens gather,
there your servant lies –
his casque of Paradise
just one hard crust, one leather

jug milked round a cackling blaze.
Dark curls of brune steeple
remind knife-shadowed people
how a dove broods in a thorny maze.

1.9.17

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

11.17.2016

setting out toward the 9th



ACORN WIGWAM

The last of the crickets, in their silver mines
among dun stalks, pipe
to each other, under a ripe
& misty Bruegel sky.  Hobo Henry’s lines

distend toward hibernation.  Soon
he must contend with bumpkin
men, their jealous trumpetin’ –
all Caesars of the earth, again...

that agèd guild of frozen snowmen
Knossos harbors in the maze.
But now we know their ways –
cowmen dividing up the herd end

up dividing up themselves, as they began.
He flecks his oiled horsehair
to spike the nightmare –
cloud-grey dove’s-eye view, the human

magic lamp, Okie dream-songe.
& like a baby ape emerging
from the cave, he’ll sing
the Sun of Love, très riche, étrange

Apollinaire’s trompette marine
will flute the sweet bass
threads, an Ariadne-lasso...
YAMB-WHIT-YAM (so coralline,

full-fathomed now).  Kind eye
of Psyche, manifest
to fire the clay – to test
the relativity of acorn wigwam (A-OK).

11.17.16

10.21.2016

the angry clown is not your father



HEAVY THINGS

If we look once more at your Topsfield
Aquinas-map, Dante –
that earthy horn of plenty
floored by starry sarabande (sealed

fan of luminous phenomena)
the heavy things of Time
rehearse the Salem crime
with simple weight of rigid clay –

ice-cold, stone-cold, bereft of life.
The line sags from the bridge;
the daughter of a lost age
droops, off-balancing (soul-grief).

Quantum quirks of spooky action
powder another image
for displaced rage
into the time-funnel... dissatisfaction

with oneself provokes a personal despair.
We do not know who’s there.
Halloween is in the air;
brown leaves congeal to pumpkin hair,

the angry clown is not your father
anymore.  O Juliet,
the phony craven despot
crafted no safety net... look further.

A rippling of seashore memory
brings grey gulls to sleep.
The peacock’s eyes gaze deep
as Argo... hold her now, Hagia Sophie.

10.21.16

9.14.2016

something not rotten



BENT WOOD

Two lean ancient red pines
standing blue-green beside
Grandpa’s old house, abide
fanfares of trumpet-vines

(pure orange bugling).  Something
not rotten in the state
of Norway, loco Hamlet –
needles for constant farthering,

an evergreen encounter with the Pole.
A fado rudder for America...
mercurial Columbia
glows with her dusky song, high, whole –

hidden in clouds of starry Eire
that slake eddies of fear
into limey atmosphere
like elfin emeralds from the mire.

These curves along Rhode Island Way!
Hieratical Byzantium
leans down beside a tomb
hunched in Ravenna tamaracks – Dante

& Roger shaking hands (the ghost
of Beatrice will not bow
before the imperial scow,
nor heed the plutocratic boast

of idle punts).  Just a bivalve ark
(tender ellipse of fatherhood)
redeems the bent wood
Caesar to seahorse – shark to lark.

9.14.16