Wanting: Sense and Sensibility

Sense and Sensibility
 

      Wanting

It’s hard, we want much

And raw but fine

And many pulses

In every line.

      



     Shamefast plunge

In hirsute mask

Lax caresses

At the lean task

Too much to hope

From one swell fount:

Cornucopia from

Horn of a goat.

And oxen yoked

Apart since birth

Tunnel vision

Into earth.

     And Don Juan fire-proofed

Is suited for Hell:

What it’s life to love

It’s death to love too well. 

                                                                      

Wanting to Be Born

We want the glow

The sly undertow

The high dive

Into waters alive

The silent swim

Too deep to tell

Featherless

Plummet

Of the diving bell

And the surge

And the flow

On the ocean floor

Pulsing with species

Hidden from light

Unbidden to the shore

We want to be blessed

By the heat of the sun

To sing and rest

Before we run

Run to ground

Run around

Run someone down

Run around town

We want to pause

In the early light

To keep our fires

Burning bright

To start anew

On a cool clear morn

To breathe, to sigh

To be born

      

Wanting to Build

We have beseeched

Oracles

Time out of mind,

Prophetic speech

Beyond our reach:

Incantatory

Canticle

Mnemonic of vocal design

We have expected – 
      Romantic in our
      Attitude –

Of poet and astronomer

A passionate solitude

Loneliness of the long distance runner:

Loneliness of the stranger, the other:

Storyteller’s beatitude

Glory to the story

Stored in the mind.

Glorify its invention

And retention.

Glory to the first pilot

Alone, exalted

In the night skies.

And blessed be the ties

That bind.

Oracular the Tell

That tells true:

The give-away,

The bodily clue.

Oracular the spell

Incanting the truth,

The bodily rhythms

Of the words:

A chattering like forest birds

Telling lies forsooth

Lies hid in thoughts unspoken,

In the whisper of words unheard,

For every word a token,

For every pot a shard

Use your tokens for admission

To the House of Truth and Lies

House of elegant concision

Where Poetry once dwelt, and

Love looks not with the eye

Here you’ll find words

To re-make speech,

To repair its sense and sound

Words like shards

Lying on the ground

Build a tower of language

From the cast-off words

Build something new

Even a House of Cards

The Tower of Babel

      For when it falls

As a tower will,

Another can build

A fortress or a stonewalled keep

From the words that lie

Scattered

At your feet.

The House of Truth and Lies

This House Full of Love

This House without a spy

Where Love looks not with the eye

Finite, created realm above

Usual suspects heart and mind

    

Here neither sight nor sound

Can make sense any more

Of a house without a window, a door.

A house that’s dematerializing

A disconnect

You know how to resurrect.

Be careful! don’t cut your hands on the words

When you gather them up from the floor.

Rebuilding, you see, is up to you

Of this ethereal House of Wings

Make a solid place,

An Alpha-space

For living words

Use your guile

Use your daring

O, honey-bees,

Come build

In the empty house of the starling

Fill with words

The lofted air

Build for heart and mind

Create with agility

A kind sensibility

Wanting to Know

 Eyes fast shut

We see miracles.

Smelling the smoke

Of sacrifice,

We promise

To be good and nice.

Eyes wide open

We behold

Dexterity

Quick looping hands

Whose work seems play:

kurzweil.net

Artfully,

Crafty,

Making

DNA Origami.

With shapes untold

Our futures they unfold.

We want prophecy

Wrapped in secrecy,

The inside track,

The inside story

We want stimuli

That amplify

The ode to self,

Self-talking chorus

Of lyrics laudatory

We want an ersatz

Rendition

Of our every opinion

Instant petitions

With Everyman

A signatory

We want the

Up-to-the-minute

Tip Top Story,

Nonchalant,

Au courrant,

Hortatory,

In your face

Without a trace

Of reticence

Or grace

Promises we want

Premised on

Prowess

Champions in armor

Armies

Bright and strong

To protect us

And defend us

Whether we are

Right or wrong

Experts in battle

On their mettle,

Poised

To wow us

We want to know
      The story-arc of every
      Embedded video;

How every cyber-war ends

Before it’s begun

We want the thrill

Of the remote-control kill

The virtual rush

The crash, the crush

We want confetti,

The victory parade,

And an ever-ready Ferlinghetti

Patriotic troubadour

Ever-more

Singing the wrath

Of some modern Achilles:

Praising the win,

Lamenting the war

And when it’s time

For our troops to go,

When every capo’s made

We want to know

Pity and dread

In the limitless

City of the Dead.

But come, let us avert these

Ghostly men,

Let us whisper

To their souls, to go.

Subverting our end,

Let us descend.

Making no noise,

Let us repair

To a level where

We find the things

We want to know.

Mark twain on a riverboat
      Two fathoms deep,
      Twelve feet,

For wit and tragi-comedy

     Nemo journeyed twenty thousand
     Leagues beneath the 
     Seven Seas

     A four-league drop:
     Twelve miles
     Into the wild,
     Marine-style,
     For a sci-fi séance in the

Sub-marine domain of an Übermensch:

Mania Most French.

Segues

To the DeepSea Challenger:

Journey Toward the

Center of Earth. Drop
      Six thousand miles:

Detour

In the Mariana Trench.

Let us repair

To a level where

We find the things

We want to know

‘Why’ we’re on this

Earth, and

‘When’ did we arrive?

(3:30 a.m., 7:59)

‘Where’ we came from

(Elemental goo)

And ‘What’ we are

(Woman of that girl,

Man of that boy)

And ‘Where’

We’re going to

(Address Unknown)

Now take away

The quotation marks

And ask me

Once again.

“Where Do We Come From?

What Are We?

Where Are We Going?”

The figures in the pantomime

Painted by Gaugin

Mimic natives of that place and time,

Phantoms made of sun, sand, and clime.

Images made up of

How many brushstrokes?

Impossible to gauge –

Flat on the page –

Stark on the canvas,

They won’t be going

Anywhere

I guess.

Exemplars of  

Exotic Polynesia,

Houseguests

On your wall,

You can ask them

Any time

Anything

At all.

You can ask them

One by one

Those existential

Tahitians

Posing naked

European questions.

The wife married

Without nuptials

Or vows,

Ask her tomorrow:

Ask the young girl

Infected

To her sorrow

Islanders’ images borrowed

To illustrate

A catechism

Written in

Color and line:

Painterly angst

In tripartite

Design

No redress

For the models:

No thanks

Their purloined culture

Made impure

Their camouflaged quietude

Left obscure.

Gentle Nature

Extirpated,

Genuine Spirit

Untranslated

In the name of Genius:

Pillage unabated.

Behind the phantom screen

Reality hidden, faces unseen:

The show a Western fantasy

Claiming universality

Primitive scene

Soft focus porn

Bourgeois dream of

Native forms

When the last question

Has been posed,

Collateral harm  

Can be disclosed:

To men made vulnerable,

And women exposed.

The questions then

Belong to us.

Let’s ask them now

Of our own lives

And answer what we can

Without presuming

We speak for Man.

Now take away

The quotation marks

And ask me

Once again

Why are you on Earth?

Because you wanted to be born

Of starlight were you made

Early that morn

On the very long day

When the galaxies formed.

When the 
      Universe

Burst

At the beginning of Time

Then was your conception,

Reason and rhyme,

Then was your Election,

Your Predestination,

Your original direction,

The moment of creation:

Your chance or luck

At the crux

Of Spacetime and matter

A random opening

Onto life-forms, eons later.

Destined for a world

Where you would be

Finite and created,

You swirled in infinity’s

Stardust,

You waited.

That was your beginning

First of many births,

Bound for Earth,

Arrival pending

Specific directions

To the folks in reception:

Parents made of

Stardust, too,

And isn’t that more thrilling

Than elemental goo?

Where did you come from?

You came from afar,

From a time-wrought,

Emergent

Divergent

Star.

Where did you come from?

You came from glory.

What are you?

A human,

A man

Or a woman.

Just that.

Where you’re going

Is the real story.

Wanting to know –

It was really

Never a question of

Forbidden fruit –

Of fruit, yes,

Sweet taste of

Experiences

Channeled by

The six senses –

Cosmic knowledge

Not forbidden,

Only hidden

In spacetime,

In matter,

In biology,

In history;

In patterns

Made manifest

By Time’s

Evolution

      And a Glorious Revolution:
      Without a doubt

      The position you retained
      Remains the same;

      Advancing intelligence
      Changes the game

      Balanced between two infinities
      Demarcated by birth and death

      You are in equipoise,
      Poised to sound the depths

      Between two infinite worlds,
      Macro and micro,

     You are the vital go-between,
      Demiurge of dataflow

Now in your lives

You have the chance

To learn what matters,

Find what’s hidden

For you the synchrony,

The happenstance;

Now are you bidden

To the cosmic dance.

Wanting to Love

        Echo Speaks

How long have I murmured in this forest

     primeval

Vibrating vainly to the vocatives

     of men?

I’ve loitered here so long that I’ve

     forgotten

The timbre of the voice that gave me

    birth.

Shadow-like you come beneath the

      surface:

Soft bright arms and thighs that

     undo me.

How I wonder at your form of light

     and water!

At your eyes rippling tenderness, tenderness

      to me

Narcisse, for you are kind.

Once I would have cursed you for this

     loosing of tides,

But even here in the forest primeval,

     times have changed.

Our crafty Age will renew time-worn

      tales, 

And I won’t reach for your watery

      fingers:

May you find who you seek in the

     swirling pool,

May you rejoice in the pure light

     of morning.

       Wanting Passion

                Re-flexion

White suns turn in their moorings mournfully

While twinning moons collapse the gabled sea.

Like some small voice revolving in a wind

I call your nameless motion back to me.

I am not chaste I do not breathe the breath

Of gods or any other deathless thing.

I do not tender anchor, line, or ground,

But times that circle when they circle round.

My force is not by day, by season fast

But wakes in dark and insubstantial times:

Sparked when suns are twisting mournfully

In moorings, deceptions, rhymes.

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Wanting to Live

We want to live

But we’re always dying

We want to give

But we’re used to taking

We want quality of life

But we won’t let go

Of T-shirts or letters or videos,

Of straw hats or yoga mats or radios,

Of bodies

When the mind is gone,

Of compunctions when the

Brain no longer functions.

We won’t let go

Of too-big houses,

Too-big cars,

Knives and spoons and cookie jars,

Of string or rings or

Things forgotten,

Commitments mistaken,

Ideals forsaken.

We want to live

But we can’t say good-bye,

Or whisper farewell

To days gone by,

Or stop the small sigh

That escapes

When our heart

Is too full,

Our daily tasks

Grown long,

Grown dull:

Throwing pebbles

Down a well,

Winding silver threads

Around a tiny spool.

We want to stay

Alive and awake

We want to make

Best use of our time

We want to plan

The weeks and days

Leave space

On our calendars

For concerts and plays

We want the shallows

But half of our lives

Are spent

In the deep,

In the seeming of dreaming:

In nullity of sleep;

In dreams that are jumbles

Of homes past and present,

Bedrooms from childhood,

Family vacations,

Fantasies and agitations;

Of joy and dread,

Of the living and the dead.

And when we wake,

When we open our eyes

To a world we no longer

Recognize,

Did we sleep too long

Like Rip Van Winkle?

Too long and too deeply,

Like the Sleeping Beauty?

With never an inkling

Of our daytime duty?

Did we sleep too heavily,

Like creatures of stone

Enchanted by a witch

In the courtyard of her home?

Or did we sleep too lightly,

Our dreams too porous,

Letting too much world in,

Racing time before us?

And when we open our eyes

Do we catch the quick flutter-by

Of butterfly wings

Patterned, resplendent?

That butterfly

Dreamed by Zhuangzi,

A vision so vivid,

So lilting,

So bright,

The sage thought

The butterfly

Had dreamed him–

Was he right?

Do we dream dreams,

Indeed,

That are our own?

Or are we entertained by

Dream-fragments

Shaped by

Marketing,

Advertising,

Supersizing

Our desires and drives,

Customizing

Our waking and

Sleeping lives.

If we want to live

Forever and a day,

Our selves enhancing,

Lifespans transforming,

Curiosity fueling

Longevity:

If we want to live

Forever and a day,

Why should we sleep

Half our lives away?

Why, indeed,

Should we sleep at all?

For we’re seeking the life

Lived Before the Fall,

Infinite in its beginning,

Reaching for the limit

At the end.

Life that can be lived once,

And then lived once again.

          Wanting Innocence

     Double Time

The silver the golden the gold we lay

Dark-weaving fine fair-seeming.

The lily the rose the rose we lay

For wind and fine hair streaming.

The baily berith the bell away:

Solemn, solemn, in stone repose.

At one with book and chair they say

The baily berith the bell away.

The night rain drummed on roofs and eaves.

Braids brushed bare backs and shoulders.

Hands fluttered light as wind-borne leaves,

Or dropped like ash that smolders.

Solemn, solemn in stone repose

At one with book and chair,

One hand slid down beaded clothes,

One spread like undone hair.

The night train roared past silent towns,

Past villages wrapped in darkness.

In dim-lit castles silken gowns

Formed pools opaque and starless.

The silver the golden the gold we lay

Dim-working fine fair-seeming.

What baily berith the bell away?

What wind and fine hair streaming?

The night train screamed its headlong flight,

It sliced through freezing air.

The night train screamed in pure delight

As brides in berths brushed out their hair.

Wanting Not to Feel

     Staying Chill

Not the water but the ice,

    a sliver

Not the loaf but a slice,

    a crust

Not the rand but the gold dust,

    a nugget,

Not the sea strand but the shingle,

     a single grain of sand:

Contraband

From the gold mines

Lining the Basin

Of Witwatersrand

Scooped by hand

Lining a pocket,

Compressed in a locket

Or ground like coffee –

While photographing friends –

Into the zoom lens

Not a symphony, not a quartet,

       a duet

Not the violin but the bass,

       the bottom

Not the harmony but the melody,

       the song

Not the plainchant but the motet,

      the descant

Riding atop the cantus,

Not the canter but the trot,

      the clip-clop

Hooves against cobblestones

High profile skin-and-bones,

Sitting – but not astride,

Skirts to one side

Riding sidesaddle

The clop-clip

Of high heels on pavement

Or clipping down linoleum

Hallways

Down abject floors

In the company basement

Quick efficient legs

Turning every head;

Secretary smiles,

Thinking:

“Knock ’em dead.”

She smiles:

The hallway’s a lane.

Day-dreaming her

Bowling game,

She lobs the ball,

Hears the pins knock and rattle,

Watches them fall:

Score! It’s a strike.

Like riding a bike!

She hears the refrain

Inside her happy brain:

“Watch them all fall down,

Domino dancing,

Watch them all fall down.”

She should be dancing,

Maybe drinking

At a posh night club,

Champagne flutes clinking.

Not the new wine, that callow draught,

      the season’s cull

Not the old wine, that mellow swill,

      the storied vintage

Not the ice wine, cloying, so sweet

      you can’t think:

No, the polar drink, the clink

      of cap and bells.

 Feeling sly now,
       So high, so fly now,
       Flat as a buzz cut,
       Outta the old rut.

Getting chill,
      Numbed by ice,

Battened down,

Surround sound,

Feeling nice;

Not too friendly,

Not too lonely,

Feeling swell:

Cap and bells.

And afterwards for fun,

A modern dance

Performance;

Perforce abstract,

Compact –

A bodily

De-formance.

Not dancers entwining, enfolding,

     holding

One another, and the cluster

     together

Not dancers wheeling and

     reeling

Their black leotards, black

      tights

Making them look like a

     Spider,

A night-rider.

       Or even worse

The rhythmic beat

The plash of joy,

The breaking up of

Feet.

Not a world

Sacked of sea-legs:

Small Craft hobbled by

Daily currents;

Staggered men

Along the shoreline,

Shoes laced with

Twine,

Drinking tea with

Brine,

Their swollen ships on

Watery troughs.

Lurching and

Rocking:

Rock, rock-a-bye,

Beware, beware the

Darkening sky.

Neither the pitch heroic

Nor the timbre orchestral

Nor the black velvet night

Where

Every pulse is fright,

Every parse is light.