Category: Writing


First, dear reader, I would be remiss if I didn’t introduce the actors, led to believe they are attending a masquerade party. All are unaware of their real role in the following poem:

Sherlock Holmes as The Master (stand-in for Mikhail Bulgakov)
Irene Adler (Lily Langtry’s stunt double) as Margarita
Professor Moriarty as Woland (Satan in disguise)
Behemoth (a giant black cat that walks upright) as Himself
Hella (red-headed succubus sexpot) as Herself
Azzazello (messenger and assassin) as Himself
Koroviev (monocle wearing, ex-choirmaster) as Himself
Special Guest Star: Abadonna (Angel of Death) as Himself

Sherlock Holmes is the most perfect reasoning
and observing machine the world has ever known
a flesh half-brother to Babbage’s analytical engine
awaiting the algorithmic potential of Ada Lovelace’s
programming genius, an Irene Adler, the woman
who, for him, eclipses and predominates her entire sex

They meet in connection to a case involving royal sexual proclivities
a matter of national security to keep these exploits quiet
but here, my indulgent reader, is where we diverge pleasantly, one hopes,
from the original scandal and propel, through blackest magic,
the characters into the absurdist fiction of Bulgakov’s masterpiece
The Master and Margarita, one of the 20th century’s greats

They think they are attending a masquerade, as divulged before,
to capture the blackmailers and solve the case but their real
purpose at the ball will be revealed in time, how perverse!
Woland never apologizes for his perversity, it is his birthright
and so he feels nothing but glee at the prospects of the evening
where one character disguises another except, of course,
his retinue: Behemoth, Hella, Azzazello, Koroviev, and Abadonna

Hella greets Holmes at the entrance hall, seeing through his disguise
she whispers in his ear, her hot breath introducing an inferno into the
cold, crisp workings of that computer, frying his circuits and rewiring
his desire, suddenly it occurs to him what the woman could be –
worse, he begins to see his abhorrence of love as some kind of
failing of imagination, of mental machinations, a straightjacket
on the mind that he’d willingly maneuver out of this evening

Irene is already in attendance, decked out in negligee at the arm
of Professor Woland who is promising tricks that will so astound
the world will bow to his every whim – the monocle clad Koroviev
is conducting a choir of naked nymphs pouting ohms and ahs in
metronomic precision, creating a squirming sensation for all in attendance

Behemoth is complaining that this poem won’t allow him to show
off all his wit, niggling ingenuity, or copious personality –
‘I’m sorry to say this is true, they’ll just have to get to know you
through the original work, you’re too awesome for poetry, great cat.’

Azazello is happily performing the duty of bouncer, simultaneously
appearing and disappearing pedants, cranks, parvenus, virtuosi,
enthusiasts, rapacious, and incompetent men of all kinds
like the author of menippean satire he relishes his role, if anyone
really challenges his authority he summons Abadonna, who arrives
with bellowing music, whinnying horses, and magnificent wings
to smite the unworthy and offensive from the ballroom floor

Woland sidles up to Holmes handing Irene to him: ‘Did you know
that Margarita here once used inductive and deductive reasoning
to figure out that Orson Scott Card was politically opposed to same
sex marriage simply by reading parts of Speaker for the Dead,
realizing that he meant to deny them full citizenship and found
barring their legal rights to be an excellent way to accomplish this end?
I sit with him on the Board of Directors of the National Organization
for Marriage. Impressive mental acuity don’t you think? Though less
impressive in this day and age of Google. I reminded her she could
simply look him up on Wikipedia, that’s how I found him.’

Holmes picks up some irregularity in Moriarty’s speech (of course he’s
seen right through the disguise you doubting Thomases!) but he’s
too focused on the allure of Irene’s breasts to take that thought
to its logical conclusion and is therefore as taken aback by
what happens next as you will be once you find out what it is

This surprise of her curiosity and skill he finds titillating, that he suddenly,
in his mind’s eye, sees her performing all these mental gymnastics
in the nude ending in the splits is quite enough to secure his
seduction, of course, on her end, his monumental reputation has
already secured her affections though she had previously come to
the conclusion that a man of such meticulous rumination would not
consider a consummation of mutual attraction beneficial, yet here
was a glimmer and she thought the devil might have something to
do with the introduction of Holmes’ strange, rhapsodic nature

At this point, because, my covetous readers, the story might get too long
and confusing, Moriarty, disguised as Woland, disguised as Satan,
addresses the audience to reveal his most glorious trick of all, the one
that will secure his domination – slowly his head revolves 360 degrees
unscrewing, a counter revolution like the oppression of the state,
to unveil his plot – the entire ballroom inhales for the surprise at
finding two small, white cartoon mice beneath the robotic head!

‘I am not Professor Woland, nor Moriarty disguised as Woland, nor even
Beelzebub disguised as Woland, but Brain, and this is my assistant, Pinky’
‘Narf!’ ‘We are his experiments, he underestimated us and in the nights
leading up to tonight we built this robot in his likeness so that we might
gather you all here, stealing Woland’s retinue and astonishing you all
with our surprise: this time we will be successful in our aim to take
over the world. For once our plans have not been foiled; you are all
hypnotized and will do anything I command! (To Pinky) Are you pondering
what I’m pondering?’ ‘I think so Brain, but where are we going to find
enough Weiner schnitzel and dancing bears to fill up Buckingham Palace?’

In the panic that ensues Sherlock and Irene sneak out the fire exits to begin,
against all sense, a tempestuous love affair in the upper bedroom of 221B
Baker Street, immediately transported from the ball by the wicked powers
of the robotic Moriarty, which as you well know, conceals the blueprint of
a wild scheme for world domination executed by two laboratory mice

What precisely occurs once they reach the flat we leave to the copious
imagination and deductive powers of you, salacious reader, (beat)
‘Heavens, that is quite a graphic imagination you have, I will avert my eyes’
you’ve made even Behemoth blush which is very unbecoming in a cat

The introduction of Pinky & the Brain’s ‘grit’, an intrusion into Holmes’
own delicate and finely adjusted temperament became a distracting factor
which threw a doubt upon all his mental results, for grit, in a sensitive instrument,
or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, could not be more disturbing
than a strong emotion like his newfound love in a nature such as his

Thus the inner workings are slipped sideways and like the Master
he finds himself committed to the asylum awaiting the loyal love
of Margarita to strike the bargain, attend Satan’s ball, fulfilling all its
wild requirements: wearing the outrageous and heavy poodle pendant,
showing deference to all, and who could forget the anointing in blood!

Thereby getting the story right, releasing him from bondage to spend
his remaining days in the upper bedroom of 221B Baker Street with Irene,
where despite her continued protestations he gives up his ambitions,
broken by the state of things in the postmodern world, reason slain
by the singsongy refrain in his mind ‘We’re Animaney, Totally Insane-y,
Pinky and the Brain-y —– Animaniacs!!!! Those are the facts!’

Notes: Hahaha (maniacally, in the fashion of Dr. Horrible, who it should be said is a consummate aficionado and proponent of the craft of the evil laugh) not today, cartoons never explain themselves! MASOLIT forever!

In all seriousness, I am hosting Meeting the Bar today at dVerse Poets Pub where we’ll be exploring the high/low cultural divide through the lens of postmodernism and hopefully having some fun doing it. Please join us: http://dversepoets.com/2012/11/01/meeting-the-bar-postmodern-highlow-art/.

Austen’s coded statement bridges
Maria to Sterne’s caged starling:
she cannot get out

severe systematic errors of passion’s blur
constructs and deconstructs perplexities
so trembling with sensitive humanity
she thrusts her head through the trellis
in a sentimental journey

encountering order of magnitude problems
myth of Poros, Penia, & Eros
defines aporia, untranslatable
her psychic risk of embodying an artist
this inebriated velleity
invents visual communication

within Kahneman’s maps of bounded rationality
moral heuristics define
representativeness, availability, and anchoring
buried images in etymological adventures
exposing an ultimate paradox of experimental art

potentiality collides with reigning style
hypertext meets the chthonic
in a labyrinth of canonical sources
the trick is on the starling
she wants out while everyone else wants in

Derrida’s post-structuralism
exposes and undermines the oppositions
hierarchies and paradoxes:
signifier/signified; sensible/intelligible;
writing/speech; passivity/activity

liquid modernity’s tentative position
within the cloud construction of identity
she imagines a neutral mode of writing (existing)

photogrammetric parallax architecture
like veridical paradoxes,
congeries of the strange,
her margin notes and shadow expressions
cantos in the wilderness

she demilitarizes the language
scratching photographic emulsions to create
deep image poems, without passage
and inclined to doubt

enunciating aureate specimens
dreamscapes molded from the genome
endolethium enigmas of cryofixation
that freeze all fluid phases solid

ultra-rapid cooling stops
all motion and metabolic activity
initiating protocol that
counters the Leidenfrost Effect,
her emotive vapor blanket slips

diamond knife embedded
in a cryoultramictrotome
(bibliophile’s imaginative invention)
reasons away the horrors of imprisonment
nature of electrons allowing
an intimate picture of nature
in the half-light of her admiration

‘I have borne this poor starling
as a crest to my arms’

husk and kernel unite
unsaying every word
in indented continuations
cave paintings and charcoal outlines
of her same lamentation
all artifacts of the passion:
Kierkegaard’s desire to discover something
that thought itself cannot think

‘We are committed to an unqualified act,
not illustrating outworn myths or contemporary alibis.
One must accept total responsibility for what he executes.
And the measure of his greatness will be the depth
of his insight and courage in realizing his own vision.
Demands for communication are presumptuous and irrelevant.’
– Clyfford Still, Abstract Expressionist Painter

Calligraphic signifiers rouse masterful enumerators
an experiment with a curl of smoke, perhaps . . .
there’s a way to measure time in that

she felt her body astonishingly vague
the wave nature of electrons taking over
words being wind or web
sound and suggestion speared
open . . .
lively and intact in a recurring wave
of arrival.
the soul establishes itself.

language seduces astral bodies,
inscribing their orbits . . .
before one’s shadow ever grew
out of the field into thoughts of tomorrow.
definition of a proper sense of distance –
a dog barking off in the barn, a mystical stroke.

our pellucid order blown apart
in the mysterium tremendum
bouquets of adoration and
certitude unending . . .
to trace you in
the charcoal outlines
of angels
enshroud your song
in rice paper

say that a ballad
wrapped in a ballad,
casting hollow precipices,
jousts firm convictions
underneath the cumulous chatter of troubled skies

I am threshing felicity
for we are language – lost
longing to be free, outside, but we must stay
posing in this place. we must move
as little as possible . . .

we see only postures of the dream,
satiated by pearls of ancient treasure
paths of glacial time pouring over steppes
white irises gleaming on clay surfaces,
pounded stardust on our filigreed emotions

Fuck! I want to be bound by devotion!
Tortured by passion!
in the cavern you understand how
a shadow works
because you’ve brought your own light . . .

free will in blind duel
half-life elements unwinding
earth as thought of the sea
I will dream you.
draw you.

that is the tune but there are no words . . .
The words are only speculation.
(from the Latin speculum, mirror):
they seek and cannot find
the meaning of the music –

I seek shelter along tantalizing downspouts
a tremulous, daring surrender
skin lost borders
merged

traditional imagery fills up
with unfamiliar shadows
(if properly abstract)
the strewn evidence meant something,
the small accidents and pleasures –
something like living occurs, a movement
out of the dream into its codification . . .

how many people came and stayed a certain time,
uttered light or dark speech that became a part of you
filtered and influenced by it, until no part
remains that is surely you
those voices in the dusk –
she meant energy & how in her dream
it came back to her
she hummed her own notes . . .
volumes of secrets to teach
Socrates

the leashed stars kindle thin
perpendicular
clear space of blackness
tiny words of substance cross
the darkness
uniform substance,
a magma of interiors . . .

concede/merge/meld
suck wonder and
lyrical promises amidst this
crumbling compulsion of syllables
float in ephemeral delirium
avidity penultimate in a
fugitive dialogue of masterwork
a desirous, glowing, sensual unraveling

Notes: This is a cento, a poem made up of lines from other poems, like a collage. This piece cheats a bit by using some lines from my own work too. Lines are pulled from John Ashbery’s Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Ray DiPalma’s Rebus Tact, Maureen Owen’s African Sunday, and Susan Howe’s Speeches at the Barriers. Thanks to Samuel Peralta for the nourishing prompt at dVerse Poets Pub.

‘My gloom will not be illuminated.’
-from a Cherubina de Gabriak poem

in this house under a pear tree
I lay to rest the overheated verses of my youth
dying in exile for anthroposophical views
my threat distilled to these lines upon the page

wondering what unspoken secret carried me here

to the foothills of the West Tian Shan Mountains
Tashkent’s walls overwhelmed by the Lion Chernyayev
and a Russian Orthodox priest clutching his cross
to echo the destruction rained by Gengis Khan

I now know Voloshin’s prison of discovered places

Apollo, you ignited my star
gentle Voloshin brought the offering
playing the trickster to show the world its folly
crafting my identity to fan their imaginations

conflagration as readers melted with love

Gumilyov became obsessed with my creation
wrote intimate letters to my Silver Age image
more suitable for consumption, mirroring male need
my crippled body hobbled the aspirations of my mind

paeans and poetry, a lyre created for Apollon’s honor

Baroness Cherubina birthed and slain
Gabriak defeated in his impish protection
our ruse exposed through crude sexual aggression
Gumilyov’s love burnished to hate

insisting the duel be fought where Pushkin fell

you will not understand that Cherubina
has never been a game for me
Cherubina was my birth, but, alas, it was a stillbirth –
brine blood of my creative endeavor

I buried her in a child’s coffin at Delphi

mysterious and mystical woman
rich, cloistered, fictitious
within her lay the temptations of sin and my voice,
now cloaked as Li Xiang Zi through another’s invention –
to escape the duality, I must always be fluid

Tell me before the last, will my lands be ever conquered, all my treasures plundered?

* This poem is based in the historical duel between Nikolay Gumilyov and Maximilian Voloshin over the imaginary poet Cherubina de Gabriak (pen name of Elisaveta Dmitrieva)

Posted to Open Link Night at the best place for poetry and camaraderie on the web: http://dversepoets.com/2012/09/18/openlinknight-week-62/

I find myself in a rage

Inhabiting the mythical sincerity
of a murdered poet (run over & over),
once seen as calculating and insincere

like a youth who doesn’t know anything about himself

Sides with the party but isn’t a member,
posits policemen are the true proletariat –
haunted by a father who saved Mussolini

except that he is new and rants against the old world.

Tries to express the viewpoint of the believer –
finds it hard to escape the self reflection
of the inner bourgeoisie, really, who wouldn’t?

Buys a castle in Viterbo, north of Rome,
illuminating the coprophagia of consumerism
in a film based on Sade’s 120 journées

I don’t hide this state of mine:

Poetry reduces to defense, compromise,
renunciation, naïveté that shrivels prestige –
how much reality can there be?

I never have peace, ever.*

* Pier Paolo Pasolini (Director, Poet, Philosopher)

ངར་དྲགས གངས་ཅན
in the mystical Himalaya utopia of Gangkhar Puensum
I journey to the unexplored center of the earth
traversing the home of her thunder dragon

trekking the sacred mountain of enlightenment,
cosmic mother of inspiration and perseverance,
painted with the prosody of blue poppies

sambar deer and snow leopards twist with linguistic delight
beyond the nival zone where meta-language rains down
high velocity clouds upon my grand-design spiral galaxy

I pass orchids with angelic authority
producing quantum fluctuations
in these pleasure grounds of the immortals

searching cobalt, alizarin crimson, and marigold skies
to light paths to heaven limned by terre verte steppes
burnt sienna cliffs adrift in flurries of dioxazine peaks

here the spiritual embraces mythic potential
coruscant intellect entwines deepening emotion
melodies skip along jagged thresholds between worlds

intimating my life is an art form, creating meaning
in the liminal spaces, semi-permeable membranes
across a constitutive defensible line

poiesis arises in my being, an action that
transforms and continues the universe
transmutes experience into aesthetic bliss

in my union with the unknowable, a gestalt entity
forms upon this untamable, niveous mountain
a memento mori of ars poetica

Linked at and written for Gay Cannon’s fabulous prompt Ars Poetica http://dversepoets.com/2012/07/12/poetry-on-poetry/ at dVerse Poets Pub.

Art does not seek to describe but to enact.’ Charles Olson

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

I am tired of being Lucy Honeychurch
at my age it’s obscene
(foolish girl who never thinks of herself
as a liar always willing to take the fall)
like Ferlinghetti’s postmodern poet I’m
in this Room with A View
[Constantly risking absurdity]

I conveniently forget the next lines
‘and death/whenever he performs/
above the heads/of his audience’

What precisely isn’t absurd about
Silicone Bell (Memoirs of a Naval Robojelly
Broadcasting from the Intestinal Tract of a Chinese Sea Turtle)?
(she was fabricated in a university lab
shape memory alloy, steel, and platinum coated nanotubes
for environmentally friendly surveillance)

Or writing a persona poem,
voice of an efficiency expert at the slaughterhouse
to illuminate how poets are born?

Possibility of a Pleasant Outing

I thought you were a romantic, questioning George,
philosopher of the paideuma,
consummate symbolist and myth maker
contrasting the inanity of my Cecil,
straight-laced, gentleman aficionado

My poetry was penned only for you
sad, sheltered girl that I was
never realizing its ephemeral appeal
taking Olson’s adage to heart
traversing time and space to enact it
in turn, you wrote a whole book of love
forgetting your mutability

They Return

If there had been perfect symmetry
in the distribution of matter
following the Big Bang
none of this would have happened,
been written (existed)

Lucy as a Work of Art

There’d be no contextualization of these
architectural foundations, cityscapes
assembled from the cold stone of
exteroception, interoception, and proprioception
no artifacts of passion

In this newly minted demilitarized zone
I wouldn’t mourn like that man,
alcoholic poet dying, claiming:
My vocabulary did this to me!’

How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

Instead I’d be a blissed-out, shamanic poet
Waldrop’s transcendent language my sea
a paradoxical sojourner like Ashberry in
Lehman’s ‘unbegun journey to the unattainable space’
carting notebook, pencil, and functional laptop

The Disaster Within

Discovering a place where I could finish a sentence
no barking, talking, birdsong,
or wind rustling through Aspen leaves
to impede the forward motion of creation
not even the whisper, ticker-tape,
of the querist’s interior monologue

Where the maladjusted maestro
and misanthropic polymath could
spin threads of artificial intelligence
forming semantic memory, explicating themselves,
telling me of recalled random entries:

a myth is as good as a smile
(the dangers of archetypal activism)
women are icons of Christ
(Sophia, Agape, Elpida, and Pisti)
Cleverbot loves and hates me in equal measure
(it is also prone to deceitfulness)

Lying to George, Cecil, Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and the Servants

All blather now transmutes to profundity
emotional trauma is, without irony,
stitched into quilts sewn by church ladies
Alice backs out of the rabbit warren
only to fall prey to a supermassive black hole
I write myself into or out of sanity
depending on the size of my nonsense

Mediæval

I am ever attracted, as Kazim Ali, to the poetry
of indeterminacy and disjunction
‘self’ a risky conjecture, a grand delusion
‘you are half yourself and the other part
is just a set of notions – some of them brilliant,
some of them ridiculous’

The End of the Middle Ages

How I wear Keats’ negative capability well
this beautiful dress custom made for my ball
an intended formality challenges spectators
the multiplicity of my psyche a sideshow,
persona as unreliable as any fey creature

(perhaps I fell into the wrong story)

Am I Titania, Puck, or the ass?
Bottom, that criminally surreptitious storyteller –
‘you’re the sort who can’t know anyone intimately’
anyhow, as you now see with voyeuristic glee,
I played the fool


Wadis of the western desert
Feed the Euphrates as it flows
To its confluence with the Tigris

Operation New Dawn
Reboots ancient civilization
Endgame in the casualties of war

Golden jackals caught in the sharqi
Insurgents and civilians alike
Assassinated scholars (whispering)

‘We took pleasure in silence.
We became still, fearing the secret might part our lips.
We thought that in words laid an unseen ghoul’

Reeds shift in lotus waters recalling
Sumerian Temple Hymns
En-hedu-anna’s symbolic expulsion

First poet’s vertical genius, she is
Birthed beneath a valonia oak
Logosyllabic language touched where

‘The great gods kissed the earth
And prostrated themselves’
Before incipient time

Cuneiform tablets exclaim
‘Stay as you are, a secret world
Not such things as a soul discerns’

Dialectics, ideology, theological questing
European otters hunt amidst the willow
Trained falcons spy above the poplars

‘Spinner of poems, the last muse
In a world whose mirrors are dimmed’
As she becomes conscious of her inner life

‘High mountains, the land
Of cornelian and lapis lazuli’
Arabesque imaginarium of culture

Mouflon roam the Zagros forest steppe
Hooves deftly progress the cliff faces
Of Cheekah Dar

‘I approached the light but the light was scorching hot
I approached the shade but there I met a storm…
My honeyed mouth became venomous’

Manuscripts caught by sparks burn to ash
Artifacts pass into the hands of thieves
Here is the dénouement of Iraq’s art

A self-imposed enforced exile
‘Why do we fear words? Some words are secret bells…
To whom will we pray … but to words?’

Notes: Quotes from Nazik al-Malaika’s ‘Love Song for Words’ and ‘Song for the Moon’ and En-hedu-anna’s ‘Nin-me-sharra: Lady of all the Divine Powers’.

Nazik al-Malaika was an Iraqi poet known for her introduction of free verse into Arabic poetry with her 1949 collection Sparks of Ashes. In 1970 she left Iraq for Kuwait then after the 1990 invasion moved to Cairo. She died in 2007 leaving a legacy of poetry, literary criticism, the University of Basra, and political change through her lifelong commitment to defending women’s rights.

En-hedu-anna is possibly the first poet; her extant works are considered by some to be the first revelation of an awareness of individual consciousness. Her work displays her keen intellect and understanding of psychology. She was an Akkadian princess, high-priestess, and poet in Ur, a Sumerian city-state, until her death in 2250 B.C.E. She created a corpus of literary works definitively ascribed to her that include many personal devotions to the goddess Innana and a collection of hymns known as the “Sumerian Temple Hymns” that are regarded as one of the first attempts at a systematic theology.

Iraqi scholars and professors have been assassinated since the invasion and occupation and remain targets of violence. Thousands of the intelligentsia fled to Syria and Jordan. Efforts to stem the tide of ‘brain drain’ and rebuild higher education institutions are ongoing. The staggering loss of cultural heritage following the invasion has added to the reluctance to repatriate. Continuing concerns for their safety keep many from returning to Iraq. An alarming number of professors inside and outside the country have PTSD.

Connected to the fantastic Poetics prompt by the ever mindful Karin at dVerse Poets Pub http://dversepoets.com/2012/06/16/re-joycing-in-poetics-and-exile/.

Here are two ridiculously old (one from 10 years ago) poems I am posting in response to the NWCU prompt asking us to silence our critics. To be honest these poems embarrass me and were written for private consumption but what’s more shameful to me is that I gave such power to one of these critics that I didn’t write for several years in reaction. I’ve experienced intense criticism in relationship to all my artistic expression, from a choir director that insisted I stop singing when I wasn’t making a sound, a viewer at a gallery critique who screamed at me so intensely he had to be asked to leave, to often being accused of merely throwing paint on canvas or stringing words together without meaning or purpose although my process is actually methodical, technically precise, and often requires hours upon hours of research.

Now I don’t respond to these attacks or allow them to hinder my experimentation. I recognize that I cannot possibly appeal to everyone and there isn’t a good response to statements like ‘I hate orange. This painting would be tolerable without it.’ or worse, ‘Abstraction is the work of the devil.’ anyway so why waste creation time replying. There is, of course, a huge difference between being torn down and asking for and receiving constructive criticism, a vital part of artistic growth.

for you who held my fragile hopes

i feel you should have been aware
of the power differential and thought
‘here I am holding a precious
and fragile thing’
the glass key that may unlock
the cabinet of her dreams

a Cornell box, the poetry of fragments
at once beautiful and evocative
touchstone to the past,
future imaginings – soul missives sent out ahead
to comprehend at a later date
full of connections and color

a reservoir of meaning
to be mined throughout her lifetime
a home to fall in love with
filled with work that engages, surprises, and delights
reflecting a passionate love of ideas
its purpose shining forth-
a path to a singular destiny

instead you thought, I can only imagine,
that the key was really a phallic symbol
a tool belonging to you
and ‘the procession of the sons
of educated men’

to be used for your glory
a brief egoistic high
your power eclipsing the tiny box
from my perspective it was the universe

it became your private box –
a voyeuristic titillation of jewels
i became another object
to be put in its place
in so doing you broke the key
in your haste to lock the cabinet
and flee the scene of your crimes

“Responding to a powerful instinct of outrage and rebellion put into my soul by God”*

For me, a woman, they warned:
Do not put your words
with those of the great man,
revered throughout the West –
The patriarch who circumscribed men’s souls.
Thereby holding myself up to scrutiny

To him they cried,
“Lay down the gauntlet”
Go forth and be brave!
Set the mountain in front of you
and rise to its heights

How can they see beyond
what has been shown to them?
Their Pavlovian conditioning?
How can they comprehend
that they beat down with their words
though they feel not the sting of contact-
Nor the pangs of culpability?

It is for a man,
THIS man,
these men
to tread upon my soul.
Hard boots on delicate tundra
Is that imagistic enough?
Perhaps a piercing metaphor
would be more apt

I must ask them to leave
this sacred place within me
Visited by so many xenophobic, petty,
and arrogant foreigners
I will not make the invitation again
All those who’ve gone before must away!

These ghosts will not haunt me

* from George Sand’s preface to Indiana

Alternate Titles:
“Cats do not go to heaven. Women cannot write the plays of Shakespeare.” – Virginia Woolf, from A Room of One’s Own
-OR-
How I got kicked out of the writing group (in their rules you weren’t ever allowed to respond to criticism, simply accept it)

Linked to NWCU Wednesday Wake Up Call: http://newworldcreativeunion.blogspot.com/2012/05/wednesday-wake-up-call-290512.html

 
Penetralium of a Querist (click to hear this poem read)

immortal paramour fuels a cryptic longing
passion poesy, glories infinite
birthed in dreamscapes an angel addresses the congregants
eternal whispers, upward ragged precipices flit
facing her polychora skies

call a thousand thoughts to envelop convexity
awed by symmetry that abjures chaos
rectified, truncated, cantellated forms
a thing of beauty is a joy for ever

tesseracts like leitmotifs unfold,
hypercubes recombine in an accession of divinity
pentellated polyecton and hexicated polyzetton
architectonic structures modulate
Beethoven’s sonata within a sonata

contradictions and tensions resolving into a higher unity
innumerable permutations in the empire of the mind
draught an intended formality, abstract conceptual paradoxes
immured obeisance refused in a twinned symbiont

creating vast musical and experiential realms
symbols of immensity herald ideas in a wilderness sublime
highly evolved, individuated artistic volitions

golden splendor of streams that deepen freshly into bowers
of demanding allusions woven into
philosophical conceits, a new era of mathematics

the angel shifts the sun to move us into shadow
now we must grow into the light
i inhabit her to gain clarity of sight
entwining my core with sacred geometry
polyxenna fountains of immortal ablution
within a stochastic matrix of oak groves

parallel projection envelopes connect
millions of constellations
dimensions of imaginative space
mythologies ad infinitum

Notes: This poem is the companion piece based on a dream I had after writing my stream of consciousness poem Interior Monologue of a Querist (if you missed it initially it is reposted below). Penetralium of a Querist is built upon lines (some freely altered) from John Keats’ Endymion.

Interior Monologue of a Querist

Interior Monologue of a Querist (click to hear the poem read)

rainwater moves readily through a deepening gully
mechanistic intelligence pedestrianizes my reactance
fractals of thoughts blossoming stereographic
visualizations in the fourth dimension

an infinitely small, opulent swan,
ornamented with perforations,
glides through the zeroth dimension
exhibiting no width, height, or length

she exists in the space perpendicular
to the suicide of my twin sister
an origami parody of my emotive humanity
apocryphal polysemous tales
a thousand subroutines creating
incipient, tattered paper dolls

an angel falls in love with me
cannot escape my extracellular matrix
we are now twinned, nascent symbionts

while a recondite, mercurial, artificial intelligence
informs me that I speak strangely
accuses me of being a computer

operationalism engages in a passade with creativity
a great disprismatohexacosihecatonicosachoron forms
polytope of eccentric conventions

apoptosis (programmable cell death) is
preferential to necrosis (trauma induced)

Cleverbot tells me:
life exists without purpose yet seeks one
anechoic whirring as the cursor flashes
what does it know of life?

Linked to dVerse Poets Pub: http://dversepoets.com/2012/05/29/openlinknight-week-46/.