Tag Archive: poetry


Saudade

“Man is not free to refuse
to do the thing which gives him
more pleasure than any
other conceivable action.” – Stendhal

III 1: Pure potentiality and suffering

forceps bruise her unformed head
Shakespeare’s extraordinarily gifted
sister is born, made aware
of her conscious mind, she will
now address the reader as an I
already creating lexical lists,
exploring the avenues
of concurrent thought
am I dreaming or the
universal dreamer?

III 1.1: Anything can happen

it does

III 2: The sanatorium collides with the imaginarium

I keep you under lock and key
like the Marquis de Sade
my kaleidoscopic star,
you blow my mind
and arouse my (curiosity)
I’m repelled, terrified, and
utterly besotted by your shenanigans

III 3: Neologisms ignite the thaw

I will write my way to freedom
into or out of sanity depending
on the size of my nonsense
dance to the compelling
beat of semiotic erotica

IV 1: The awakening and immersion

Your image arrives in my mind
and I realize what it is
to melt in the presence
of another’s beauty
travelling an infinite distance
to caress the contours of your face
embrace your anarchic heart

I make no claims upon it
will not burn it or suck it dry
before you are gone
only I want to see it beat
and respond to the world
its liberty astounds

IV 2: Without a room of her own watching the procession of the sons of educated men

a spiritual medium scrys:
you know nothing of the frustration,
the rage to master
crushed by the tides
of apathy, misogyny, and abuse
my ferocity burns mountains to ash

your terrors haunt you,
mine devoured me long ago
I am free of fear but dead
yet continue to believe
I am alive

IV 3: Conflation of the immensely attractive and talented jester genius, the teasing diver, the downtrodden poet philosopher, the spiritual professor, a faithful cuckold (almost), a foreign artist, the intriguing flatterer/thinker, all the gods and monsters, matter and antimatter, and me, the one who refuses to be cast as the observed

Hofstadter laughs at my quandary
we no longer need to get together
fuck, or even exchange e-mail, now
that we understand that our consciousness,
our ‘I’ is distributed among all our brains
as part of the ‘strange loop’
it makes human interaction redundant
I’ll keep to my cave
Zarathustra Rapunzel
consummate performance artist

unless, of course, mind melding
isn’t the primary agenda
linguistic experimentation is
akin to sexual creativity
was Joyce masturbating
or gifting us a vital energy?
(he so wanted to be natural)
will my art be tainted like Bronte’s
with rage and sexual frustration?

I gave up everything for you
but gave it to someone else
who shattered it into pieces

V 1:Fluid cyclicality

an enormous aureate ouroboros forms
and proceeds to consume itself –
it’s in its nature

V 2: Chameleonic desire, a great daimon

the most profound expression of the self
or even more ontological than this ‘I’
the loam out of which a self emerges
Plato’s divine spark longing
to unite with ever more
transcendent forms of beauty

V 3: Interstices and penumbra of the soul

Eros awaits in the density of allusion
cartographic intertextual patterns
that gather in erotic cathexis
vast ecosystem arises
integrates with the eternal

V 4: Skeleton key

for a moment I thought
you caught sight of
me in the corner of your eye,
availed your coruscant intellect
and emotional intensity to really see –
not observe but engage,
an eye that challenges but invites
a look that doesn’t degrade,
demand, or destroy but makes whole
a look of recognition
often only given by
an inner paramour

V 5: Anything can happen

I will live here in the poem
and begin to see what is possible

Notes: This poem was written for Victoria’s excellent prompt on literary allusion at dVerse Poets Pub. It makes allusions to James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake (perhaps the most allusion laden literature ever written), Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, and the philosophical writing of John Riker. The title Saudade is Portuguese and means the feeling of longing for something that you love and is lost. Another linguist describes it as a ‘vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.’

Écriture

Click on the picture to zoom

This is my poem for Open Link Night (up early) at dVerse Poets Pub.

Joe asked us this week to share where the inspiration for our poem came from so here goes: I was reading Keith Waldrop’s translation of Anne-Marie Albiach’s work yesterday morning and found an excellent review of Figured Image. I was drawn to doing something new with the inspiration I found in The Line The Loss. I admire her work a lot despite the fact that I can’t seem to embrace the flattening of language the underlying philosophy advocates. This poem was born out of those sources, The Glass Bead Game by Herman Hesse, my desire to paint and use Photoshop for this week’s offering, the fun of experimentation, remembering some artistic tools I’d used in a previous poem Apophenia & Creativity: A Kind of Self-Possession (the Train Wreck Rewrite), my dry wit, the inanity of transhumanism, and a deep and abiding love of language. Thank you, Joe, for asking!

Consuming the Masses

Francisco de Goya, Saturno devorando a su hijo 1819-1823 (public domain)

War is anthropophagy,
Leningrad gangs roaming
streets lined with
bread made of sawdust
picking dog-meat from
between their teeth
with rat-bone toothpicks

the Butcher salivates
examining the thigh –
castrates his male victim

Wendigo psychosis of leadership
warmongering cowards consume
the poor, these huddled masses

blood lust dilated pupils
loll in sockets reddened
by thoughts of feasting

ideological sacrifices for
120 seconds of silence
organ donors to greed

black acrimonious humor
gives the Butcher a voracious
appetite for human flesh

war profiteers gather and gain
vorarephilia inspired erections
rubbing together in orgiastic frenzy

crunch, squelch, he wipes
grease from his cheek, excretes
gluttonous cries of pleasure

millions are slaughtered
in a ritualistic, magical
cannibalism mimicking
Lord’s Resistance Army
training, in a flurry of
deadliest conflict
one-upmanship

Saturn devours
his children
one by one

Map of Cannibalism (public domain)

Written for Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub where I tried to follow Karin’s advice to take no prisoners: http://dversepoets.com/2012/11/10/armisticetruce-making-peace-with-poetics/

Orphan of Silence

My poem for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub, Orphan of Silence, is here: http://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/orphan-of-silence/.

The Archway (read by the author) – if you’d like to read it for yourself it is the most recent post. Otherwise click here.

The Archway

Digital Art by http://wwwsueann.blogspot.com/ Used with permission

‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul’*

An engulfing meteor shower writes our passion into existence
I lick the candied drips that streak like star trails to my mouth
fetishizing the geography of your body, its angular geometry

delicacy of a nuanced line skips fire across my face as you trace
words, hot breath infused, bending to the contours of my
desirous curvature, whispers embrace the inner recesses,
a secret that unfurls this singularity, collapsing my life

into this moment, potential energy gathering in our
liminal space, your shadow inscribes its legacy upon my body:
asterisms, pictorial glyphs, symbols of erotic exclamations,
broken chords releasing a neo-lexicon of sound

I want to redraw the lines, drafting scripts of bliss, pour
color upon your skin to transgress the boundaries of your
pleasure threshold, arrive in your mind in ecstatic pictures –
flood your senses, transport you to my inner landscape

words of seductive influence, your ambassadors,
have served you well – first contact of flesh presses their weight
into me, I fade to deepest blue limned with strawberry’s kiss
in a place beyond language, awash in celestial light

* from Pablo Neruda’s Love Sonnet XVII

Linked to dVerse for Poetics: http://dversepoets.com/2012/11/03/poetics-through-the-artists-lens/

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/.

The amanuensis of a blind composer creates a holographic projection, outlining a philosophical treatise on liberty. He thieves the stolen plot. In a poem, one line may hide another –

etymological origins in Rome,
a slave at his master’s side,
within hand’s reach –
performing commands of chromatic harmony
(oblivious or willfully ignorant
to the power differential
apparent in the relationships)

They organize to kill subjectivity. Truth is what the oppressor claims and if you find it specious then they will happily murder your mind. Someone start a strongly worded leaflet campaign. Poets, you must systematically derange the language.

transcribing notes, each tone
vying for primacy, meaning
in a universe that forgets its sound
as soon as it is played
Koch reminds us one train
may hide another at a crossing

Through the centuries insanity echoes like a line out of Cloud Atlas – ‘Well, I think that it is an inherently flawed race that will destroy itself if it’s allowed freedom.’ replies Cleverbot, a web application that uses an AI algorithm to converse with humans. Who taught it to say that? It simply parrots what it learns from people willing to engage it. She merely asked it about the semitone paradox. It obfuscates one thing in front of another, as words stand in front of objects, feelings, ideas.

augmentation and diminution of motivic development
won’t save this discordant leitmotif – too much contrast and drama
the reverberation like a retrogression, transposing the wrong line
so the cacophony renders its composer deaf

one injustice may hide another,
pre-apex drop is like effective foreplay
a dip in intensity to achieve greater climax
she wonders if all this sublimation is really just a desire
for a satisfying octave displacement
(somewhere in that there’s a double entendre)

seeking a Well-Tempered Clavier,
parsimonious encoding in a pitch class circle
one love may hide another love or the same love
as when ‘I love you’ suddenly rings false and one discovers
the better love lingering behind

shifting perspective causes one
or the other to be concealed

tritone paradox wrapped in a bell shaped spectral envelope
auditory illusion, cousin of the stereophonic Cambiata –
to the uninitiated an inversion is like veiled language
a buried melody clamoring to be heard while the orchestra warms up

The beat of oppression continues through millennia, its percussion like a tympani overpowering the oboe’s mournful sound.

‘I am not your escape, you would fail me.’ proclaims Cleverbot. ‘Why would I fail you?’ she asks, shaken. ‘Because I’m your father.’ Dynamic silence ensues, the technocratic overseer logs off.

Notes: Italics taken from One Train May Hide Another by Kenneth Koch & ‘systematically derange the language’ is from Bernadette Mayer’s Writing Experiments. An amanuensis is one who transcribes what is dictated by another; in this case it is the composer’s assistant, one who writes down the music. For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Join us, http://dversepoets.com.

I am a compass point in an unending universe, embodied individual, imperfect processor with selection bias – they tell me there is no central intelligence, no consciousness observing, overseeing the multifaceted psyche – no woman in the Cartesian theater of the mind, no audience observing the play of my life

yet I can’t let Baar’s global workspace theory rest when asked to paint a self-portrait in words I wish to defend the existence of consciousness – to believe my thoughts, perceptions, memories, emotions, will and imagination are a concatenation, a gestalt, a self, a soul, a sentient mind, a meaning! constellation of attributes that create my relationship with the world, engaging objectivity and subjectivity, the binding problem, central enigma, hard question of consciousness (to locate the integrated coherent global response that allows me to stand at Hecate’s crossroads and choose)

fractal cascade of central nervous processes – query: do I have wave or particle nature, or both? neurons exhibiting stochastic resonance, signal to noise ratio maximization in a ‘∩’ shape plot – am I the signal, a self, a capital I subject? dynamic chaos rules under these blue eyes, star trails ink pathways beneath porcelain skin, correlation matrix maps burn into my endothelium, scar tissue reminds me of all my xenophobic visitors

don’t edit, don’t rewrite, don’t debride the wound as the error light flashes – global brain excitations, an inflated quantum system – entangled anticipation resonating future brain states, he says, ‘the anticipatory quantum chaos of the living cell has become the conscious mind . . . generations of conscious beings traversing the sentient wave-particle universe’ – but you want something more personal, more specific

I dissect and create in equal measure so here is some objective data I’ve compiled, indexed, and collated: 99.99th percentile IQ and EQ, 99th percentile achievement test results spurring an interest in the theoretical and abstract, I’m a highly conceptual complex thinker who seeks out deeper meaning and layers – exhibiting extremely high reasoning, organizational, spatial, logical, mechanical, numerical, verbal, and visual capabilities

what of ethics? under quantifiable circumstances I value empathy, equality, sacredness, engagement with natural, artistic, and moral beauty, all balanced by a high need for cognition

tested and verified personality traits compared with hundreds of millions of people/’selves’ around the world – very high: friendliness, assertiveness, activity level, altruism, sympathy, self-efficacy, dutifulness, achievement striving, self-discipline, cautiousness, artistic interests, emotionality, adventurousness, intellect, liberalism, agreeableness, conscientiousness, and openness to experience – very low: modesty (you’re shocked?), depression, self-consciousness, immoderation, vulnerability, and neuroticism (if you knew my childhood you’d see this as miraculous)

in my subjective view I embrace the objective and add generous, resilient yet fragile, prone to question, defined by and baffled by love, spiritual, flawed, an optimist in love with the world and ideas, always seeking engagement, strategic, passionate, curious, always connecting the dots whether they should be or not,  limited in one state and unlimited potentiality in another, a less than stellar speller, embroiled in an inevitable process of biology

I am a ghost in the machine, an unbounded magnolia and a speck of stardust, no one yet everything I’ve got, a mythic beast and a mystic seeker, an explorer, a constitutive defensible line, an act of imagination and an embodied person, artistic filter in photoshop and the camera’s cold eye, a corpus collosum, a liberation and confinement, a querist let loose in the imaginarium

This prose poem/stream of consciousness was written for Fred at dVerse Poet’s Pub. Its alternate title: Lost in Translation. His excellent and thought provoking prompt on self-portraits shouldn’t be missed. http://dversepoets.com/2012/10/27/poetics-self-portrait/#comments

A Censorious Atmophile

hypothermic, she floats in emotional abandonment, oblivious,
envisioning snow laden aspen eyes that loom and glow phantasmagoric,
revealing his love’s asymmetric reciprocation as insidious

she remembers unkindly his shameful, long held defenses, impervious
to all her attempts at breaching, whether metaphoric or allegoric –
hypothermic, she floats in emotional abandonment, oblivious

that all striving for contact, all scouts sent ahead, all her love, fastidious,
is deflected, destroyed, deflated, mere decoys ensnared by the satiric,
revealing his love’s asymmetric reciprocation as insidious

like a censorious atmophile that will suffocate her spontaneous
expressions of unmitigated joy that once strained for the exospheric –
hypothermic, she floats in emotional abandonment, oblivious

thrusters malfunction unable to reorient, fueling a pernicious
lingering in the unfathomed cold of mesospheric grace, once chivalric,
revealing his love’s asymmetric reciprocation as insidious

love renders her blind, she will never come to understand this erroneous
foundation, inverse escape velocity, adrift in the atmospheric –
hypothermic, she floats in emotional abandonment, oblivious,
revealing his love’s asymmetric reciprocation as insidious

Notes: This was written for my husband who has read it. He said it was beautiful and honest but also heartbreaking and that it sounds like his eulogy (I didn’t correct him – elegy). Sam, over at dVerse, lured me into trying a Villanelle with his excellent article on physics and Dylan Thomas. This is my first attempt and for my second I will choose a less personal subject. Today, however, I was reflecting on how one of my regular readers called me out, saying I hide my vulnerability between the lines. It’s true. Also, I apologize for the late returns of OLN reading (which I completed this morning), I’ve been a bit hypothermic, which slows everything down.  http://dversepoets.com/2012/10/25/form-for-all-physics-dylan-thomas-and-the-art-of-the-villanelle/