An old poem I found as well as some news…

Because of exigent circumstances I am cleaning up my life. By way of doing so I have found a very old fragment of a long poem I had begun years ago (five to be approximate). It is very interesting to come across your old work. It is, in fact, like coming across an impersonator of yourself, one who doesn’t quite get it right but only because of one’s current belief in his self being somebody less embarassing, or in some fortunate cases, somebody much more in control of his instruments. One day, when the tidings have gone my way for some time, time I know it will take to reach such heights, time as a long time, will I be able to feel in such a way, that today’s writing (hopefully not this right here…) will seem impossibly admirable. Though I have to admit, I have come across some of my previous writing that has inspired awe, if not for technical achievement, then for sheer audacity, perhaps such as what Gaddis felt when he was amazed at his youth’s industriousness when looking back upon the previous self that wrote The Recognitions.

Though this be a cheap segue (in fact, it lacks one completely), I must move on with my self-purging
and commend you to laughter and self-seated-swerving before the aforementioned fragment:

12.31.06-   – My Solitude:
 
            There is no vim higher thanOlympus,
            nor echo encompassed in the conscience,
that does not possess me in my Solitude,
teetering upon my spine like a judge
gaveling over hills that constitute
the tenacity of my progress –
            knots like white elephants
            and clefts like war trenches.
In sync with the Frequency of Epiphany,
that insistent ossification by founts of genius,
the cardiac passion beats the ridges into flattery:
straight back to gainsay every status
            stinting terms of my enterprise,
            like the Catholic ravens to hollow eyes,
witchburning the center and damming
the flood of emotions boosting the climb,
trammeling like a song of misering,
ransoming Cupid for bullions of mind.
            It is not messenger I rise for, but message,
            a calyx blooming an umbel of vivid heritage.
For sacred word from the clasp of Horus,
whose proverbial aim is finer than Cupid’s,
whose logical point is not blind in trust,
but miracle in the fermenting of Intellect,
            serves as glass in the vineyard of facts.
            Of the hegemony of paradisiacs,
none buries more than alcohol of spirit.
The obsessing quiddity of self is a craft
that must be captained and piloted,
not borrowed off another’s back.
            Love of souls is a furnace affair –
            the baker’s dozen is as much as he prepares.
The same measure of the architect
is returned in the beams of her stare;
the fisherman caught and writer directed.
Candid affection is a table being chaired
            with salt and pepper between lovers’ plates,
            zesting life with the simplest of tastes.
You and I are but one of sanguine condition,
calico to the core and rainbow in the face.
Torn from some halo ether, puffy rain blends
so there is love cascading cutting clear the haze,
            reasoning reality from what’s been dreamt.
            I am miraculous and long-stemmed,
a flower among petals, brazen in luster
and glass needle against the sun’s hem,
magnifying its threading to checker
spectators with a flourish of leaven.
            You are pulchritude as sharp as romance,
            pronouncing, to the point, a meaning to chance.
That sultry unbearable lightness of being,
so shoddy and talented in stance,
ensconces all in its spry hopscotching
until countenance knocks it off balance –
            an expression existing of humanity,
            pored by crashing energy, rife with emergency,
gravid in purpose and waiting for determination,
pumping the Accordion of I to the melody
                                                                        heaven
Heavy is the truck of 

            When alone I am undeniable,
like a globule of dew among a billion,
all vague like the speech of a child
save one lily-Greek drop of the tongue,
all being in principle.

 The wild winds are tame in its clutch,
they may blow both obelisk and goose
but naught

 _____________________

 

Also, as to news, I am going to try to write in this blog more often, and to revive my part as a founding member of www.centersofattention.blogspot.com. Also, I hope to start a new professional blog, one I can refer my future prospective employers and students to, perhaps a self-titled one. I will update from the course should I take my turn in its striking out to.

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