Book I - The Uppity Woods Pieces (to Scribd 07-09-09)

8/14/2019 Book I - The Uppity Woods Pieces (to Scribd 07-09-09)

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(BOOK I FROM WLM : DISJECTI MEMBRA POETAE)

WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES

byWarren L. McClure

(Latest Revision 07-09-09)


2/33

02

WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES AUTUMN 1980

What waste of intellect is caused by poetrythat most extreme language-destroying consequence of verbal art

We Poetswe tatterdemalion intellects

we children off the dark side of the Moonplaying mumble-de-peg with our ganglia

spieling outthe abracadabra of futility

while following the sunshine flightsof belfry bats

tolled out by our bell being rungUnder our droll eye

even the cycle of the Seasonshas become suspect

O Poetsonce we opened up mountains

with magic wordsnow with our negate keys

we can't even close the lock

on the cloaca door

Yet the white face of our Mother in the Moonstill shines symbolically over the marble swan in the rose garden

a romantic Windstill raises waves

that splash the rocksat its base

Before this disquiet Surf with its white caps runningI place at your webbed feet

Moon Ladythe tooth of an old dragon

with the hope

of cozeningunto these

my own sad worksyour benign Grace

for betteror

for worse

wlm11-28-06


3/33

03

TABLE OF CONTENTS FOR WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES

(BOOK I FROM WLM : DISJECTI MEMBRA POETAE)

01. Title Page02. Preface Poem (What waste of intellect is caused by poetry)03. Table of Contents04. Soft-spoken Dawn drowsy with dreams

05. I am beginning to fail a little on these cold wet mornings06. Blown as whim dictates we poets today have an eyeful of grief07. Great things and small vanish entirely08. How near Darkness we always are09. In a season when even the strongest limbs bend under ice10. Nature behaves in such an unseemly fashion these fell days11. Sloth-Footed Time patters like sleet on the stones above12. Anger like a fire sweeps over my tabula rasa13. What an onus it is to be a mystic14. An ancient spirit in me winds its cunning horn15. Immersed in the full consequences of this warm comfortable evening16. I can hardly keep from smiling17. I found her Alcman18. Brief euphorias these inevitably followed by returns

19. Old acquaintances I've never met20. OK Darwin21. So quiet here beside the wisteria blooming at the mid-post of Spring22. Summer worms its way in everywhere23. In Googolopolis '8424. Sulphur and Pitch25. Round and round they go26. There / occasionally in / some passing breeze27. Along Recall Road28. Relieved of past mistakes / lost in leisure29. On a summery day with a hot wind blowing30. Often I am disconsolate these halcyon days31. Let your mind linger a while longer with mine32. End Page


4/33

04


Soft-Spoken Dawn drowsy with dreamstwitters away outside my window panes

catches me still dueling with my inkwellamong the footnotes at the bottom of a page

Fortunately I am as invulnerable to anguish

as Siegfried was to injuryexcept where a fallen asterisk

off a conceit of Goethe'sFun Cunning Revenge

keeps the dragon's blood from a small spotunder my left shoulder blade

I am working on a piece for the Veterans of Armageddonwhich like most of my works

I don't expect to be read

Yet I feel I must be about creating a Beyondeven if nobody will be there who gives a damn

This is not the simplest thing in the world to doNobodiness is so much more fluid and protean

than simple being

I suppose the idea of fusty tediumwill still be around

and doubt and dismayperhaps even latently expected events

and languid beautyPerhaps even Dawn

But no footnotesno asterisksno dreams

no poems

wlm04-01-06


5/33

05

WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES WINTER 1980-81

I am beginning to fail a little on these cold wet morningsrelegated by the restrictive rules of my servant Language

to the closing in of the direful chalk-circle of the Psychewhile the Universal and the Particular play out their game

of Crush-the-Brain

I am beginning to fail a little on these cold wet morningsbecoming an isolated brooder in the chicken coop of Life

absent-mindedly plucking images off personifications of oldabstract weather-gods

and intellectual friends whom I've caught sucking eggs

I am beginning to fail a little on these cold wet morningsIt is becoming difficult to see things that move quickly

before they catch you on your mental nose like a left jabstill the feeling persists that Satire is the ultimate gesture

short of murder

I am beginning to fail a little on these cold wet morningsunder the dead weight of spent Winds and Waves

forgetting occasionally even that no poet ever wrotewith an abstract idea

or as if the end of Poetry were to wear out pens

wlm01-20-07


6/33

06


Blown as whim dictates we poets today have an eyeful of griefnights pass among us when no one sleeps when no one dares to dream

when we are drawn into the suspenseful bliss of endless lists of supplementary readingsby enticing footnotes bracketed between asterisks

in dark old musty books off back shelves of moldy rackswhere we sample terrors that blew men's minds in former days

Old Texts are forever making uncommon demands on usthey come round like misshapen beggars

with crooked spines and type-face all askewhedged about by the Perplexities and suspect in the eyes of the Authorities

The stale breath of the Desert of All Past Time wheezes thru their ragged pagesIts wry sands seal over forever the oases of their inspirations

void any passions they may once have had for further penetrations of the Mysteries

With them we can but lean back now and reflect on the Indisputableor embrace some poisonous familiar that can be known neither to eye nor ear

Still they have the better of it

with their Absolutes and Standard Formstheir hide-bound wit and their deckled edges

for they are no longer required to don fresh boards each morningnor to elaborate one parse more on the least bit of wisdom they've placed between dust covers

nor to become ever more deeply involved in double talk with their psyches

At daylight's end they rest on their laurelsPerhaps they dream

While we poets today

blown as whim dictates must spin endless ennui into toothsome metaphor each turn of the daywithout purpose without cause without structure to guide us

Blown as whim dictates we have an eyeful of grief

and nights pass among us when no one sleeps

wlm01-20-07


7/33

07


Great things and small vanish entirelydown the Name of the River-That-Never-Changes I know so well

I know all the other names for Evil too like the tip of my tongueand even now in my dotage

where one at last becomes a sageI still remember

some of those for GoodLove Life and Meaningfulness

GodCountry

Stymied tho at this age by Process and Realityat odds between the Labyrinth and the Obelisk

I hang about in dark niches like a word of praiseor a child wearing strange clothing

forgetting the names of thingsplaying games with impalpable forms late of evenings

evenings full of chilly shadows and sounds with mysterious resonancesstrophes out of the Ethereal

Sometimes accompanied by Lost Pride and an ineffectual storm withinI hunt down erring thoughts of others

imagining I have found an exit into Outer Freedomnot subject to the Laws of Words

With Guilt I often enter into this World-of-Ideal-Consolationsbeyond tenacious dreams and other terrestrial deceptions

a world apparently constructed to outdure Foreverwhere Things-Without-Tongues appear endowed with speech

Thus Knowledge accumulates Wisdom passes awayLove Life and Meaningfulness

The Gods are dead

Birth and Blooming Decline and Deaththe four walls of Eternity

even these Evil insinuates

The Labyrinth the Obelisk

Evil

If you want to know more names for Evildon't ask me

ask a child

wlm04-01-06


8/33

08


How near Darkness we always arewith only a streak of Light showing thru Here and There

slipping past some celestial crackto strike

a broken bottlereflect

off an asphalt road after rainto create

some ephemeral exceptionbeyond Mastery of Technique

Scienceand Wisdom

Even soour Eye is above it

our Heart is not with itfor to some degree we are all doubtless

We live in grooves instead of Groves of Learningour waking moments taken up with the grooming of our five dimensions

instead of our sensesneither devout nor deviant

dulleven our dreams unintelligible

irrisible

We live in groovesnarrow universes in which symbols that have lost their powers

have more place in our livesthan the epiphanies of the Real

a mauve innuendohumorless

displaced off centerwhere we rejoice to see Authority articulated

in the banal cadences off derivative chorusesof well-trained Asses

expostulatingbraying over the pat symmetries of some one closed system or another

while Artificethat unmasks the Inexplicable

the Cosmic Irony in all Thingsis banished into a region where Validity has vanished

How near Darkness we always are

wlm04-01-06


9/33

09


In a season when even the strongest limbs bend under icesleet sings thru the old maple trees in my yard this night

in unscanable linesin an Angst without reason

in a rhythm all its own

Snow drifts three feet high this nightover the womb of the pregnant Moon

blanking out all that was ever ground

In my night clothes at this hourmy thought-states trimmed in black and white

I stand waiting at the window for these times to changea so-so dealer in the oils and silks of Language

the etymon of your typical everyday dialectical ruse

Tautological existence theorems halo my headpunctuate with icicle exclamation points

those simple snow-bound sentences outsidedivide the meaningful into aliquot dollops

residueswithout residues

Every now and thenfor diversion

I quarter a fluxion in the Infinitesimalsome snowflake or ice crystal

or bury an inconsistency beneath a snowbank of limitsmarveling greatly

while I wait

wlm04-01-06

10


10/33


11/33

11


Sloth-Footed Time pitter-patters away like sleet on the stones abovewhile here I am by some infinitesimal calculus

still trying to prove the beauty of Summers Last Rosethat withered blossom of my latest methodological calamity

buried here with me beneath a mud-slide of reinterpretationa seemingly never-ending inundation

of causal forcesand rock-falls of Reason

For having leapt early into the initial trap of Innocencethe faith of the sent

those with a missionI must now scratch my way out

from under this thought-stifling Heapwith the gnarled fingers

of a human mindthat can barely fathom perspective

or square a circle

What can one expect

Depth is the Sky's prerogative

Yet perhaps somewhere somedayabove Form and Earth and Reason

beyond Space-TimesColossal Horizon

some Cloud of Knowing will localizeand I shall understand

wlm04-01-06

12


12/33

WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES SUMMER 1983

Anger like a fire sweeps over my tabula rasaburns holes at periods

Hand me ire any day not hand-me-down truthsFor why be caught up in a straight-jacket of facts

in the immense Asylum of the Maybe-Perhapswhen the Impossible is so much more rare

So I gulp down each drop of the ichor of this micro-morningof a day that will be an eon long

cringing before conflicting dreams

Last night the viscera of the sacrificial Owl was thickand today's Swallows fly like feather-brained gods

fleet-winged into the Wind of the Sunwhile I pursue the licentious life of a sage here in the Woods

at the Navel of the Eartha life still valid for those of us with a bent toward Eviland for poets who in their mad quest for Immortality

indiscriminately apply their Science and Arttoward the destruction of Form

abandoning the Beautiful the Good for the Hyperbolicgiving their fugues over to the Disproportionate the Amorphous

that seems to be more titivating nowin the aftermath of the New Eurhythmia

For to appear to be unique these sad days and still to present an intelligible aspectone has to bend one's lines and the Truth a little more than one might

on another dayto be heard

Or praised

One has to be agent and provocateuruse two-fisted words to overcome the Listless

in a world where precise measurement is thought most wisewhile the masking of Nescience in the never-changing parapraxis of Negation

is considered WisdomMost High

and Banality is all the rage

wlm04-01-06


13/33

13


What an onus it is to be a mystic

to have to become on cue directly a godknowing one is blest at best with a system of bad logic

but still an invulnerable divine being in one's own rightwho will be left alone

to struggle with his lonely creedas one who since master of his own unique craft

must pull his own oarsup a Nile of Lies


knowing however wise the oracle one may preachwhat some fool will say will come to pass

knowing how pure the Light of Transcendent Wisdom isin this heart of all hearts your own

that up against the a priori System of Natural Formsthe glow will dampen and the gilding vanish

self-interest and pride will once again stand sentinel

even over the recipients of those instantaneous conversions you madethose who throve after your Way

will involve themselves in every rascalityevery wickedness Existence can stir into

the cauldrons of their imaginationsmingling sadness and sin

with your own generous all-encompassing holy over-all thematicConceptions

till at the Endthe last of all prizes

even you will hesitate to close out that hubristic hiatuson the flyleaf of your own Grand Book of the Knowledge of Awe

of the One and Only Wayyour Own

with anything more than a set of empty bracketsin a footnote

at the bottom of the page


wlm04-01-06


14/33

14

WLM : THE UPPITY WOODS PIECES SPRING 1980

An ancient spirit in me winds its cunning horncalls me back cell by cell to where

the Human Will was born

Across the blackboard of the Nightthe positively-loaded expressions of the Stars

stand out like fixed answers

Leaf by leaf the vegetable garden of my mind unwhorlsluxuriates in fantasies of Nubian princesses

of milk-white Aryan maidensand tawny Orientals

Outside Reasonfascinating realms abound

new Ages of Iron Silver Gold Brassnew and barbarous Forces of Change

And ArtAlways Art

wlm04-01-06


15/33

15


Immersed in the full consequences of this warm comfortable eveningmy amateurish defenses in word symmetry broken thruby prancing steeds of sound with one-way meanings

and occasional bustrophodons mounted on double-entendresI panic into a pandemonium of pure expression

I surrender my will over words

These loosed and unconnected nowfoisted on the Universe of Discourse by this change in my circumstances

drop off into duplicities that work their disjunctive relationshipsinto full-blown gang-rapes of the subjective

Disentangling latencies unwind themselves ever more closely apartwith sparse filaments of similar-sounding syllables

As if by magic perpetually adjunct multiplicities that were till now unassailablesunder any and all

of their explanatory capabilitiesUnbuttressed by facts these stretch themselves out across

unconscionably structured lacunaetill there comes no end

Tho I suffer much from these alaconic strophesinaliquot as the time seems to be

that runs thru my hands during this asymmetric seizureI cease to be a synonym

and

along this right-deviating line that extendsto where the System bends

before the All-Too-Vast-PrevailingI would wend my happy way thus in all my duplicity

wide-mouthed as any other foolmy ears dragging in the Ubiquitous

to the ends of the Earth

were I so wise

wlm04-01-06


16/33

16


I can hardly keep from smilingSpring has heaped on Earth so early this year

nights so unexpectedly warm and balmy

It would seem as if I'd been made the victim too of this gentle jestwere it not for the knots in my insides

But the Moon's at syzygy nowand I've been out praying thru a spider's web

for the misfortune of those gods I feel are no longer with meFor my gut cannot take such a joke as this from Reality

For even we Jackanapes of the Word have a limited vital timeonly so many springs early or late

to worm our way into that cliqueunique in purport

the Society of the Lynx-EyedWe have no time for laughter

So soon is one snuffed out like a lamp with a light puff past the wick

But the Moon even now at her most distantreflects my curse back on me like a muffled echo off the Wall of Oblivion

saying

Go on sighing in your Inner Sacristyif you must

Yet know those Towers of Gold you plan and build in your mind at nightbeyond this spider's lace of silvery threads

out of that complex plethora of bleak linesyou see etched in by those multitudes of windblown limbs not yet leaved out

on that grey dome inside your headeven if you were to carry out your dreams in the light of day

would soon be but low hillocks of ash and clayinsignificant little tels

like the starved breasts of a homeless childmutilated by Time

before her time

Or shallow dips in the earthlike the eye-sockets in your skull

Go out this NightThrow care to the Wind

Enjoy my giftEnjoy this Spring

It may be your last

wlm04-01-06


17/33

17


I found her Alcmanwhile out revalidating words far from the Great Centers of Truth

She was reclining on a bed of new leaves and making obscene gesturesgestures for me to come root in Circe's mire

to sing a song of lustShe was so scantily clad with no other man near to tease her

She seemed to be sayingCome lie with me till the Wind doth rise

and I will slip Winter's iniquities off youlike a glove

And the Wind rose like a woman sighingAnd the Storm came on me like a fire

And I who had found peace by becoming a scholarfelt a power in my rood enough to produce a rivulet from stone

Her byzantine deviousness turned my nobly disciplined mind to rhymeand caused the trees to flower

Unhinged so far from the smell of Great Learning

I became iambic with imaginationand indulged in unseemly practices not customary with me

Yet now that I know our need for each otherwere I to be granted leave

to wander thru for a thousand yearsall of Learning's Great Market Places

I'd not exchangeall the Lore I might garner there

for that one Hour of Wonder

in her boudoir

wlm

04-01-06


18/33

18


Brief euphorias these inevitably followed by returnsOne is forever extricating one's Self from the tangle of one's Own

that sensuous Residue remaining after Identity's once been establishedthat Imprecation beyond precise meaning

like an Incantation wafted in on a foul breezecoming off an Unexpected Source

dependent on a multitudeof Sources

The Self

Age-old this nuisance isthat no one's ever found a way of getting round

along withoutfor long

ForPure Will

in a disjointed Worldat the first false quiet plunges into

softly closing Death

like dandruff on a Dark Sleeve

wlm04-01-06


19/33

19


Old acquaintances I've never met strangers I've known it seems for ages meet insidethe Jury Box of Consciousness within my head

dark-deep as all the FirmamentDragonflies with piercing eyes alight on pools as wide as Night

attach themselves at crucial times to incongruous outward signslike hammers driving nails

Behind the brains weird scenes from Literature replacethe secret rites profaned

by uninitiateswhile I

spread out like paint

I am of a piece with the Changeable My Friendsbathed in the bathos of the Ego's I

dripping on the Nascenttoweling off on the Unpredictable

I belong to a little world apartwith mores all its own

that frightens some

leaves others cold

I vex myself to know

My Friends I would cut a passage thru my partsand crumble into nothing left

than not

Judge as you will

wlm04-01-06


20/33

20


OK Darwinlet us suppose the ancient progenitor of the European cuckoo

had the same habitsas our American dodo

Why notIt's not as if the World had suddenly become absurd

it always wasAnyway a dialogue with the Old Gods

with the alleged Ignorance of the Ancientscan always be re-initiated

If we are wrongwe will still be able to weave a terminological blanket

under which we may hide those phenomenawhich are not immediately understandable

we may even allow ourselves progress gruntsand other dissociative side amusements

such as scratching our wattlesif we so desire

But instead of candid realists conversing out in the open airin the mystical language of Physics and Religion

vis--vis Math and Mythwe will always appear to the masses

and to the historicists among usas occult conspirators against the main trunk of Life

huddled together furtively in some dark crotch of the Behavioral SciencesWe will always be placed in some bleak situational classroom

of nonsymptomatic improprietycell-mates of Socinian foxes nibbling at grapes

agape crows have droppedOur peculiarly modern sort of self-pity

such as the feelings we have when someone else gets run over by a truckor pulls the legs off a fly

that has replaced the old mythical sort of self-knowingand the in-group awareness of what roles one may play

might lead to interesting discoveries about why we believeor about the semantic power of prayer

maybe even some forthright primal utterances of aweBut it will give us no way

to counter the gambit of Transcendenceinnate in the initial state

Games of BeliefOr Identity

wlm04-01-06


21/33

21


So quiet here beside the wisteria blooming at the mid-post of SpringIf it were not for the Ethereal one could almost hear petals falling

So quiet hereYet a wet blanket of perturbation unrolls before me

this sultry vernal eveas the orgasmic cycle of the diurnal draws to a close

as moths weave the woof of the warm into strange cloth on the loom of the Unexpectedas they skitter from haunts more sequestered

moths in their nocturnal flighttoward the Light

The flame in my lamp flickers on the rough wood table outside my windowwhere I burn for the Light in all its broad spectrum

where I train my mind to fathom the wispy ways of mothsand bore my brain to distraction over the differential equations

to the infinitesimal angulationsof their scaly wings

and doze off into dream among the square rootsof the permutations

that determine flight

A moth becomes caught inside the screen of my lampstruggles about on the hot globe

stuck to the surface of Light by some strange fascinationsome fascination I too can feel the heat of

but cannot yet fathom

For it is not in the nature of things for men of my ilk at this hourfor the simple-minded

the well-trained the well-readthe overtly conditioned

who can tell by rote and a tenacious will how the moth fliesto understand why it plunges toward the Flame

but for the roundly educated the aged the Wise

who understand the ways of Lightas well as flight

So quiet here.

wlm04-01-06


22/33

22


Summer worms its way in everywherea quaint series of events strung out like woolly caterpillars across the blue leaf of the sky

poly-eyed clouds with their eyelids closed their fleece whipped about by whirlwinds of light

Distant thunder ripples lingers over the sill of my south-opening windowwhile a clone-like calm waits between me and the passive rugged Woods beyond

my inner self that's come out of its hide

Like me the Woods have a certain amount of rot in their rootsThey dread the storm they fidget about

Darker clouds move in full of round raindrops

phials full of subtle fragrances about to spill

Two-fisted Nature with her dander uptosses a thunderbolt out of the uncommitted blue

turns the green side of the Woods over in a shimmer of sound

The shrill of cicadas vanishes as the storm comes onand the hum of mosquitoes

I risk my last bit of purity trying to capture some nonsensical nuanceoff the flypapers on my mind's inner walls

but those exigencies that might have kept me coherent blow quickly byswept away from my traps by the lack of adhesiveness in the Logos to grasp and hold

the conjunctive legs of the moment's Incomparablesthe rain the calm the thunder the sky

at three removes

wlm04-01-06


23/33

23


In Googolopolis '84hi-tech Nerds fresh out of school

rush about beneath the starsin hi-performance kiddie-cars

the Force is with themin Googolopolis '84

In Googolopolis '84the Best's abhorred and Genius

while Mediocrity is blessedbetter a Fool than Wise

in Googolopolis '84

In Googolopolis '84the lives

of those of us who still have Hopeare run by Pedants Cooks and Scribes

or others guided by fainter goalswhose outlay I suppose

self-satisfies

and those who gropein similar groups

and double-speakwith secret ease

in esoteric tongueor computerese

or those who stand in awe of thesein Googolopolis '84

In Googolopolis '84those of us who still have Hope

eulogizethe Wise and stand

four-square against this Master Plan

for Manbut who are we

to stay the rush to Mediocrityin Googolopolis '84

In Googolopolis '84we who hope

hope for times to come againwhen Cooks keep kitchen

and Teachers teachand Clerks keep books

instead of bookWe pray the Wise shall rule

If not the StrongAnd if the Force be with

rather than Nerdbe with the Fool

wlm04-01-06


24/33

24


Sulphur and Pitchand an ointment made from the Eye of a Wolf

that once waxed boldto solace the soul

to work with the Mists of Ragea most efficacious salve wherewith

to rub the gums of timorous wits whereinBeetles and Slow-Worms creep

and wriggle about

Ideas

monstrous as Maggots under a microscopewitty Saws whose viscid Walls one shivers to touch

with a naked thoughtthat might disturb the Mold

Savants without glebe or mansecircumscribed within the astrograms of their own creeds

they ply their trades

the Pros the Cons the Systematistsmisanthropists all

Sellers of Sulphur and Pitchand an ointment made

from the Eye of a Wolfto solace the Self

to work with the Mists of Rage

Sulphur and PitchBeetles and Slow-Worms

monstrous Maggots and viscid Wallswho will disturb the Mold

wlm

11-23-06


25/33

25


Round and round they gomy woolly caterpillars on their desiccated leaf

the world selected out for them from the Great Spectacle of available Earth and Skyeach traumatized by the anxieties of the one before the one after

which each has dramatized in its own wee mindas an excess of choice in a worthwhile endeavor

each imagining itself its mainspring and guideeminently willing to suffer for its enhancement the laborious rounds

that drain the soulthat break the brain

each forced by its own wee drop of will to continue these pointless roundsplaying out its life-line

in a woefully contracted grooveit imagines its own

it imagines wisenever once envisioning an either-or

or an impossible missionor a games-end

content it has reached its goal by serving the Cause by conforming tosome pis aller

set by anotherwho imagines it has reached its goal

by conforming to someone else'spis aller

ad absurdumad infinitum

Can it be supposed that in such a milieuin such a makeshift world of least resort

facts have not been suppressedor in a world where even the names of things have been usurped

by mathematical assumptionsand their relationships subsumed under operational signs

that Wisdom really comes neatly by in the round

or in bundles of punch-cardsthe unified syntheses of the experiences of clerks

reduced to numbers and categorized by slotreductio ad absurdum

ad infinitum

No No My Dolsome FriendsI think were one really wise one would shrug off these makeshift worlds and go out on ones own

and look for breakthrus that might be found beyond words beyond numbers beyond othersbeyond this mind-clutter of abstract shibboleths that stand for what is

the apparent and intransigentthe pap for computers

And rather than follow appearances in a world unsuited for Reasonwith the woolly persistence of a worm caught up in a ring of worms

one would rather seek out that That that isOnes Own

by being content with nothing lessthan Extraordinary Signs

with Acts awesome and omnipotenttho unintelligible

Actsthat can only be communicated

by Extraordinary Signsand perhapsby Poetry


26/33

andSong

wlm11-23-06

26


THE VEGETABLE GARDEN

Thereoccasionally in

some passing breezea limb may wave

an orificeopen

Thereno flower grows wild

nor weedNothing's allowed

to go to seedbut plucked

The vines that witherare quickly shuttled

out

Yetoccasionally in


an orificeopen

Most oftentho

the only stiris when

some piggy-wig squealson Mahogany Row

Stilloccasionally in


an orifice

open

wlm04-01-06


27/33

27


Along Recall Roadtribally old themes recur My Prince sonata-like

great swoops of seeming permanence andanarchic interplays of ignorance

I stuff them into sound-tight verbal contrivancesand hang them on my walls

This morning my room is filled with themand vases full of withered flowers

here where I wait for new roots

in the Land of Second Chance

How incorrigibly duplicative everything iswhen the ultimate parameters of one's life spans

the accumulated experiences of all alternative endsHow the mlange of repetitive nonsense wears thin wit's ends

till the lone feat left that one's mind seems capable ofis total recall

Or acquiescing inthe Inexorable

Carpe diem Sweet Prince Enjoy the hourHow well I remember those fascinating days when once I too

would early up and be abouteager-willed

organizing my priesthoodthundering out efficacious prayers to non-existent gods

offering my Self to each rising Sun with a pristine naivetDoing Doing Doing

How well I remember

And now to thiswaiting beside the Recall Road

in the Land of Second Chancehoping to be transformed by some sort of sleep-waking spell

from the monotony of tomorrow

Carpe diemMy

Prince

Enjoyyour

day

wlm04-01-06


28/33

28


Relieved of past mistakeslost in leisure

the vast Conger Eel of Heaven and Earth already in my gunny-sackI piddle now with my syntactical pole

trying to catch the Sunfish of Truth and Right MeasureI drift from place to place in my concrete boat

listening to the symphony of the Sunthe singing Stars

passing over deserted fishing grounds

full of old CrabsYet my mode of conduct is not one to cheer

the SanctimoniousFor I look forward to feast days and the iatromagic of hot baths

No longer content with measuring extensionnor transmuting imagination into Poetry

sometimes I even think thoughtsthat are unfortunately dangerous

to the All MightyAnd I no longer bear stoically what the Future hands me

At times I am even tempted tolaughter

wlm

04-01-06


29/33

29


On a summery day with a hot wind blowingmy senses unguardedly open to a text I have often before perused

an ancient lay of the land of the Tartarsabout mastering one's horses

before attempting to crossimplacable rivers

So well before this day with its hot wind blowingI have had time to map out sequences for my bones to follow

in order to place myself in accord with my surroundingsto avoid ossification of the brain

But my mouth is dry nowas if I had just lied to myself

I have lied to myself beforemy imagination knows well how to brew a myth out of Summer's condiments

fantasies filter down on the hot winds of Summeronly to rise up again

distilling off the alembics of my human experimentheady concoctions

And I have gulped them in like an uncouth barbarian

until here I find myself soothlessat this late hour

holding the reins of a worn-out horseat the mouth of a river

too wide to cross

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Often I am disconsolate these halcyon daysstrange images roam about

too far removed too strongly present to be conceived as wordsyet the secret language with which I praise myself

glibly twitters away to itself in the Darkwhile hushed hurrahs rise from my mind's gutters

In a souciant abandon these calm days I wonderoften of Fame and Fortune

as lucid nights drop on my brain's ragged copse

I know not why TibullusFor Praise never was my passion either

that double-edged wool dyed for the ears of others

Still Envy gnaws in the Darkchomps away inside my navel like a maggot

Even in sleep the muscles that hook my head to my neck knotas if thewed for strife

And my mind embarks on livid rampages of Guiltsoars beyond Pity for itself into direct apprehension

of the sordid fact that Meditation in itself

seldom results in outward Praise

that Meditation

more often than notis only a sop

to soothe

to praise

theSelf

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Let your mind linger a while longer with minethis sad hour if you will

here where I await Humility's inevitable returnto Mankind's once again seeing things aright

here at this hour when Day takes flighttakes leave of the Great Surround the Sky

takes leave with a touch of malice that rousesa speculative ardor

in those of us who would confound our Friends

with the mysteries of Poetry and Philosophy

Oh how Conceits combine witless Wordswind Ideas out to the Ends-of-All-Things

confuse intimations of the Ways-That-Things-Arewith the rivets that hold together

the Masterworks

How events conspireI was not always a poet

Once I designed Walls that could not be leapedby the Wind

or pierced by FireOnce I was a mighty hunter of Ibex and Argali

My hounds ran wildthey attacked the Living devoured the Dead

How events conspirenow I am Nimrod old blind

searching his begging-bowlfor a koine

PourboireTrinkgeld

Alms for the Love ofPoetry

Alms for the Love ofPoetry

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Book I - The Uppity Woods Pieces (to Scribd 07-09-09)

Documents

Transcript of Book I - The Uppity Woods Pieces (to Scribd 07-09-09)