Book Abroad Poetry

 

Incessancy

What am I to do

With memories

And the call to move

Through time and back

Against the moment

For a thought

That wants desperately to be alive?

What is it doing here?

Why has it arrived?

My Early Mornings

What happened to my early mornings?

That time of day

To rise and shine

And greet the sun

Before it rose high

High enough

To paint the sky blue

And be with me as she did it,

But now wondering where I am,

Seeing me with this girl-

Is she my sun?

(There is no question

More complicated than that)

And so the sun is jealous

Because the sun is her

Asking why I gave this girl

My life in bed for nights

Though she forgets,

I gave them to her as well

And she took my mornings too

A Stream

This lovely stream

Cornering the breath I breathe

And the rocks in current

Holding close

Gripping the walls

Of surfaces

Ground still in place

With tress by their sides

And paths still in motion

Heading straight for the sea

Curves

This water is silent

Though it moves and it turns

To bend through curves

In clear and calm rhythm

Through the infinite steady

Of constant and quiet

Love at First Sight

What could our eyes tell us

If they could speak

Long enough

To let these moments pass

Without silence

As something moves

Through feelings

Struggling to talk

But still and quiet

Long enough

For the wind moving between us

To translate something about love

And the desire to be closer

Without giving up

Permitting what breezes can do

To carry beauty

Across landscapes and oceans

Stretched far and wide

Long enough

To let nothing lapse through time

Allowing everything to be felt

No matter where we are

How we end up

Or what becomes of out lives

Where Am I to Go?

Where am I to go?

Nowhere

Left at hand

To be broken past

And behind

A thousand words spoken;

They may never catch up

They’re moving fast

But remain out of sight

You Stir My Unconscious

You stir my unconscious

With a whisper

To a sound

Through a pulse

To the rhythm

Of a thousand tree tops

Swaying in the wind

Moving to the life

Of a once being calm

And always breathing moment

To Do

In all this

Is there nothing but a yearn for more

A chance to appear

Out from behind

A roosted corners hole,

To fall from skies

And be buried again

Only to pause and mourn

A deft and fleeting soul?

When I Draw

I hesitate the line parcel

Because I’m not sure of what will come

Since I doubt the creative emergence

Of some creation that doubts itself

Ignoring me

But forgetting myself

And yet wanting to be created

Only having to break out

My Inner Ocean

The ocean inside

Can never dissipate

But still by chance

At times to calm

It rests

Only to stir again

And rage tempestuously

Filling and never un-filling

Forever

Through a myriad

And everlasting life

Reborn to the upmost movements

That no never gone

And knows not a thing

Making Love

The sides

And perspectives of love disintegrate

At the approach

To union in kind

Where the felt and feeling

The dealt and giving heart

Bellows without a being

The way the universe as a whole

Gives itself up

In order to be

The Universe as such

My Emotions

I am determined to look closely

And see

But this pond of water muddled

Isn’t clear

Since I can’t seem to see the bottom –

For all I know

There is none

The Light That Light Displaced

You are the light that light displaced

A star ever bright

And sent away

Since what is space

Without the night?

Coda

When one final kiss is never enough;

When the last word never comes;

When you know that no matter what you do,

Or what you say

No matter how many more times you kiss her

Or in the ways you touch her

Or with what glances you try to content yourself

She will be standing there as the girl

Whose side you never want to leave

Then you know…

Choosing to Be Offended and the Illusion of Identity

 

Today it seems relatively impossible to have a discussion without offending someone. Moreover, it appears increasingly difficult to say or do anything without someone feeling offended. Perhaps this has always been the case, perhaps not, but it should be an obvious reality that one cannot be offended unless one chooses to be offended, and yet individuals often claim to be slighted even when most of the time it is clear that no one is intentionally trying to hurt someone else. In such instances it seems it is no longer about some real aspect of one’s self, or some important issue that needs defending, and more like some fabricated construct that one feels like asserting.

When someone is offended it is because he or she identifies with an issue or with a particular label associated with one side of an issue. That is, a person claims to identify with a specific label; “I am a…” or “I identify as…” Thus one becomes offended because his or her identity feels “threatened.” So the more important question to ask becomes, “Why have an identity?”

Having an identity is associated with being unique, with “standing out,” of being different; but oddly enough the etymology of the word ‘identity’ reveals the opposite meaning. The word ‘identity’ comes from the Latin root ‘idem’ which means “the same.” What one thinks one gains through having an identity is wholly illusory. There is an even better word that stresses the illusion of an identity. The word ‘personality’ is even more revealing. Although the words ‘personality’ and ‘identity’ are not entirely equivalent, there is none the less a huge overlap; both words are used to denote individuality. And yet the word ‘personality’ comes from the Latin ‘persona,’ meaning “mask.” Individuals crave an identity and yet they are only disguises. And still, so much seems to be at stake over having one.

Being without an identity does not mean negating one’s unique qualities and characteristics; it does not negate individuality, and it does not negate one’s right to defend him or herself when being abused to a threateningly high degree. Being without an identity means owning one’s sense of aliveness generated through an awareness and acceptance of one’s feelings. Everything else, all the labels whether they refer to nationality, profession, religion, activism, etc. are truly not real in comparison. Such labels may be useful for the sake of communication, but they are not what a person is.

All identities are inherently meaningless in respect to what every individual is by birth. No raindrop, leaf, or snowflake has to do anything at all to be unique; they just are by virtue of their very being. It is the same for every human person and in fact every living thing; there is nothing any one person needs to do to be unique every person is unique by right of birth; every person is composed of a unique set of characteristics because of a unique individual history against a unique setting and backdrop. The important question is, why is this not good enough?

One does not have to do anything to have a strong sense of self except be able to own and accept one’s feelings, desires, emotions, and thoughts, but these are precisely the very things a person is often running from. This sense of affirming what one is by birth is different from assuming or asserting an identity. An identity is what one asserts when one has lost contact with who and what one really is. It’s what one asserts in order to forget one’s self.

Of course such inherent characteristics as one’s inner feelings are not “flashy” and they do not make one stand out externally as much as one may want, but that is because an individual is not comfortable with his or her inner characteristics; it is one’s inner character and feelings that make one feel whole and yet these are precisely the things one is often running from, often because they involve repressed emotions and painful memories. It is this having to run away that makes “standing out” externally seem like a justifiable and necessary attraction when in reality it is only a façade, an escape. Such behavior is an “acting out,” where ‘acting’ here means “performing a fictional role,” and ‘out’ means departing from one’s inner sense of self.

Many people often try to stand out from the crowd without realizing that before one may stand out from a crowd one must be standing in a crowd. One often assumes that by standing out he or she is asserting an individual identity. But standing out really means standing in since it takes a crowd in order to stand out from a crowd. The consequences of this are that even when one is intentionally trying to be unique and assert themselves, that desire is still dependent on other people, on the crowd; one’s self is still dependent on and mediated through others when the truth is that one does not have to do anything at all.

Prose

“Have you approached the bareness? A kind of skulking before the spirit, amongst the living, yet beyond the stubborn soul, where indifference pries itself into one’s instincts in order to go on living; marching down on the thunder claps of hesitancy with a wide open determination, vast enough to incorporate their power; obsessive enough to continue moving forward?”

“Just this once, give up all your memories and embrace the sensation of the ever present void, that “blank check” of creation, dashing itself upon the shores of discernment, not as a conqueror, but as an all-pervading “what will be,” a kind of sempiternal foundation to which an eternity of constructions may put themselves upon. It does justice to life, much as you believe the opposite, if you could but draw nature in the figure of your imagination instead of your mind.”

I lay on the floor. Suddenly it felt like my body was a mound, under the soil and covered in earth. From out of this mound grew flowers, the roots of which were underground, tangled up with my body, growing from my organs. Though buried beneath I could perceive the flowers, I could feel their bloom, feel them grow, feel them age as if through seasons. I felt and became these flowers dying, withering and crimping until they laid low. And then suddenly a tree burst from the mound, rising into the air, fully grown, with huge robust limbs and a solid trunk; the flowers were the source of this new life; my organs were the source of it, and it grew from my body.

“He was an incredibly sensitive soul. If you ever sat and looked at him for a long period of time it was if he was carrying the weight of the world’s emotions. You could look into his eyes and see the entire world, all the pain and suffering, but all the pleasure and joy as well.

Most people run from that kind of sensitivity, he never did, but it took its toll, and I’m sure more than once he regretted and hated how sensitive he was. But he never betrayed it because he knew it would be a lie.”

How does one survive the challenges associated with understanding the mysteries of life? By that I mean the great wonders and the unfathomable beauty that survive without reason or a lasting explanation, always as an incomplete answer, like a divided number with a constant remainder. Do we survive by taking pleasure in the mystery itself, finding peace in the fact that it is a mystery with no complete answer? By indulging in the mystery, by accepting the unanswerable quality as somehow the source of its majesty?

What is an answer after all? Does knowing how a flower grows increase the splendor of watching it bloom?

He did not want to live, but he did not want to die; he wanted be alive and to feel life, and for that reason, living, living in a way connected with the expectations and norms of society, felt pointless, unreal, like the life of a mannequin.

“Why live when one can be alive? Yes exactly!” he thought.

Incited to feel the heart of attraction itself, lofted into the realm of a source found past to nowhere; moving beyond to a place without motive; leaving intention itself behind?