Poetry thread

Brahma​

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
 
Poem: "the lesson of the moth," by Don Marquis from The Best of Don Marquis (Doubleday).

the lesson of the moth

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself



I discovered this poem by accident a year or so ago, and the message in it has stuck with me. Some have lived lifestyles like that moth, others have sought what they thought was beauty and simply self-destructed, whether through drugs, alcohol, or other means.
 
SeanRuel said:
Another one by Danusha Laméris called Feeding the Worms

Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds
all over the delicate pink strings of their bodies,
I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine
the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples
permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley,
avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots.

I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden,
almost vulgar—though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure
so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can,
forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.
Click to expand...
That reminds me of this one... called...

Lord of the Fruit Flies

All life is sacred

We humans tend to think we’re so special

But maybe we are no more important than anything else

Maybe we are no more important than a single-celled organism dancing in the ocean, or lunching in your tummy, or even living on your eyelashes

Maybe we’re no more important than a cloud or a raindrop

If all life sacred

How about all of creation?

Maybe God loves the fish swimming in the sea and every speck of space dust as much as he loves us

Maybe the Creator loves x-rays and moonbeams and ultraviolet light as much as the saints

Last summer when the fruit flies came to my kitchen

I decided to let them live because maybe their lives have value too

and what harm could it do

Maybe some fruit fly’s soul living in my kitchen will evolve into a great being, a dancer, a master of art, or a fountain of love

As human beings we will never comprehend these things

When the flies swarm I AM mostly ok with it

But sometimes it gets to be a little too much

Then I trap them and put them outside

And once in a while I kill them

Swatting them on the counter

Or trying to catch them in air

Slapping them between my hands as they fly

just to see if I can

When I open my hands to check and there is a little smushed black dot in there

I have to admit it feels good.

I AM happy to be their father granting them life in my kitchen

yet I also enjoy killing them

It’s wanton

Even I don’t understand it
 
And here's one I wrote for my X called

Wind Feather

My love floats like a feather on the wind

She dances and runs and flies and sings and plays and leaps her life forward

Always moving

In an unending quest for adventure

She seeks the extraordinary

Stretching herself far and wide across the world

She searches for beauty in any form

Unbounded by notions of right and wrong

She reaches her hands for the heavens and digs her feet into the earth

Up before the sun she announces with the delight "it's a whole new day"

And occasionally she smiles at me

Sometimes with the innocent look of a child

Sometimes as if she knows something that i don't know

And sometimes in awe

As though I am a Divine being taking her up into my heavenly lair

Where she cries like only a woman can

And then I wake up and realize it was only a dream

My God... what a beautiful dream
 
Before I Read The News

I press both hands
to my chest, then
look at the trees
and the road outside.
I imagine the world
beyond what I see,
cities, continents, space,
then close my eyes
to open.
I listen to what is here,
attune to the silence
that holds up all sound.
Feel my heart beat
against my palm.
Hello heart, I say.
Hello heart.
If I am to read the news,
I want to invite not only
my head but my body.
Want to receive it as if
I am river and sky
as much as I am human.
The ache of the news
is no less great,
perhaps greater, but
I know I am not alone.
In the barren branches
of my fear, the chickadees
come to sing.


—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
 
"I am losing precious days.
I am degenerating into a machine for making money.
I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men.
I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news."

― John Muir
 
One of my all time favorites

The Perfect High
by Shel Silverstein

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas -- which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.
Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits -- and cries -- and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes -- sits the godlike Baba Fats.
"What's happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz.
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here's one more burnt-out soul,
Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, or on no druggist's shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high -- find it in yourself."
"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I've climbed through rain and sleet,
I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
My ears 'fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"
"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.
"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it's always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."
 
The Forgotten Orange

I came upon a pitiful sight a fruit tree all forlorn and all it had upon a twig was a tiny, little, orange

The orange was rather shriveled it's skin was dry as bone you could tap it with a finger and hear a dreadful tone

With a hesitant sigh I picked it though it rattled like a can the hope of tasty morsels instantly on the lam

But then I remembered someone who would eat it and be thrilled that ragged special ranger who goes by the name Bear Grylls

Now my fortitude had my ego and my ego had the orange I took a bite, let out a sigh, and whispered, "not too bad by George"
 
My Father’s Flinch

Dad,

thank you for being a good father

You always treat me with concern, kindness, and care

I know you love me and that knowing is always within me

You show up with love

And act in my best interest

These things make me feel safe in the world

Because you never treated me with anger

I walk in confidence without undo caution or fear

But you are not without caution, fear or anger

Your little boy grew up in a world that was not safe

Constantly on guard and living in fear

You come by your anger honestly

And yet you never directed it at me

In all these years you have never even raised your voice to me

So you kept your vow

That all the dysfunction within our family lineage:

All the hurt and anger that gets passed from one generation to the next

Would come to an end with you

And so it is

Thank you
 
Last edited:
Rumi Said What you seek is seeking you



Earth reaches for the heavens

It’s primal

Have you noticed?

The universal drive to reach upward is all around

A child wants to grow up to be tall like his father

Trees reach for the sun

Sprouting seeds in the warmth of spring pop through the moist earth unfurling towards the sky

Every bird and flying insect, even the planes and rocket ships are all unambiguous manifestations of a longing to rise above

Like smoke rises from the fire

Workmen build skyscrapers

Volcanoes blow huge clouds of ash that blacken the sky for miles

Even the hair on your forearm

Its only purpose is to reach out into space

Just that little bit

Wanting to touch and be touched

The seas are made of water

an element whose very nature seeks the lowest depths of crack and crevasses

Yet still the ocean reaches upwards

In the peak of every wave

In the blowing spray and jumping fish

More mysterious still are the invisible forces driving evaporation

Unseen by the human eye, the forces of nature are constantly pushing water upward into the sky

Transformed by the sun, water turns to air

Does the sun draw water to heaven?

Or is it the water that longs to reach the sky?

It doesn’t have to be one or the other

Maybe it’s both

Or maybe this alchemical transformation, so crucial to life,

is simply a mystery: beyond human understanding

And it’s obvious that as the earth reaches for the heavens, the heavens must also be reaching down to touch the earth.

The sun’s rays pour down upon their destined targets

Maybe the ones that reach earth are the lucky ones, delivering their warmth and fulfilling their purpose in a short 8-minute blast

Instead of traveling endlessly into the void

The moon too loves to cast shadows down upon the land

Shooting stars are little pieces of heaven plummeting towards earth.

And lightning seeks to ground with blinding flash and such immense power that the land trembles

Why would the wind blow if not to touch the flora?

There is something Divine about the sound of the wind blowing through the trees

We all recognize it

The leaves quaking and chattering, dancing in the wind

The bows gently swaying to and fro

It must make the trees happy to be touched by the wind

Much as a child loves the feel of a cool breeze through her hair on a warm summer day

But it’s not just the leaves and branches that love the wind

The wind too loves the feel of the trees and the child’s hair waving back and forth

We don’t have much capacity to feel what the wind feels

But none the less, this must be true: for as above so below

In the west, the yin-yang symbol is described as “the unity of opposites”

Maybe a better way of seeing this universal principle is as the inclination of complementary elements to seek each other and merge.

Can we really call heaven and earth opposites, or are they better seen as complementary?

Are night and day opposites, or do they complement each other? Inevitably drawn together, one dissolves into the other.

so it is with human desire

That which you seek is seeking you

As the newborn seeks to suckle the breast

So the mother is inexorably drawn to nurse her baby

We all want to touch and be touched

To love and be loved

To hold and be held

Ask yourself this one question.

“What is my highest ideal?”

Are you seeking joy, beauty, truth or love?

know without a doubt, that as you seek joy, joy itself is seeking you

As you seek beauty, beauty is always there seeking to be appreciated

As you seek truth, the truth is wanting to be known

And as you seek love, Love beyond description is seeking you, wanting you, waiting for you to open your heart and receive.

And whether or not you are seeking God, God is seeking you.

Inevitably, as night dissolves into day, you and God are complementary forces that will be drawn together and merge as ONE.

May you enjoy the journey.
 
On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs
by Renée Nicole Macklin
2020 Academy of American Poets Prize


i want back my rocking chairs,


solipsist sunsets,

& coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.



i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores

(mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp—

the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):



remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils,

& salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms.

under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat

ribosome

endoplasmic—

lactic acid

stamen



at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills—



i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut—

maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.



it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead.

can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom





now i can’t believe—

that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their mouths “make room for wonder”—

all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as:

life is merely

to ovum and sperm

and where those two meet

and how often and how well

and what dies there.
 
Mortal Shell

One day my soul will leave the body
Like an empty shell on the beach
Surf will play with my bones as a hobby
Till the sun begins to bleach

Day and night on the changing tide
With every passing wave
The memory of me will churn and writhe
A lost pearl soon to fade

The fragments will be tossed and scattered
Strewn over dunes as wind swept ash
Mortal dust of irrelevant matter
Trapped in nature's hourglass

Hallelujah, freedom at last!
No more sin or dying
Prophecy fulfilled old body surpassed
My soul in Christ is flying
 
Some of it reminded me of the opening pages from the book A New Earth by Eckart Tolle. He writes about what it might have been like to witness the opening of the first flower ever on earth.
 
cory said:
Some of it reminded me of the opening pages from the book A New Earth by Eckart Tolle. He writes about what it might have been like to witness the opening of the first flower ever on earth.
Click to expand...
His first book, THE POWER OF NOW, was a new age hit. Good book, but the second, A NEW EARTH, was even better... I might just have to listen to that on tape.
 
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