Michael McClure
Poeta de la Beat Generation
Michael McClure (nacido el 20 de octubre 1932) es un poeta americano, dramaturgo, compositor y novelista. Después de mudarse a San Francisco, encontró la fama como uno de los cinco poetas (incluyendo Allen Ginsberg ) que leen en el famoso San Francisco Six Gallery lectura en 1955 dictada en términos apenas fictionalized en Jack Kerouac 's The Dharma Bums. Pronto se convirtió en un miembro clave de la Generación Beat y se inmortalizó como "Pat McLear" en Kerouac Big Sur
Bibliografía
Passage (1956)
Para Artaud (1959)
Himnos a San Gerión y otros poemas (1959)
El Nuevo Libro / Un libro de la Tortura (1961)
Dark Brown (1961)
Carne Ciencia Ensayos (1963)
La flor; o Billy the Kid (1964)
El Barba (1965)
Trigo envenenado (1965)
Unto Caesar (1965)
Amor del león del libro (1966)
Freewheelin Frank (Frank Reynolds) (1967)
Los sermones de Jean Harlow y las maldiciones de Billy the Kid (1968)
Salve a Ti Quién Play (1968)
Musculoso de Apple Swift (1968)
Pequeños Odas y Los Raptors (1969)
The Surge (1969)
Star (1970)
El Cub Mad (1970)
El Adepto (1971)
Dibujos animados Gárgola (1971)
Los Mamíferos - incluye La Fiesta, La Flor; o, Billy the Kid y almohada (1972)
El libro de Joanna (1973)
Flor Solsticio (1973)
El acaparamiento de la hadas (1973)
Ángel Raro (1974)
Un Puño-completa (1956-1957) (1974)
Gorf (1974)
Blackberries septiembre (1974)
La última estadounidense de San Valentín: poemas ilustrados para seducir y destruir - Escribir Publishing Bloody antología (2008)
Mysteriosos y otros poemas (2010)
Ghost Tantras (2013) ISBN 9780872866270
LA ROSA ES UN UNIVERSO AMARILLO-VIOLÁCEO DESDOBLÁNDOSE
estrato sobre
estrato de luz
pétalo a pétalo
abriéndose
oscilante y aún así
perfectamente balanceada
como el humo
en espiral
de una mente que se quema
(Traducción: José Luis Bobadilla)
CANCIÓN
TRABAJO CON LA FORMA
del espíritu
moviendo la materia
entre mis manos;
la
moldeo
desde
la matriz interior.
Hasta un cuervo o un zorro
lo entienden.
(Traducción: José Luis Bobadilla)
LA LISTA
—HAY HOMBRES VIEJOS
DURMIENDO EN AUTOS VELOCES,
un halcón en el risco
mojado de neblina,
diez ciervos
en un prado otoñal,
álamos amarillos,
pinos
junto al océano.
Todo esto habla más
cuando nuestra
dureza
se relaja en
un nuevo nacimiento.
El valor
de las cosas
se resquebraja
y deja ver los intestinos.
_____________________________
Oro resplandeciente
temblando en la oscuridad.
(De Antechamber & other poems, 1975)
LO GATUNO
Me enriquece la música que el gato
hace de noche;
el delicado, fino maullido
mientras recorre el cuarto en busca de amor,
caminando despacio, maullando dulce,
gato gris y grande. No en busca de sexo
sino en busca de amor.
Asustado por ruidos que yo no percibo.
Sudando, perdido de amor
mientras ronda el librero.
(Traducción: Ernesto Cardenal)
LA NUBE
para Stan y Jane
LO QUE CONOZCO ES COMO
UNA NUBE.
Me arrojo dentro
de ella
mientras se hincha
detrás de mí
en oleadas expansivas de información
como un suéter verde
bordado con rosas rojas
flotando
en olas azules
envolviéndose
en el oleaje
de
estrella
a
estrella
reflejadas
mientras rugen motocicletas
y huelo
las pastas de piel
de libros viejos.
DE: Grahhr
EL TRAJE
Sonámbulos... ¡Fantasmas! Voces
como cuerpos que vienen a través
de las nieblas del sueño,
flotamos uno sobre otro –
pies desnudos que no tocan el suelo.
Hablando con la voz de nuestros amantes
QUE NOMBRA LOS OBJETOS DEL AMOR
(Inventando nuevas torturas,
máquinas para llevarnos.
Maravillas lanzadas de lleno a nuestras caras.
Ojos como zafiros u ópalos.
Lejanos como milagros. Escuchando
Jazz en el aire. Estamos pasando –
nuestras formas como capuchinas.)
Congelado, agarrado allí
mis hombros no te sostendrán.
LOS ACTOS HEROICOS
no nos liberarán. Libéranos. Amor.
Somos voces. El sueño está con nosotros.
de Hymn to St. Geryon, 1959
LAS LLUVIAS DE FEBRERO
SON LA CRUELDAD EN
CADA JOYA
y cada terrón negro
de carbón
fue una vez una multitud
de vidas.
Dentro de su piel
cada gurú
sostiene a un idiota
pero
ninguno
como
yo
que en secreto ideo
una liberación
llena de ranúnculos
y de hierba de ojos azules
y de los senderos dorados de la primavera
sobre la colina
y el aire que está lleno
del olor de la rosa
y del eneldo.
de Antechamber, 1978
AN ANTHOLOGY
OF POEMS BY MICHAEL McCLURE
SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR
This anthology was selected for presentation here in conjunction with the gathering of critical responses to Michael McClure's poetry edited by John Jacob. The base for Jacob's gathering includes essays from a Symposium on McClure, guest edited by Jacob for Karl Young's Margins symposium series in 1975. Essays written since then, including some written specifically for this gathering should give readers multiple views and a well-rounded presentation. The present anthology includes poems from all of McClure's books of poetry, and a passage from his play, The Beard. The poetry section also includes a large group of poems from Ghost Tantras, and some of McClure's essays will appear in conjunction with these poems and the essays on his work.
from Hymn to St. Geryon, 1959
FOR THE DEATH OF 100 WHALES
In April, 1954, TIME magazine described seventy-nine bored American G.I.s stationed at a NATO base in Iceland murdering a pod of one hundred killer whales. In a single morning the soldiers, armed with rifles, machine guns, and boats, rounded up and then shot the whales to death.
I read this poem at my first reading, in 1955.
Hung midsea
Like a boat mid-air
The liners boiled their pastures:
The liners of flesh,
The Arctic steamers
Brains the size of a teacup
Mouths the size of a door
The sleek wolves
Mowers and reapers of sea kine.
THE GIANT TADPOLES
(Meat their algae)
Lept
Like sheep or children.
Shot from the sea's bore.
Turned and twisted
(Goya!!)
Flung blood and sperm.
Incense.
Gnashed at their tails and brothers
Cursed Christ of mammals,
Snapped at the sun,
Ran for the Sea's floor.
Goya! Goya!
Oh Lawrence
No angels dance those bridges.
OH GUN! OH BOW!
There are no churches in the waves,
No holiness,
No passages or crossings
From the beasts' wet shore.
THE ROBE
Sleepwalkers . . . Ghosts! Voices
like bodies coming through the mists of sleep,
we float about each other --
bare feet not touching the floor.
Talking in our lovers' voice
NAMING THE OBJECTS OF LOVE
(Inventing new tortures,
machines to carry us.
Wonders full blown in our faces.
Eyes like sapphires or opals.
Aloof as miracles. Hearing
jazz in the air. We are passing --
our shapes like nasturtiums.)
Frozen, caught held there
my shoulders won't hold you.
HEROIC ACTS
won't free us. Free us. Love.
We are voices. Sleep is with us.
PEYOTE POEM, PART I
Clear -- the senses bright -- sitting in the black chair -- Rocker --
the white walls reflecting the color of clouds
moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms
not important -- but like divisions of all space
of all hideousness and beauty. I hear
the music of myself and write it down
for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they
sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit
among the peoples of myself and know all
I need to know.
I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM
there is a golden bed radiating all light
the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes
I smile to myself. I know
all there is to know. I see all there
is to feel. I am friendly with the ache
in my belly. The answer
to love is my voice. There is no time!
No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.
The answer to joy is joy without feeling.
The room is a multicolored cherub
of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach
is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain
is many pointed, without anguish.
Light changes the room from yellows to violet!
The dark brown space behind the door is precious
intimate, silent and still. The birthplace
of Brahms. I know
all that I need to know. There is no hurry.
I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.
I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.
I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.
I smile at myself in my movements. Walking
I step higher in carefulness. I fill
space with myself. I see the secret and distinct
patterns of smoke from my mouth
I am without care part of all. Distinct.
I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.
_______________________________________
(SPACIOUSNESS
And grim intensity -- close within myself. No longer
a cloud
but flesh real as rock. Like Herakles
of primordial substance and vitality.
And not even afraid of the thing shorn of glamour
but accepting.
The beautiful things are not of ourselves
but I watch them. Among them.
__________________________________________
And the Indian thing. It is true!
Here in my apartment I think tribal thoughts.)
___________________________________________
STOMACH!!!
There is no time. I am visited by a man
who is the god of foxes
there is dirt under the nails of his paw
fresh from his den.
We smile at one another in recognition.
I am free from time. I accept it without triumph
-- a fact.
Closing my eyes there are flashes of light.
My eyes won't focus but leap. I see that I have three feet.
I see seven places at once!
The floor slants -- the room slopes
things melt
into each other. Flashes
of light
and meldings. I wait
seeing the physical thing pass.
I am on a mesa of time and space.
! STOM-ACHE!
Writing the music of life
in words.
Hearing the round sounds of the guitar
as colors.
Feeling the touch of flesh.
Seeing the loose chaos of words
on the page.
(ultimate grace)
(Sweet Yeats and his ball of hashish.)
_________________________________
My belly and I are two individuals
joined together
in life.
__________________________________
THIS IS THE POWERFUL KNOWLEDGE
we smile with it.
___________________________________
At the window I look into the blue-gray
gloom of dreariness.
I am warm. Into the dragon of space.
I stare into clouds seeing
their misty convolutions.
The whirls of vapor
I will small clouds out of existence.
They become fish devouring each other.
And change like Dante's holy spirits
becoming an osprey frozen skyhigh
to challenge me.
from Dark Brown (1961)
OH EASE OH BODY STRAIN OH LOVE OH EASE ME NOT!
WOUND-BORE
be real, show organs, show blood, OH let me
be as a flower. Let ugliness arise without care
grow side by side with beauty. Oh twist
be real to me. Fly smoke! Meat-real, as nerves
TENDON
Ion, FLAME, Muscle, not banners but bulks as
we are all "deer"
and move as beasts. Stalking in our forest
as these are speech words!
Burn them pure as above they rise from attitude are
stultified. Are shit. Burn
what arises from habit. Let custom
die. Smash patterns and forms let spirit
free to blasting liberty. Smash the
habit shit above! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
LET PURE BLACK WORDS MOVE FROM THOUGHT BEHIND
* * *
((OH BRING OH BLOOD BACK THE COURAGE THE DEEP
THE NEGATIVE CHALLENGE
I deny. Love. Deny. Defy oh love. In blackness
a forest, oh damp earth. Put forth. Decry! Put down
until a shoot is sent forth matching. The purity
the image within. Oh crass and easy polemic
say
!I LOVE !
Let me be a torch to myself.))
OH HEART-SICK BURN STRIVE Past the drift-ease
to the depth within making a film of the gene
over the surface. Say meat hand, the hand black
in the deed as the strain toward the act. Each strike
an ugly huge music. Walking walking huge Love.
All a web from the black gene to the black
edge.
(((torture destroy tradition seek what gives damned
pleasure.)))
Exult in drugs
draw back to sight,
VISION
of purity & liberty,
MORALITY IS BEAUTY THE BEAST SPIRIT LIVES FOREVER
! !
!
I REST
from The New Book/A Book of Torture (1961)
FOR JACK KEROUAC: THE CHAMBER
IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER AND CHROME
I, sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement
of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold
light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing
and glinting. Blur glass . . . blue Glass,
black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh
seen in the clear bright light. It is not night
and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside.
And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls
in the light
of the room. I sit or stand
wanting the huge reality of touch and love.
In the turned room. Remember the longago dream
of stuffed animals ( owl, fox ) in a dark shop. Wanting
only the purity of clean colors and new shapes
and feelings.
I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY
I have ten years life to worship youth
Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow
* * *
IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I feel the swell of
smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars the brown shadows
on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to dull plane
from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love's face.
The telephone in cataleptic light. Matchflames of blue and red seen in the clear grain.
I see myself -- ourselves in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.
The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.
I am real as you are real whom I speak to.
I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up
and see nothing is changed. There is no flash
to my eyes. No change to the room.
Vita Nuova--No! The dead, dead, world.
The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.
An agony to be so in pain without release
when love is a word or kiss.
* * *
LA PLUS BLANCHE
JEAN HARLOW, YOU ARE IN BEAUTY ON DARK EARTH WITH WHITE FEET! MICHAEL
slaying the dragon is not more wonderful than you. To air
you give magical sleekness. We shall carry you into Space
on our shoulders. You triumph over all with warm legs and a
smile of wistful anxiety that's cover for the honesty
spoken by your grace! Inner energy presses out to you in warmness -
you return love. Love returned for admiration! Strangeness
is returned for you by desire. How. Where
but in the depth of Jean Harlow is such strangeness
made into grace? How many women are more beautiful
in shape and apparition! How few can /have/
draw such love to them? For you are the whole creature of love!
Your muscles are love muscles!
Your nerves -- Love nerves!
And your upturned
comic eyes!
Sleep dreams of you.
* * *
FOR THELONIUS MONK
ALL IS COOL AND BOUNDLESS AS A ROLLING LAMB OF JAZZ, I SEE
the shades slipt behind me. Avolekiteshvara!
I am blessed and protected. I hear the beauty
of the tossing notes. I am safe!
I it does not matter Love, Avolekiteshvara, Kwannon,
love you pale beauty
see my twisted head and face grow
thin again.
PURSUE THE SLIM SHADES IN AND OUT LOST IN IT ALL
hide you from yourself., choke
on my love for you, happy
for an instant.
( All is fire and I fat myself to be a candle. )
( Careful, careful crazy man and burning heart.
) OH! OH! OH! OH! Tired old fear. OH! OH!
from Little Odes (1969)
ME RAPHAEL
THE POINT OF AGONY IS THE POINT OF AGONY!!! ALL THAT I AM,
CONVERGES
IN BLACK RIFFS, IN BLACK RIFFS. I RAISE MY HAND
to the dark dark woman. i cry stop!
to the deep repetitions -- and this is the Meat
of poesy of the secret lost secret of Writing.
I've said it all in my book of torture and beyond that point
the black riff returned in the color of dark brown
to strike finally to that same point that
I dripped in my agony -- to make a visible shield
of fleshy chivalry and nobility in my sight
of sleek skin! OH OH it is all beautiful
I HAVE DEFINED BEAUTY
I RESENT MY AGONY AND I DESPISE MY SUFFERING
SAVE FOR THEIR BEAUTY
and that I have become immortal
AND I RAISE MY DARK EYES AND MY BROWS TO SEE THEM
PAINTED ON THE FOREHEAD OF RAPHAEL
____________________________________________________
damn all!!!
damn all!!!
damn all!!!
I HAVE LEARNED EASILY THE STAR OF GLAMOR
AND I RETURN TO MANLINESS
carrying a black machinegun
* * *
HUMMINGBIRD ODE
THE FAR-DARTER IS DEAD IN MY HAND, THE BEAUTIFUL
SHABBY COLORS
and the damp spots where the eyes were. Small form
that was all spirit, smashed on the plate
glass window. The green head and ruby
ruffles. The beautiful shabby colors
and the damp spots where the eyes were.
All head and chest and the Eros-spear
of the beak. Moving like Cupid
in the fuschias.
Hummingbird and spike of desire.
The huge chest and head and the beautiful
shabby colors. Tiny legs
thrust back in the last stiff agony.
WHAT'S ON YOUR SIDE OF THE VEIL??
DO YOU DIP YOUR BEAK
in the vast black lily
of space? Does the sweetness
of the pain go on forever?
IS THERE COURAGE THERE IN THE NIGHT?
WHERE ARE THE LOVES THAT MAKE THE BLOSSOM
of your body? Do they still spin
in the air? Your wives
and loves? Are you now
more than this meat? Finally
A STAR??
from THE BEARD
HARLOW and BILLY THE KID wear small beards of torn tissue paper.
HARLOW'S hair is in her traditional style. She wears a pale blue gown with plumed sleeves.
BILLY THE KID wears shirt, tight pants, and boots.
HARLOW has a purse.
The set contains two chairs and a table covered with furs -- there is an orange light shining on them.
The Beard was acted for the first time on December 18, 1965 at the Actor's Workshop in San Francisco. The play was directed by Marc Estrin. The set was designed by Robert LaVigne and costumes were designed by Louise Foss. The cast was as follows:
Jean Harlow . . . . . . . . . . . . . Billie Dixon
Billy the Kid . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Bright
The Beard was first published in a presentation edition of 300 copies. The author wishes to extend his special thanks to Billie Dixon, Richard Bright, Marc Estrin, Robert LaVigne, and Marshall Krause of the ACLU -- for all we have gone through together to make a blue velvet eternity.
Introduction
by Norman Mailer
Michael McClure's The Beard is a mysterious piece of work, for while its surface seems simple, repetitive and obscene, there is an action working which is dramatic and comic at once, and the play emits an odd but intense field of attention, almost like a magnetic field, almost as if ghosts from two periods of the American Past were speaking across decades to each other, and yet at the same time are present in our living room undressing themselves or speaking to us of the nature of seduction, the nature of attraction, and particularly, the nature of perverse temper between a man and a woman. Obstinacy face to face with the sly feint and parry all in one, the repetitions serves almost as subway stops on that electric trip a man and a woman make if they move from the mind to the flesh. That mysterious trip, whose mystery often resides in the dilema of whether the action is extraordinarily serious or meaningless. It is with these ambiguities, these effervescences, that The Beard plays, masterfully, be it said, like a juggler.
HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.
THE KID: So what!
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.
THE KID: Oh yeah!
HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.
THE KID: So what?
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.
THE KID: Oh yeah! (Pause. He grabs her arm.)
I'VE GOT YOU!
HARLOW: It's an illusion.
THE KID: (Squeezing her arm and raising it) You mean this meat isn't you?
HARLOW: What do you think?
THE KID: What makes you think you're so beautiful?
HARLOW: Oh, my thighs . . . my voice . . .
THE KID: What about your hair . . .?
HARLOW: What do you think?
THE KID: Your hair came out of a bottle.
HARLOW: You're full of shit! My hair is beautiful and it didn't come out of a bottle -- it's like this.
THE KID: Show me your baby pictures!
HARLOW: You're crazy! Why?
THE KID: To see your hair!
HARLOW: You ARE jealous.
THE KID: You're full of shit!
HARLOW: It's blond -- don't worry! You've got buck teeth!
THE KID: SHUT UP!
HARLOW: You'd like to be beautiful! Maybe you'd even like to be pretty. You wear your hair down to your shoulders. Maybe you'd like to be a chick!
THE KID: (He takes hold of her arm -- rolls it in his fingers) THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He sneers)
HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me!
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.
THE KID: So what!
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am!
THE KID: OH yeah!
THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He squeezes her bare arm and rolls it in his fingers.) --Why should I want to be beautiful?
HARLOW: Oh. . . You're a man.
THE KID: Yeah?
HARLOW: You're a man . . . And men want to be beautiful.
THE KID: I'm sick of that word . . . it makes me want to puke!
YOU'RE A BAG OF MEAT!
HARLOW: What word?
THE KID: Beautiful. I'm sick of hearing that word coming from a bag of meat.
HARLOW: Don't touch my arm again!
THE KID: Or?
HARLOW: I'll cut your dumb brain open like a bag of meat!
-- Don't you think I'm . . . lovely . . .
THE KID: You smell like myrrh. Come and sit on my lap. (He pulls her arm)
HARLOW: What if somebody came in and looked!
THE KID: In eternity. There's nobody here!
HARLOW: You said I'm a bag of meat! And you said shit about my hair.
THE KID: Maybe I love you.
HARLOW: You're full of shit. WHO CAN LOVE IN ETERNITY?
THE KID: (With sureness) Sit on my lap.
HARLOW: You're a million miles away, Sweet.
THE KID: Not in eternity! . . . Sit on my lap!
HARLOW: FUCK YOU!
from Rare Angel (1974)
RAVEN'S FEATHER, EAGLE'S CLAW, EVERY
SONG EVER CHANTED
by the whale hunter
is a collector's item
and wafts like mountain fog
from node to node before becoming clouds.
EVERY
BACKWARD
LOOK
puts us in touch with sentiment,
and hurts less than peering forward,
for tomorrow is the shadow of today.
Even the blue jay
gloats over his stash
of brass buttons. See the octopus play
with the exoskeleton
of his prey.
The statement's convolution
confounds what is already done.
Bulldozed hillsides.
Scarlet flower bugles on the mountain top
overlook the graveyard.
Such elegant music when we make it
(for poets call it music)
surprises
US
in the act
of what we do.
The hand plays hide and seek
with the eye, and we grow
great brains
in honor of the game.
Then we dance and the music
follows at our footsteps
and we stop to listen
as it passes by.
WE
HEAR
THE MUSIC
OF
our selves!
Call it animal nature -- or name it Civilization.
* * *
SPARROW HAWK SKULLCAP, LIGHTNING BOLT
THAT PASSES
THROUGH THE HAND.
WAVES OF CREATURES FLOATING
AT THE EDGE OF FIRE
dive into the air and bound
through space with grace
we nearly comprehend.
Bodies: brown and black and white all blended.
Hoofed and leaping.
TURQUOISE.
CHROME! Berries and Packards all exploding, lined
with fur for force fields.
DESTRUCTION UNROLLED UPON THE PLEISTOCENE
where we stride in luscious comfort,
and love our children,
hug our pets,
experience
the alchemy of being.
THE FEW OF US LIKE WAR CHIEFS
AND LOVE-GOD PRINCES
STAND ON THE PRECIPICE WITH FOLDED ARMS.
THIS
LIFE
has
been
nothing
for
me
but
pleasure.
The worst adversity
is only a length
I measure.
I direct creation of my bed of eider blackness
and drink the juice of apples
as I sup on flesh of crabs.
I
hold great minds
that lived before me
in my hands.
I KNOW THE MEANING OF THE POWER
THAT IS CHANNELED FOR ME. AND I
calmly watch the poisons
splashed across the land.
from Star (1970)
MAD SONNET 1
THE PLUMES OF LOVE ARE BLACK! THE PLUMES OF LOVE ARE BLACK!
AND DELICATE! OH!
and shine like moron-eyed plumes of a peacock
with violetshine and yellow on shadowy black.
They SPRAY from the body of the Beloved.
Vanes shaking in air.
__________________________________
AND I DO NOT WANT BLACK PLUMES OR AGONY . . . AND I DO
NOT SURRENDER. And I ask for noble combat
to give pure Love
as best I can
with opened heart.
Love,
I have not seen you before and you're
more beautiful than a plume!
Stately, striding in Space and warm . . . ( Your
human breasts! )
LET ME MAKE YOUR SMILE AND HEARTSHAPED FACE IMMORTAL
-------------------------------
YOUR GREY EYES ARE WHAT I FINALLY COME TO WITH MY BROWN!
AND YOUR HIGH CHEEKS, and your hair rough
for a woman's -- like a lamb. And the walking virtue
that you are!
* * *
LOVE LION
OH FUCKING LOVER ROAR WITH JOY -- I, LION MAN!
I GROAN, I AM, UPON THE CONE SHAPED BREASTS
& tossing thighs!
--AND SEND MY THOUGHTS INTO A BLACKER UNIVERSE
OF SUGAR!
Thy face is a strained sheer Heart twisted
to fine beauty by thy coming.
it is a million miles from toes to thighs!
(Our bodies beat like the ultimate movie
slowed to blurs of two meat clouds becoming
one -- and the Undershroud is joined
by kissing mouths.)
OH!
OH!
And I am some simple cub
with plump muscles, loving immortality!
THE SHEETS ARE WHITE.
THE PILLOW SOFT.
JESUS HOW I HATE THE MIDDLE COURSE!
Thy eyes! Thy eyes!
from Jaguar Skies (1975)
SONG
I'M AN EAGLE IN THE WHIRLPOOL.
I'm the fox of reason.
I have had my head bent for truth and treason.
I'm a star in the sunny moon light.
I'm the stumbling fool.
I'm the horse of night
careening on the cliff of flight.
Won't you kiss me?
Won't you hug me?
Please
tell me my name.
I'm the hand of April
with my fingers made of fame.
Come kiss me on my elbow.
Bless
my
mind
good night.
Sweet old flame.
Sweet old flame.
Bless my mind goodnight.
Come kiss me on my elbow.
With my fingers made of fame,
I'm the hand of April.
Tell me my name.
Please,
won't you hug me?
Won't you kiss me?
Careening on the cliff of flight.
I'm the horse of night.
I'm the stumbling fool.
I'm a star in the sunny noon light.
I have had my head bent for truth and treason.
I'm the fox of reason.
I'm an eagle in the whirlpool.
* * *
¡EL CERRO ES NUESTRO!
THE FLAME IS OURS!
We are the candle
that holds itself
aloft.
We are the Andes
among creatures
and our hands are soft
and our cotex
is a beacon
as are our toes.
You and I
are a river of light
that pours
and gleams
in
the
blue-black
snows.
We are perfect
as the tooth
of a squirrel!
--Lima-Huancayo railroad, Peru
from Antechamber 1978
THE RAINS OF FEBRUARY
THERE'S CRUELTY IN
EVERY JEWEL
and each black lump
of coal
was once
a multitude
of lives.
Within his skin
each guru
holds a fool
but
none
like
me
who secretly contrives
a liberation
filled with buttercups
and blue-eyed grass
and golden tracks of spring
upon the hill
and air that's filled
with scent of rose
and dill.
* * *
SESTINA
WE ARE WHITE FLAMES IN BLACK
and we are silver candles,
smiles on roses,
newborn babes,
otter consciousness,
and night shades.
We are ghostly shades
and the shapes of black
bonfires that melt through consciousness.
Perceptions are candles
and we are babes
who imagine the thorns of roses.
The petals of roses
make pink and blue shades
and scents over babes
who fear no black
candles
in the hugeness of consciousness.
We are the autumn of consciousness
giving birth to spring roses
by the silverware next to the candles.
Not all of the shades
nor all of the purple and black
convinces us we are other than babes.
You know we are babes.
Each thing is our consciousness.
The caves is black
but it is filled with roses
--and though we draw the shades
we light the candles.
The bright glow is from the candles
in the hands of babes
who outline the shades
of perception in consciousness.
See there are roses!
They stand in the black.
Those are candles of consciousness
that show we are babes and floating roses.
We are shades of flesh turning on black.
from Fragments of Perseus (1983)
LISTEN LAWRENCE
LISTEN, LAWRENCE, THERE ARE CERTAIN OF US
INTENSELY COMMITTED
TO
a
real
A REAL,
REVOLT! A REVOLT
that we only begin to
conceptualize as we
achieve it!
THE CONCEPTION
BEGINS SLOW
-- as we do it -- as we really do
it -- as we make the revolution
with our bodies -- our real BODIES!
OUR REAL BONES ARE NOT DIVISIBLE
from the bulks of our
brother and sister beings!
We're alarmed by the simultaneous extinction
and overcrowding of creatures:
WE
BELIEVE
that the universe of discourse
(of talk and habbit-patterned actions)
and the universe of politics
are equivalent!
THAT POLITICS IS DEAD
and
BIOLOGY
IS HERE!
We live near the shadow
AT THE NEAR EDGE OF THE SHADOW
((TOO NEAR!!))
of the extermination
of the diversity
of living beings. No need
to list their names
(Mountain Gorilla, Grizzly, Dune Tansy)
for it
is a too terrible
elegy to do so!
COMMUNISM,
CAPITALISM,
SOCIALISM,
will do
NOTHING,
NOTHING
to save the surge
of life -- the ten thousand
to the ten thousandth, vast,
Da Vincian molecule of which
ALL LIFE,
ALL LIFE
is a particle
*
LISTEN, BELIEVE
ME,
none of us can afford to luxuriate,
if we care about the presence of life.
The
whole scene
IS ALL ONE DIMENSIONAL!
MARCUSE was right!
because he saw there is
only one, one-dimensional, planet-wide civilization
and realpolitik.
Unfortunately
it is modeled on one of the most
perfect aspects of our nature: THE DESIRE
TO GROW, TO WASTE, TO BREED, TO BURN UP,
TO EAT, TO TOSS DOWN, TO TEAR UP, TO FINGER
AND TWIST, AND TEASE, AND MAKE ALL
THINGS TERRIBLE AND DIVINE,
AND GLORIOUS! And we have
succeeded TOO WELL,
TOO WELL!
We are the most complete successes
the world has ever known!
POLITICS
is
part
and particle
of this horrific success, success
which is -- in fact -- an explosion that has
ALREADY OCCURRED. We have charred
the surface of the earth leaving behind
buildings which are cinders from the blasts
of oceans of petrochemicals!
Look, books and papers are
the fossil fuel explosion of trees!
LISTEN, LAWRENCE, this
is the same old politics! ANY, ANY, ANY
POLITICS
is the POLITICS OF EXTINCTION!
*
IT IS TIME FOR PEOPLE TO COME OUT OF THE CLOSET
ALL RIGHT!
ALL RIGHT!
IT IS TIME FOR THEM
to come out of the closet --
OUT OF THE CLOSET OF POLITICS
and into the light of their flesh and bodies!
NOW
is
THE TIME
to learn to see
with the systemless system
--with the systemless system
like a Negative Capability --
of anarchist-mammal perception!
THAT'S BIOLOGY! Now is the time
to see that
it is our nature to be beautiful
and the destruction wrought by politics
is part of our beauty. Now we can learn
to see why it is our nature to go on with
this destructive politics. NOW WE CAN SAY:
LET'S STOP! LET'S STOP
THIS ENDLESS MURDER BY POLITICS!
LET
US
DO WHAT
WE CAN TO STOP
so very much useless pain!
It is our nature to overbreed and kill!
but our nature has endless dimensions! We
can choose among them -- we can reject,
we can reject the flowers of politics!
from Rebel Lions (1989)
MAYBE MAMA LION
for Ray Manzarek
OH
YEAH
! !
No,
it's oh yeah. . . oh yeah . . .; the wound
papered over, making paper tygers
--WITH A BANDAID . . .
BANDAIDS . . . BANDAIDS . . .
-
F
E
E
L
I
N
G
SO
BAD!
Out of body in the blackness.
Solid silver blackness of forty billion years
--in an agony of Crazy, knowing nothing
--looking for a self to hold the mind.
BEEN THERE MANY TIMES. BEEN THERE MANY TIMES.
The sand underfoot is just a blackness
to hold the blind. coming back to voices:
CALI, GOING BACK TO CALI, BACK TO CALI
FORNIA,
FORNIA,
NOT TO THE
FUR
N
A
C
E
-- but to the wound!
Many years covered over, still deep
S
T
I
L
L
there; TRIED TO BANDAGE IT
with long stem roses and white ferns.
((Lying on the beach watching chipmunks,
watching chipmunks and BUGS
and
ODD
patterns
ON
the leaves
HURT IN
MY SELF ES
T
E
E
M
!
((There's a bloody war outside that's whistling
through the wound!))
stretching
out to Someone
in
a
DREAM;
IT'S NO DREAM, STRETCHING OUT TO MAMA LION
IN A DREAM
SO BAD! FEELING SO BAD! ALL MY FRIENDS
HAVE LEFT ME
and we're eating rich food, rich food,
with the sound of silver clinking
on the finest plates
--IN CALI, GOING BACK TO CALI--
KALI,
we're eating you
in a dream. You're a salmon.
California salmon coming back to rivers
flowing from a head
on a cliff where folks look down on
the top of eagle's wings.
IT'S A GOOD LIFE!
IT'S A GOOD LIFE!
IT'S A GOOD LIFE!
(out of body out of mind)
--while the rain forests are coming down
Hear the crashing sound
IT'S DEEP INSIDE
Your life swinging round
your body.
Does Mama Lion love you?
Does Mama Lion love you?
DOES MAMA LION LOVE YOU?
Can the salmon drown?
* * *
DISTURBED BY FREEDOM
MY HAND IS A GUN AND EACH FINGER
IS A BARREL
and my arm is growing searching reaching
like a DREAM and I don't know
what to shoot, surely not the robins who have flown
ALL
the way
BACK
from the mountains of Sonora over the desert
where I have driven amazed at the craggy
strangeness of raw beauty.
((THAT'S WHAT I AM ABOUT: BEAUTY.
--BEAUTY AND SENSE))
and these robins have alighted here
in these green meadows where sprinkled water
turning warm runs over the masses of pink blooms.
I CANNOT SHOOT THE SOUND OF THE TRAFFIC.
A hundred bullets
would not stop that bus and I
would not hurt the children
or the adolescents at the moving windows
with their pink mohawk haircuts
and their sexual cries
LIKE HUMAN MACAWS.
It is another day and another dollar.
I
WONDER
WHERE
I
AM
((ROAMING SO SWEETLY FROM FIELD
TO FIELD DIS-
TURBED BY MY FREEDOM!))
--AND LOOK AT THE DEEP SCRATCHES THAT MADMEN
make with their keys on the sleek red
lacquer of my car.
I taste coffee in my mouth.
MY MOUTH IS WHERE I AM LIVING TODAY
but I am lonely as a skinny
old white cat with blue eyes
and irregular jagged spots of gray and black
showing a tiger pattern.
I am a tyger, I am an owl. I am some ancient wisdom
taking its own pulse and listening:
BANG!
BANG!, goes my finger.
BANG! Lover, I wish
we had bought
the purplish polish for your
toe
nails!
from Simple Eyes (1994)
THE FOAM
IT IS BRAVE TO BE THE FOAM
and sing the foam
IT IS BRAVE TO BE THE FOAM,
not really!
Inside is no place but an infinitude
of places
-- positions
becoming everything
in there.
THIS
is
THE FOAM
LIFE-LIKE STARS,
they too are the foam.
The deer antler fallen on the grass within the yard
is foam
as is the dew that mottles it.
Thousand foot deep clouds of one-celled beings
with shells of silicon and waving pseudopods
in oceans in another time and place
are foam
as are the uplifted peaks of shale they leave behind.
The visions of William Blake in future caves of thought
that are meat and plastic-steel are foam,
--as are Whitehead's luminous dreams
--all foam
Matter, antimatter, Forces, particles, clouds of mud,
the wind that blows in cypress trees, pools of oil
on desert floors.
THE BOY'S EYES NO LONGER SQUINT, LOOK DOWN
and there is nothing in his hand
nothing in his hand that's everything
and he stares through squeezed caves
of blackness
at a man's eyes
that shape a photograph of him
upon the fields of war and appetite
for iridescent foam of nacre-red and green and
MORTAR
THUD
on beaches on a wave-lapped shore
WHERE HIS MOTHER/FATHER SCREAM AND
SHOUT
and throw each other on the floor
and
HE
HAS
! ARISEN !
ebullient
from this exuberance
and wears his red Y upon his woolen chest
for it is his
--as is the future state
THIS IS NOT METAPHOR
but fact:
the green fur forest just beyond the sleek
and glossy plastic edge; shrews in their hunt
for crickets, hiding in moon shadows
underneath a rusting ford. Blue-black waves
beat on hulls of ferries. Light moves
from one place, or condition, to another!
HE'S THERE NOW AND EVERYWHERE
____________________________________
HE'S THERE NOW AND EVERYWHERE
as are the covers of detective magazines
with evil scientists who scalpel-out
the hearts of large-bosomed virgins
strapped to beds, then implant
the pump of chrome that sits upon
the operating table;
as is the broken toothpick lying
in the rain; as are the
HUGE
HUGE
HUGE
PASSION THAT HE FEELS
(shaking in his boy's legs and cock
--And those are the stuff of stars
that are the flesh of passions that he spins
into this rush of neurons and of popping foam.
These make immortal perfect shapes of the moments
that hold copper-colored leaves or twigs within
their hands,
with each foot upon a war and each arm
and every thought in one.
AN ANIMAL IS A MIND!
--A MIND--AND DOES NOT KNOW WHERE IT STOPS!
--Knows little of bounds or limits or edges.
--Goes on into all times and directions and dimensions.
--KNOWING ONLY THROUGH LIMITS THAT CANNOT BE KNOWN!
--IS A BEING OF SHEER SPIRIT!
--IS A BEING OF SHEER SPIRIT!
--IS A BEING OF BOUNDLESS MEAT!
--IS EVERYTHING IN ONE DOT OF THE CONFLAGRATION!
IS EVERYTHING IN ONE BARE DOT
IS EVERYTHING IN ONE DOT OF THE CONFLAGRATION!!
This is war that he is, and melts in
AND
IT
IS
NOT
FOAM.
HE
IS
A
BE-
ING
AND IT IS NOT WAR,
HE IS A MAN
! !
HE IS AN ANIMAL BEING
A
MIND
HE IS AN ANIMAL BEING
A
MIND
through the windows of his eyes
fingers and his eyes
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