Whitty Schism 2/15/14, That thing…

(my mind's continuing verbal wars with itself)

It's like that thing that wasn't 
what I thought it was 
though I was certain that it was

but now I cannot see it 
as I saw it wrongly. 
No matter how hard I try
I cannot now see it 
as other than it is.

It's like that thing 
I thought I saw 
but didn't, 

that thing that wasn't 
what I thought I saw 
but only what it was.

coin of the realm

You can not save 
your life.  It is 
not yours to save.

No one can save 
your life.  It is 
not theirs either.

It is not yours 
to own.  It is 
not your own.  It 

is not to be 
owned.  This is the 
beginning of 

bondage and the 
illusion of how 
to be possessed. 

It was never 
yours to own.  It 
is already
all loss to you 
the moment you 
think it a thing.

A life-saving 
procedure is 
only a small 

procedure for 
delaying the 
moot loss of a 

thing you never
owned, that was
never a thing,

saving it just 
to later lose
what you never 

had to start with.
You can't save life 
any more than 

you can save time.
There is no bank 
in which to make

this deposit.
You cannot bank 
on it at all

though you can, it 
seems, bet on it, 
bet with it, bet 

it on something,
gamble it and 
waste it in so 

many ways that 
you can lose track 
of the ways in 

which you’ve lost it.
But wether it
is or isn’t

here or not there,
it is all you 
have to go on.

Quoets for Poets: 8/8/13

(Many thanks to KB and Tiffany for showing me where to go with this one.  It’s not their fault I ramble so…I’m not always good at following directions…and besides, they probably had no idea…they were undoubtedly just pointing at trees or something and I, of course, said, “Yes!  That way!  Of Course!” and went crashing off into the trees…)

“What if the delight in poetic form were actually a delight in and return to infantile sensualities?”

“…we see that what is childlike and infantile lies in the form, what is adult in the content.  Content and form then make two poles, across which the magnetic energy of the poem arches.”

“The form pole pulls the poem back then toward infancy, the content pole pulls it forward into adulthood.  Adulthood seems to be the recognition that there are others in the universe besides you, greater causes and greater beings.  the poem surely needs character–the drive forward into experiences–probably embodying pain–that the infant never dreams of in his crib.”

—-Robert Bly 

…and this is why–in that arching electric zone of contact and conflict–

…and precisely where–in that very place within
where mind meets body…

“where the reader’s mind reaches toward something heard or uttered as though vocality were one of the senses.”

—-Robert Pinsky

…where mind meat’s body, where inspiration mixes into the elixir of expiration, where fantasy confronts reality, where…

“…the social realm is invoked with a special intimacy at the barely voluntary level of voice itself.”

—-Robert Pinsky

…where, in the beating of the suffering heart…

“Embarrassment–a halting consciousness of other people, the sudden barricade of social awareness, obstructing emotion and threatening to take over the mind–is in a way the most basic, irreducible manifestation of social reality.”

—-Robert Pinsky

…the blossom of suffering…

“To be thrown back “forever” on oneself alone suggests a degree of mobility, a freedom from constraint and dependence, that is potentially exhilarating as well as deranging: a liberation, as well as a void.”

—-Robert Pinsky

…becomes the creative act…

…and poetry leads to compassion…

“The path itself does not lie there waiting for you to walk along it.  It needs to be cultivated, nurtured—literally, “brought into being.”  Such a path might open up in a revealing moment of insight, only to be lost again through subsequent neglect.  To believe in a path is not enough.  One has to create and maintain it.  The practice of the eightfold path is a creative act.”

—-Stephen Batchelor

…for this path we walk…

…this path we all walk…

…is always walked alone…

…this we remember as we walk…

Glass Masks: quote, deconstructed quote, quotidian construction

“This carnal organism, born from a mother’s womb and destined to end as dust, is the great equalizer of beings.” --S. Batchelor
no matter carefully Mara is analyzed classified, the devil eludes define him, one risks losing slips through the bars of the cage contain him polymorphous perversity effectively communicated representing figuratively a personality alone can contain the puzzle multiplicity we humans metaphor (for) the devil Words concepts order sense something devilish about we think and speak Mara snares into the structure language itself this leaking frame is inescapable fragility and impersonality our condition decay, smells, aches, seizures, breakdowns mockery of the self contained personality we struggle our pools meet in the void of minds our ripples interfere they will be the same self-stilling calmness that sees no interference patterns the best that we could hope for a blending of similar wave-patterns of interference a co-mingling of forms and rings and ripples blending into faces that see not faces but the water behind the mind see the glass mask hear the tremor in the voice and feel the shaky grasp of rough hands, callused hands, hands soft with fear and touched by time they feel the tremors of the tension of the grasp that holds too tightly after all, this mask is transparent I peel the skin from my face show you the viscera and bone beneath my eyes this vision floats above that surface reflecting an image