Truth

Posted by Poetic Outlaws

“I feel my failure intensely
as if it were a vital organ
the gods grew from the side of my head.
You can’t cover it with a hat and I no longer
can sleep on that side it’s so tender.
I wasn’t quite faithful enough
to carry this sort of weight up the mountain.
When I took my vows at nineteen
I had no idea that gods were so merciless.
Fear makes for good servants
and bravery is fraudulent. When I awoke
I wasn’t awake enough.”
~ Jim Harrison

Jim Harrison

Although Jimmy boy was quite a rotter in his lifetime, wasn’t he. Not only that, even to his fans he became a bit of a dirty-old man. Too sad that, that so many men—with or without true artistic credentials—become such lechers when in the presence of the beautiful younger ones. Why do they consider that their value? Their right? Perhaps he is indeed right when he says he wasn’t awake enough.

And he wrote beautiful prose, published some fine books.

Because Lisa Died

She was a Bosch painting
Of mangled bodies deformed
And perverted into a nightmare
of her own screams
And
The meadows of Spring
Running through tall Indian grass
and daises and daffodils
And
A child of the Ether in skirts
Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings

She was Hell itself anchored in
Despair and the flames of Demons
Rocked in the cradle of Doubt
Opened by a bloody knife
of her own wounds and scarred the same

She was a Poem of Light
And Smiles of soft shining fireflies,
Curls around an eternal face
Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight

She saved a life and killed a man
Ran full force across the world and
Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks
Unstoppable
Unbreathable
Unbearable

She searched for God
so she could punch Him
in the face,
Tear off His gowns to leave Him
Naked in His own blasphemy
of Creation
He Who created the Minotaur
As well as Theseus
Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls

She wrote and Sang and Painted
She marched the stairs and
Laughed and cooked and baked
And Created her own music and Love
And
Still kept the unborn in jars
Fermented in the formaldehyde of
Alcohol underneath the floor

Until she became the Nightmare
Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins
And in the stream below the rocks her body broken
Where it can at last Sing out…
“So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”

And she was all things

And she was nothing

And she wore boots so heavy
she could not leave the earth
her moans heard now only by Angels
who cry to God…our pain, her worth

Happy St. Sylvester Day

Or Happy New year…to us all. May we all be who we are. May we all wish for nothing. May we all be at Peace. May we all be able to happily care for ourselves.

Tao and Zen “It has been said that the highest wisdom lies in detachment, or, in the words of Chung-Tzu, ‘The perfect man employs his mind as a mirror; it grasps nothing; it refuses nothing; it receives, but does not keep.’ Life exists only at this very moment. You may believe yourself out of harmony with life and its eternal Now; but you cannot be, for you are life and exist Now—otherwise you would not be here. Hence the infinite Tao is something which you can neither escape by flight nor catch by pursuit; there is no coming toward it or going away from it; it is, and you are it. So become what you are.” ~Alan Watts

In Keeping and Why Not

  • Happy Birthday, Thomas Sterns, just a little belated, we still go through “those certain, half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats…”
  • Born: September 26, 1888, St. Louis
  • Died: January 4, 1965, London
  • Cause of Death: Emphysema
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.
Ah, yes, the man.
The hero of many a lit class, many an English survivor. Who among us did not read “The Wasteland” or at least “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”? It occurs to me now though not then, why were we not queried on behalf of “love song”? Why indeed is it called a love song?
And about the above, how do we make it thru the parts where there is not only no ecstasy, but torment?
 In The Paris Review

2nd June 1951: American-English poet and playwright, TS Eliot (1888 – 1965). He wrote amongst many other things, ‘The Waste Land ‘ and the plays, ‘The Cocktail Party’ and ‘Murder in the Cathedral’. Original Publication: Picture Post – 5314 – Are Poets Really Necessary? – pub. 1951 (Photo by George Douglas/Picture Post/Getty Images)

Making A Great Day Splendid

It doesn’t take much for me anymore—to find the sweetness in a day. Today was simply splendid as I was able to get back to the pool for swimming. As it turns out, when the pool reopened they did not reinstitute the restrictions for age and compromised people (such as I with chronic asthma & bronchitis to boot)! So, luckily I called and found out, along with reservations made for lap lanes. Along with today I’m now scheduled through August, every Monday, Wednesday & Friday, at 1 o’clock. Splendid, I say!

Psyche's Call with Donna May 1tSepoatnsso7rehd · “Begin to weave and the divine will provide the thread.” ~Old Proverb

Posted by Psyche’s Call by Donna May

I saw this and thought about Joseph Campbell and his “Follow Your Bliss.” Because, as we know, when you do this the Universe opens doors for you. We also know there are always those for whom this does not occur. I think of van Gogh dying in poverty. And writers of course. More than one writer gave all only to fail. *Sigh* Still, driven by passion there is no choice.

As I posted “A Mouthful of Forevers” twice, I thought I’d do some checking into Clementine von Radics and see what else she had to say. Quite a bit it turns out. So here we have dear Clementine, as splendid as poetry herself.

“My battered heart will always be
where the ocean meets the sand, I
will break over and over

Every day. That is the best and
worst part of me.”
― Clementine von Radics

“I mean you ask me
not to fall in love with you
and then you go write poems
with your tongue
and draw constellations
in my freckles.”
― Clementine von Radics, As Often As Miracles

“But my heart is an old house
(the kind my mother
grew up in)
hell to heat and cool
and faulty in the wiring
and though it’s nice to look at
I have no business
inviting lovers in.”
― Clementine von Radics