Some Poems, Old and New

It’s been a while since I last put a post on here… this is largely due to some family problems that I will discuss in a later post; as well as the increasingly mind-frying, time-trying, work that accompanies school and wage-labor employment; in addition to the general problems that accompany being a finite being.  I’ve got a number of things I’m working on (including the first short story that I’ll post on here), but until they are complete here is a few short poems:

Shoe Box 

I have an old shoe box filled

With all the little notes that were

Given to me by all the girls

That said they loved me

At one time or another

It’s nothing creepy, I don’t read

Them anymore. I know they

Are worthless, promissory notes

Without any promise, debts

Never intended to be repaid

I keep them in old box though,

Each one, carefully lain in a box,

Given to me with a new pair of shoes,

That I can’t fit anymore

 

Knowledge

I have some

It sticks to

My head like

Chewing gum

But I think

It’s like that

All used up

Theology

Of course we might both agree/ That a god there just be/ But about the shape of the deity/ That is where you lose me/ my mind is made existentially/ You are entrapped in prophecy/ That “will happen in this century”/ i, myself move progressively…/

Look for god unbound/ From dogmatic restraints/ Beyond good and evil/ Characterized by the beating of my growing heart/ i will not be a slave/ To the sayings of any text/ Written in a raving state/ On the walls of an ancient cave or/ Deliriously dreamed up whilst/ Wondering dehydrated through the sands/ Of a land, alive and flush with life/ In its own day

Walking Forward, Backwards

So the new semester is in full swing and as I often do when I am confronted with something new, I’ve been looking back at the brief moments that have together domino-ed me to this point in space and time.  When looking back at the past, it’s easy to focus in on the times where smiles were in abundance and life seemed easy.  However, nostalgia is an opiate that bleeds the present of any promise.  Sure, the past needs to be remembered, but it’s better to keep your eyes focused forward and better still to keep your mind on the present moment (forever slipping away).

My thoughts on time are largely influenced by eastern philosophy, but there are condemnations of regretful living throughout the western canon of literature and philosophy as well.  The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche illustrated this with the idea of eternal recurrence: each person is condemned to make the same choices and live the same life eternally.

“What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘[t]his life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more’ … Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘[y]ou are a god and never have I heard anything more divine’ [Nietzsche, The Gay Science].

In Coming Up for  Air, George Orwell examines the false sense of security that lies dormant in every person’s past.  The main character forsakes everything in his present life to travel back to the quiet town of his English upbringing; only to find that there is nothing left for him there.  For better or worse, we are each stuck in our lives as they are right now.  Of course our prior decisions played a part in creating the present and our ambitions and dreams will guide our progress (somewhat at least), but to look too far ahead or too far behind is to miss the blooming flower, so to speak.

So in short, enjoy the moment. Remember, there is a lot to be learned from both of these great writers, as well as many others.  One day, I would like to contribute my own treatise on time and being…but for now, here is a short poem from my past:

The Sandbox Days

Sometimes,/When the moon looks an orange slice/ Or a yawning gibbon/ I dream about the sandbox days…

Of Raggedy Anne/ Paper Planes, swooping from me to you/ Back and forth,/ X’s and O’s,/ S.W.A.K. and Animated marsupials,/ Sonic rides in the K-car,/ Late nights that slip/ Into a morning covered in Mountain Dew.

(Further Back still…)

The sweet fragrance of red berries/ Glistening in the early light/ On the soft hairs/ Erect on the back of your neck./ Stinging bees that swarm/ a hive of hair/ Chasing a decade long gone by/ Dido in the arms of an angel/ And whatever monsters wait/ In the dark of all corners and closets.

(And Today)

There is the full blown sunrise/ Clear and new, burning away/ Each memory with the OM/ The prayers and chakras/ Incantations and incense…

And I return to my instauration/ Which is the difference between Three/ And Twenty Three

Unfiltered

So, my online class ended Friday and I have about 15 hours before the next wave of books, classes, and madness begins… I’m not really sure what I’m going to use this blog for in the future, but for at least the next few weeks I’m going to be plucking random entries, poems and short stories out of my journals and putting them up on here.

I’m currently in the process of reading through the poems and short stories for BU’s Lit mag, and I’m fairly impressed with everything I’ve read so far; but I’m also kind of bummed that I did not type up any of my work in time to submit it.  I’ve never really liked working with anything other than a pen and paper (at least when it comes to writing), hopefully this exercise will lead to some technological appreciation and a substantial body of typed work that I can submit to, I don’t know someplace that takes that sort of thing.

That Guy you Know

It’s just a short fall and one/ Quick step to the corner of solitude/ He can hear colors sing/ And with applied pressure/ To the whites of his eyes/ The World becomes clear/ Momentarily, but what’s it worth…

He struts through the carrion canals/ Swinging a rope on a noose/ That could snare the noise/ Forever stop the spread/ Of reason and art and maybe/ Electrify to life, his still heart

Each and every day is/ Coffee, cigarettes and sex/ Or the continuous thought/ Of their absence/ He says “Jesus/ Doesn’t make life/ Any more plausible or fun./ And I live life unbound/ From hope in favor of truth”

Comments are always appreciated