The Left Column

from poem page 159

Politics for Poets

the politics of non-violence.

Violence? Non-violence? What do these terms really mean? There is a kind of violence that can pretend to non-violence. True non-violence is the disacknowledgment of violence as a viable solution to problems. But in the sense of metaphysical violence: violence of thought against imagined enemies. In that sense it is best to keep off such a persons radar. If they don't know about you they can't hate you with their crusie to jihad, and claim you as heathen, heedless, indifferent. If they don't imagine you then they can't imagine you for their 'holy' cause against imagined evil, which negates the intent and the whole thing is un-whole and bad for everyone in general.

A story plot novel. It's all just made up. The story, the plot, the novel. No body even is able to write a cogent sentence anymore. Let alone recognize brillience in this all-encampassing darkness. I can't fault the past for once having been the future. And if I don't make sense the sense of that is to show you, dear reader, that am I really supposed to? Do I really have to make sense to you, dear poetry readers, with my blog rants and my story-poems and my vinettes of sorrow and longing? Of course not. But if I do. . .

If I do . . . imagine that. Follow me to a misted highland. Cold snow? mountain stream in full flow? No one gets away with out feeling the change. It's a profound wind of understanding. Acceptance of the solatary bird singing lonely as an artistic archtype: we seek it out because it pleases us. We crave it. Hunt it down. Capture it. Let it go after terrifying it.

That vengeful thrush will wing around and peer back down upon his tormentor. "Not only do you not respect me, but you now taunt me to be your friend? I will not." says the bird. It swoops around. It lands upon far away branches too far for any hunter to get him. He sings his mournful song.

"Heartbreak Blue

Hey, it's the sound of the rain

January, February

It's all the same."

The left column? I shoulda left this column kinder a long, long time ago. Yuck.

~ OK Now.

April 20, 2011

The Susquahanna River, Pennsylvania from
last fall.


    It's Springtime
     in my soul
   because of you.

    The robins have returned
       and twitter and tweet
    within the branches of the giant spruces
    above the fields.
 
     They fly from limb to limb,
      tree to tree
     wire to wire.

    To where?
       to who?
     to wheet.
    to you.



     from Poems 189