MAGNIFICAT ONE
She bursts toward Gott from trackless sand, joyously cruciform,
Appends to a sylph whose hurricane is gentle feathered wisdom.
Two imps—at 51 the mother, the off-sprung 17. Or whence this
Advance without pursuit, this cry this pleasure? Linked hands in
Matchless radiant scatter-motion, a pastel sheath, gray welt against
The broad Pacific—such image? Youth abiding, Age transfigured,
Leap sensed-endured, caught-hardly trapped—tranquil ocean licks
Their calm for coupled here will fear no moving on, mock brevity,
All transience. Assign such vibrant glee odd termination? The two
Are linked by grace; in time we gather face, fuse Soul itself, mesh
Glitter, trace, such prance no mighty kingdom can impose, a pulse
Of everlasting brevity, all sought—fruition. Kneel! Taste contrition.
MAGNIFICAT FIVE
Magnificat? This Vid is caught. Even the bend of elbow churns
My spirit. This child of my own child chains all addiction, heals
My heart. There, she of wave’s texture dares turn to gaze at one
Old man. By such Creation turns! Am cast adrift or cast at last
In stone. An instant of her breath is boundless Being. Aside or
Simply seeing—a glance, an imprint, grace, devotion. To dare to
Flick a page? The notion! She swims upon my soul. And held to
Task, for simply such I spoil. A lake of tears bemoans her past.
That past might last? All coming dust? All eyes must weep, for
Nations sleep, and lust is trust. Suffer her not to peek! Suffer
Her not to wither. May glance restore all Eden with her. Let all
Odd future perish. ‘Tis now I cherish. Magnificat? A Vid a Gott.
CANYON EIGHT
Makes Munch seem but a Munchkin of the Schrei! This image
Insults even eternal Why? Human exhales its own finality. The
Insect lips mouth meaningless cessation. I’m writing this. Taste
MY frustration. The Lass who pulled this forth was merely 20!
Even the slightest nuance of her teeth cannot escape the cloud.
Such honesty would tremble Shaksper, make him proud. Ach,
Enkelin, where did you glean such wisdom? To chew on such
Despair? Air masks the eyes. Such is the final breath. All death
Is breath. All breath seeing. Worlds fail to conquer what we’re
Fleeing. All purpose shatters but the impulse to record. ALL
Else is boredom for the bored. I have only heard you ONCE.
Enable this Opa, this weary fox, sick of the crouch, to pounce. 2015
FROM SHAKSPER
THIRTY-NINE
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all the visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, an’ his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing,
For Hecuba?
What’s Hecuba to him. . . ?
))))) HAMLET
Hamlet survive, they’ll rake his brain. Witless of grief or subtly
Sane? Scholar, Prince, actor, Jew. The Latter Matter’s sharply
True? Who but a Jew would hoard such grief? Rend all thought
With Ought Belief? That suicide were ample option? Trust the
Lust but fear the motion! Mumble at King yet slaughter 6-some?
Tender Ophelia, Rosencrantz? Covet the steps but fail to Dance.
Reach some justice in the Fashion of his Dying? Guild Laertes,
ROAST the Frying. Spirit agéd Father in a Lock of Brain. Mad
Enough for subtle Pain. Baited swords, a poisoned Cup! Knelt
A Welt, abruptly supped. Mystified BOTH World and Rapture.
Etch’d the lecture: “Horatio, brother, at your Leisure. Mother,
Utter, Adder, udder. Mince the Prince and grave the pleasure!”
FIFTY-FIVE
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars,
It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light resume. . . .
))))) OTHELLO
Prometheus thiev’d fire, a wretched trick. The punishment was
Harsh, the matter thick. Othello’s snuff’d his lover’s life. Such
Fashion to divorce a wretched wife! Such fashion to decide the
Matter! Is murther simply blood or Sadder? The Moor enjoy’d
A blessèd State, supremely general to the greatly great. Paragon
Of virtue, trust. How a man of years descends to dust! Wedded
To lust and indecision, Othello pander’d to a serpent’s vision. A
Prey to Slant, Cant, subterfuge, a LARGE misspoken Judgement,
Huge. Buried his rage and sorrow with a purloin’d sword. Such
Little death! Was audience BOR’D? The groundling Thrives on
Baited bears. As well the moneyed in their silver chairs. As well
The rarest in their golden Box. A Poet sings but Money TALKS!
SIXTY-ONE
And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never.
))))) LEAR
Never nevers? The fact dissevers. LEAR recovers Faith, Again
Despair. Mortality’s stink is on the air. The gentlest Wight that
Breath’d is dead. Too much to FATHOM, even dread. Cordelia
Ceases to exist: eyes, Brain, lips. A solemn FATE attends OUR
Living. When maggot smiles, he’s not forgiving. The Touch of
Maiden has its rending for sapling bent will bend no ending. Ah
Lear, ah Lear, WE Fear your FEAR! Corpse Sprouts like Lilacs
In this darkest year. Edgar will covet. Doubt will tease. Foolish
Lout will shout, disease. Margin of victory often pyrrhic, sudden
Is Death and Brave Men fear it. Fear Death, Decay, a Monstrous
Birth. Maggots attending sullen Earth. Cordelia, Patch, a victim
Hang’d. Strange so strange! Monstrous motion, fierce derang’d.
SIXTY-FIVE
. . . Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. . . .
))))) MACBETH
Had God Jehovah scribbled such a speech, his Adam, even Eve
Would be less beholding. The quills I grip oft seem scolding, &
Well, Chancy, for even our odd unseemly crupper. Who’d have
This Shaksper in for supper, were sermon tract? They Oft decry
A script I hand them. Larger than why or who commands them?
You’d think some awful link from Muse to message. Were poet
Sage, enrag’d, berserk and not this law abiding clerk, or Morley
MAS-ter! Quite honest can’t recall the prompting or the jester!
Is Shaksper going bleak? ‘D summon Satan speak? Would Call
Saltpetre tinder? Such speaks to my frustration—a normal Chap
Who’d have his pint of bitter. No fake, no Snake, or usual rake
That’d take up 2nd pint but not a tippler. With wench a Sippler! 2009
FROM THE GOSPEL OF D.A. VID
Nineteen
Lilac Light was on the Water,
But their net secured no fish.
Glitter of carnal warmth, yet
Not a fish. They had cast all
Nets in Vain. The Man Had
Shown Self twice; the Vision
Was on Ice. What God Had
Died? Why return? That we
Must burn? Why His return?
There! There On the Shore!
Once more. I‘d have us cast
A net. Not Yet, sweet Lord,
Not yet. Ah Net! We Scant.
The fish take to it Abundant.
Swath of light, a silver sliver!
Lake of Tiberias. So furious,
All Moon’d Languish, Swoon,
Implore scarred SUN Return!
Beg God’s Son to vastly burn,
Wade past, attach the Master;
Attach at Last a Master’s past?
Wade past a net so richly cast;
God stirs upon the beach. A
God is Good by odd or each.
“As you know it. Mind my sheep!”
“Simon, son of John now love you?”
“As you know it. Feed my sheep!”
Master, lately dead, ignores a
Deathly state, almost a thrust
At humor! Would fry from a
Catch that split the net at His
Utterly sanguine gesture, grill
Some 20. Perforated hand or
Foot wields tong to feed both
Self and other! Swear by God
A dead man grilling for 7, nay
11 hungry guests. That all fear
Asking “Thee indeed the Christ?”
A chronic comic lift! Whose heart
Were rift? Come cook up the Holy
Ghost ‘tis supper! “Simon, son
Of John now feed my lambs! Fishy
Supper Scent doth reek His hands?
A whole beyond control! The rent
Of blasphemy itself!” Such the
Forbidden oddly passion! And
Even parting, passion has Him
Strangely in our Docile Vision:
Glean voice of scorn, hooked
Norm to Worm, to skewered
Priest, diseased, deceased; or
Thought or beast from bread
To crust, transfigured dust, ill
Appetite, from coming night?
Or sun or bright, from Lapse
To fright, from vex to sprite?
Safely mother, maiden flight!
Flock of shudder, utter lover,
Action, fiction, contradiction,
Curt direction? Resurrection!
As soon as they came ashore they saw that there was some bread there, and a charcoal fire with fish cooking on it. . . Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” None of the disciples was bold enough to ask, “Who are you?”; they knew quite well it was the Lord. Jesus then stepped forward, took the bread and gave it to them, and the same with the fish.
(John 21:9-13)
Twenty
A wonder blazed ascent on sylvan
Wing. So taken by
The greatness, knelt the very Earth.
For merely carnal
Scant endured the thing.
Was rare the naked body of the Lord,
As threading into sky
He spiraled true.
No more was I than you,
And each of us ennobled to behold
Transfigured Vision.
Ecstatic gold
Burst from our lips.
There, soaring into ether, bold
Transcendence tore to taste the caper.
All bliss would
Summon bliss to heed such vapor.
A summons fit to measure
Lacked all common word.
Such flight
Required divinity itself and no
Mild poet, cobbler at a verbal trade,
For words are rough
And glance afraid.
I’d beg of stern Jehovah
In his mercy kindle this small
Verse. We’re left
Behind though soaring:
Brittle, worse.
A billion suns exploded on the
Path He raked
And each of them unequal
To His Face.
The eyes
That burned to dazzle: none
Could meet on usual ground.
Ecstatic rapture was the lilt
Of choir and sound.
Focus itself could rarely (and that
A courage) rise beyond
His feet.
Sweet Son of God Jehovah
Spiraling toward His Throne:
What impotence to brave His Gifts
Alone!
Sudden the glitter of a wild ascent,
Power of purpose,
Given, rent.
Arrogance the master who’d
Attend such glory;
Pity the presumption who would dare
The story.
Word reaches us He’s stationed
King of Kings.
Let such be
Such, the mystery stings.
Beatific Mother, Child, the Holy
Spirit; when karma breaks
What wealth might near it.
Near it, fear it,
Oddly God!
Then he took them as far as the outskirts of Bethany, and lifting up his hands he blessed them. Now as he blessed them, he withdrew from them and was carried up to heaven. They worshipped him and then went back to Jerusalem full of joy; and they were continually in the Temple praising God.
(Luke 24:51-5) 2014
