Mirrors Splashing like Rivers full of Brownian Motion

In which the jonquil becomes that which is beyond the comprehension of a Jonquil,

when the raven's eye 

ignites with a single unit of pollen, at the edge of the tree 

that sings a song that not even the Human Ear

can ignore, 

there in the Polka dotted sky, a series of Ionic Bonds 

are discussing the nature of spacetime with the Ghost of Einstein,

who is waiting for the year 1905 to happen again,

just to remember the days when the universe made sense,

in the Village of Ulm,

while contemplating the dream life of Renes Descartes,

who probably was misquoting shakespeare

when he said "I think, therefore I am" 

just as Shakespeare was telling a secret joke 

told by the Burning Bush to Moses,

an allegory within an allegory that moves through history 

disguised as common sense, 

which is an optical illusion that does not actually exist.

*

In the face of the Jonquil, there is a codex of superstitious spirits

racing around in brownian motion of the Ouroborous, trying to decide 

which color to wear, Yellow or Pink,

a purple pastiche of polka dots and parallel lines that crash through the sunlight 

to the rhythm of the Sitars of Aldebaran,

which may or may not yet exist, depending upon one's orientation in space and time

according to some series of undiscovered principles of gravitation and coincidence.

In that Jonquil, there is a tapestry of carbon and nitrogen fiber,

a magic carpet of unfinished sleeping, where ten thousand Djinni's 

are suspended like Mirrors in the unfinished weeping of Light,

a song that sounds like Life

to those whose flesh is knotted in ribbons of existentialist contemplation. 

*

the grasshopper does not know any of this, but stands on the edge of the blue stone

listening for the river to splash,

the river splashing, the splashing an echo of unlit beings, trout kings

whose compound scintilla are like the fragments of a Spider's 

laughter at the edge of the Garden, where ???

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

maybe the grasshopper is smarter than we think, even if he is only an insect...

there is an edge to everything...if it is an edge to a precipice we may fall in if we get too close...if it is an edge to enlightenment, we may want to fall in if we get too close.

and yes, i did my thesis on sexton and plath...

for her the garden was some eden after death...and she went there.

in one of her poems she said. "even then, i have nothing against life"

she just wanted to see how it felt, and to go there..

there is so much we leave unfinished in life.

i like where this poem took me..

deep stuff.

jacob

[Marri]

I love 'allegory that moves through history disguised as common sense', I love the grasshopper and a song that sounds like Life. This is multi-layered, intricate, enigmatic and beautiful. It is deep and will be dived into again!

[Hawkmoon]

hi, thank you for reading. :) Writing right now for me is very tuned to the transcendental aspects of ordinary experience, when that Grasshopper at the edge of the grass seems to be Intelligent and that the History of the World is actually passing through the flesh, and every moment is full of ten thousand +++ stories, you know, everywhere is bursting with parables and fables. Thanks for your time. Are you a fan of Anne Sexton, I hate to sound presumptuous in either way, but I'm just curious.

[Marri]

you are welcome. To good writings I dedicate more than just time, and always gladly. That the grasshopper is intelligent I have no doubt. Whatever synchrony the masterpiece that nature is follows, it certainly is harmonious. In its disastrous and beautiful might, stronger than everything and yet delicate as nothing other. I have to admit that I haven't read any of Anne Sexton's works, so please forgive my ignorance. I will correct it with the next session of evening reading.

[Hawkmoon]

Well, you know... something just seems odd about the World. Sometimes the Birds, the Cats, the Spiders, the Bats seem like very strange Actors, as if they are pretending to be something they're not. HAHAHA. You haven't read Anne Sexton... omg... that is like astonishing and I am in that funny place of letting someone know about a Writer who will Change Their Lives (in a great way). She is in many ways one of the greatest writers that ever lived. Kind of a female TS Eliot, supercharged with Poetic powers. Try getting a copy of her Collected Works. Have a good and healthy Day

[Marri]

The odd thing about the world for me is the cynical stuffing-till-belly-bursts of some, when others die from hunger. And this meant literally but metaphorically as well. Thank you for the suggestion, I am always happy to enrich my reading list. Have an adventurous day, too

[Hawkmoon]

Yes, the world operates on very distorted processes. Hunger and poverty and homelessness are three problems that could be solved relatively instantaneously by using creative compassionate intelligence. Cynicism is one of the worst contributors to human disregard. Idealism is seen as naive, and naivete is the opposite of paranoia. Paranoia is an understanding about the dangerous negative destructive capacities of the world, at any moment. One must comprehend the danger and negativity without ever losing a type of idealism despite all human problems. One does think of that movie with Katherine Hepburn standing with a Bible being shot at by some "Bad Guys" but her just standing her ground, and then you think of Tianemen Square and other events and there will be a point when the Cynicism of the World tries to erode every one's Idealism, but there is an idea, very important: that Genius is the spontaneous recovery and also the cultivation of Childhood Innocence. Anne Sexton's writings are very very integral. A good book on Adventure is "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" by Joseph Campbell... off to do some reading.

[Marri]

THANK YOU. For Anne Sexton, I mean. I could write pages about the romantic vulgarity with which her words are piercing and yet tender, about her way of soaking the simplest thing with meaning, and it is deep and profound, and yet terrifyingly near, because the mystic is understood. And she cuts the air and screams. I am not going to try to explain or justify or categorise her talent, this should be said. But I will thank you for the suggestion which makes this snowy afternoon a bliss

[Marri]

and by the way, whatever I have seen, and whatever that has terrified me at the world, for it is a white canvas and we duly splash some blood on it, just to prove that we are sick, I do believe that some of us are inherintly stubborn in remaining idealists

[Hawkmoon]

your welcome, now try this: THIS IS THE ROOM of the wolfmother wallpaper. The toadstool motel you once thought a mere folk tale, a corny, obsolete, rural invention.

This is the room where your wisest ancestor was born, be you Christian, Arab, or Jew. The linoleum underfoot is sacred linoleum. Please remove your shoes. Quite recently, the linoleum here was restored to its original luster with the aid of a wax made from hornet fat. It scuffs easily. So never mind if there are holes in your socks.

This is the room where your music was invented. Notice the cracked drumhead spiked to the wall, spiked to the wolfmother wallpaper above the corner sink where the wayward wife washed out her silk underpants, inspecting them in the blue seepage from the No Vacancy neon that flickered suspiciously out in the thin lizard dawn.

What room is this? This is the room where the antler carved the pumpkin. This is the room where the gutter pipes drank the moonlight. This is the room where moss gradually silenced the treasure, rubies being the last to go. Transmissions from insect antennae were monitored in this room. It's amazing how often their broadcasts referred to the stars.

A clue: this is the room where the Painted Stick was buried, where the Conch Shell lay wrapped in its adoring papyrus. Lovers, like serpents, shed their old skin in this clay room. Now do you remember the wallpaper? The language of the wallpaper? The wolfmother's blood roses that vibrated there?

Enough of this wild fox barking. You pulled up in the forest Cadillac, the vehicle you claimed you'd forgotten how to drive. You parked between the swimming pool and the row of blackened skulls. Of course, you know what room this is.

This is the room where Jezebel frescoed her eyelids with history's tragic glitter, where Delilah practiced for her beautician's license, the room in which Salome dropped the seventh veil while dancing the dance of ultimate cognition, skinny legs and all............... Tom Robbins

[Marri]

ohhh, this is dark and gloomy and romantic, and it seems so close, and reminds me of an endless night spent in an old hotel with huge chandelier and green papers and a squeaking like a bird door that you had to push very hard to open, and the strange feeling that nostalgic memories hang in the spider webs, and the floors are wooden because your steps would be empty without the noise they leave behind. I find such gloom very beautifully drawn...Thank you

[Neva Flores Smith - Cha..]

Fantastic read.......I will tell you where it led my thoughts. I was reminded of someone who cares about no one but themself and the followers who kiss their feet even though they don't like them..........I have no idea why.

[Hawkmoon]

hahaha wow. The world is very cruel in so many ways, and Followers are often mistaken for Weak and those being Followed are mistaken for Powerful. Leaders (famous or just powerful) should always try to develop Individuals who can stand on their Own, never accept blind worship nor expect it, and it should never every be given. Faith is a Verb that applies in many ways to one's Own Consciousness. Thanks for reading, and write on! My poems are designed to be aspects of Creationist Chaos, the Cosmological Spirit in many ways, there are many questions but knowing why is a paradox of paradoxes. Do you read the poetry of Anne Sexton, I am just curious to know how popular She is.

[Neva Flores Smith - Changefulstorm]

I am familiar with the name but I read very little of the classics these days and more of the contemporary poets such as we are I do happen to love the poetry of Pablo Neruda. How about you?

[Hawkmoon]

oh, yes Neruda is fantastic. Phosphorescence is one of his greatest words, hahaha. Anne Sexton is from the 50's -70's. I am happy to send you a reference to her work, She is so unbelievable but slightly more obscure than say, Sylvia Plath --- :) Read her poem "Her Kind" hahaha, it's a great great powerful writing. She did kill herself, but I suspect she lived to regret it, her poetry is so Vital. Run to google her before the End of the World. just kidding, it doesn't happen until 3797 according to Nostradamus hahaha.