Tuesday, September 24, 2013

lost in space - a poem

I’m in space, unhooked,

Falling to I don’t know where,

Something is there, bending my path

And me with it, my arm curls away,

Unfolding, my leg attracts to some object

On a blind horizon I cannot see,

I remember. My wife, my kid,

Now lost, I lose who I am, once was,

Mostly cold, to no return…

Sunday, September 22, 2013

it is not the apple, the orange - a poem

It is not the apple, the orange,

But the fruit orchard, collected,

The tiny bits of things adding up

The lightest pinch turning

Into the largest wallop…

Divided, the things are inspected,

Named and classified in particulars,

But ‘tree-ness’ champions ‘tree’,

That we know a difference

Between ‘Maple’ and ‘Oak’,

It is not randomly so,

That the things arrange themselves

For us into orders, genera,

For there is always a stone

With which to stub your toe,

A wall to resist your exact push,

We blind geniuses as toddlers,

Who recognize ‘mama’ and ‘papa’….

Saturday, September 21, 2013

she meets the nihilist - a poem

She meets the nihilist,

What makes him most romantic

Is his non-confession,

He doesn’t read existentialists,

Doesn’t know the word, nihilism,

He simply floats through everything,

Taking the moment unconsciously

In pure experience,

He simply grasps

Only what’s in front of him,

She teeters on his edge, the Void

Deep in his breast,

Always takes one step back

One moment just in time,

Avoiding his vacuum, his oblivion,

His sheer happiness

With anything at hand,

Like ‘being there’,

He just rambles on,

And their almost-kiss

Does become something spiritual,

Two halves of the same coin,

One complementing the other,

Yet neither heads nor tails….

Thursday, September 19, 2013

patience the virtue denied - a poem

Patience, the virtue denied,

Without being mired in dream-mud,

I cannot quiet the rapid beating,

A clutching bird airs, winging,

Accidentally transcending,

Lifting beyond planted feet,

Space is not denied, I rise,

Above my thought, ashen gray,

Ignited in non-thought,

My heart, leaping forward,

Grasps this, no-time,

Short-circuits my profane brain,

Opinions obliterated, I simply know,

Yet tomorrow comes, I will forget,

Enter the forest anew, entranced,

Stumbling on simple things, I forget….

by tender fists - a poem

By tender fists,

I clutch one rose bloom

From late October’s eve,

An early frostbite bit it

The scars still swell, the stem,

Punctured with dew, so bright,

The green fuse alit

By artificial bursts

Of electrical false lights,

They do no justice,

They fall too slow

And grind your bloom

So slowly, molten now,

On a dead December eve…

my brothers beneath the moon, arise - a poem

We shall never rise above earth

In this bound up life entangled

We live with contingencies

They link us by our works…

Yet by imaginations, we rise,

Above ourselves, our families,

And lay down lives no one knew

Until the pathetic moments we collapsed

Some of us in organized war

Others, stateside in our silent ways

Struggle as well, traumas unite,

My brothers know me, the quiet one…

‘Brother’ is recognition, a respite,

From the daily strangers who tide through

‘The workman knows the worker’

And life’s works for us, the brothers,

Never go undone…

at home in my brazen skull - a poem

At home in my brazen skull

Time lists slowly on the sullen breeze

Outside in the chilled autumnal wind

I catch hours from the day, embers dry

Seconds drag to minutes, then fly away,

I creep the morning hour,

It begging to be won,

I soldier under the dewy moon,

My candle burns the book I read,

The pages come alive, some words ignite

The memories of past advances, lost battles,

The real caught in verbs, what isn’t said,

Seductively unfolds to my clear mind,

Sentences bright with honesty and lies,

The concrete things caught in water’s ebb,

Flowing hither then dither, alive as my muddy river,

The good bits the deep middle, bubbling

From the wake at the banked edges’ tides,

Rivulets floating to the surface, breaking tension,

Bursting to the closest atmosphere,

Whence the arguing masses?

None to hinder me here,

Alone and happiest, most,

I recoil from the flickering flame,

Toppled it catches everything it touches aflame

My thoughts the fuel that feed it on,

Me, at home, now burning again….

Thursday, September 5, 2013

i made of my son a citizen of the world - a poem

The night street is different

Than that by day,

The night boat cutting the wave,

Beneath the pulling moon

Sees differently than by day,

And dawn, when stayed awake,

Is but a hazy blur

Compared to magnificent

When one has slept…

The sun takes you by surprise,

More so than the moon,

When in the wee morning

You have fought slumber away

Deciding to brave the day sleepless,

But if you ride the cycle

Of natural night, then day,

The world will remain yet as it should,

You will wax with the sun and moon

And wane with them in time,

For the sun has his coming and going

From tropic of cancer to Capricorn….

Alas I tell you everything

Again I already taught you,

I have pushed you into the world

As it’s citizen,

For it is a fool that looks for a country,

When beyond this world lies your oyster…

the crossroads - a poem

I’ve been to the crossroads

More than I care now to admit…

Even in cross currents

In the deep-winged ocean,

Lying at the horizon of riptides…

It is always a trixter figure waiting,

Yet beautiful…

They may be a devil, a siren,

But the answer is always the same:

Death….

But at ninety degrees lies the road

Usually ironically dark

Filled with thorns and brambles

That I must take to live….

It truly is straight and narrow,

This gate to life if one is to survive,

Though Nature be so liberal,

At these times

She commands we be conserving…

A night boat hugging the shore

To conserve fuel is what I’ve done

That life may continue for me

That the sun may still conquer

My tropic‘s humid and beautiful skies….

out to sea, adrift - a poem

Out to sea, adrift

No star to guide me,

They’ve disappeared,

Gone to the land

I’m in when asleep,

Perhaps they mark no time

Now drifting

Through the silken skies,

Maybe they finally melted

One into each other,

Back to their pleroma,

With everyone in the world,

Me left adrift

On this deep winged sea,

Time is non existent now

I the lone sailor

No boundary

For referencing distance,

I lie motionless

While gliding this ocean,

Aware I’m dreaming

Not lucid like day,

Yet self conscious, aware,

Of myself and my boat,

Nothing more,

Just nothing evermore…

in the plane of the desert - a poem

In the plane of the desert,

Arid airs burning my lungs,

I cry for her beneath the rage

The sky has turned malevolent,

The deep azures

Swallow the horizon,

The line blurred,

Mountains forming

Where plains lie in repose…

Deep waters wing

From beneath

To the cirrus floating,

The pressure

Is that of beneath the seas,

Compressing, no quarter,

Like nitrogen,

The available airs

Suck the life

From my bony cells….

Cacti bend in perspective,

The iron oxide, martian,

Rusts everything it touches,

The green melts verdigris,

Everything accelerating in age,

Motionless, beautiful,

I too bend with the light…

A small visitor

Landing on an alien plain,

The moment caught

In the aperture, my mind’s eye,

Burnt permanent

In shifting synapses,

A forlorn image rising

The wave, not the water,

That yet perturbs

My sweetest dreams….

entropy bright and alive - a poem

In the lunatic sky

The humid airs compel

The disembodied light

To spread in waves, falling,

Impossibly reaching my shoulders,

I feel the weight of it,

The night itself prescient,

That the moon fills

The lunatic with pulling dream

That he cannot rest,

And pushes every maternal water

To flow and then ebb,

Nocturnal wanderings of liquids,

They adjust to the lunatic clock,

The calendar, solar, dishonest this night,

When the moments, haunted, flow…

The second hand ticks

Lying, seemingly metronome,

The sound a drip of water,

Filling a vacuumed basin,

Pushing the minute

Into the hour,

The clock slowly winds down

Like everything this night,

Entropy bright and alive,

The sheen of lamplight

Falling on a sickened orange…..

come to us, saint - a poem

Come to us, Saint,

We dreamt of you

Arriving with new revelations,

Our hands of dried blood,

Were clasped on our chests

Before becoming clasped in prayer,

The blood of the fathers

On our hands, we cry,

Come even now, saint,

We know now what we do….

the consciousness of william james - a review of his writings

this book is worth the price just for the writings on consciousness, of which only i will comment, as an entire review would take pages and pages of text.

james, in his articles on consciousness first points up the classic view, the radical divide between mind and matter. the world around us, subject to entropy and the arrow of time, works in one direction. there is a birth, maturation, and death in everything surrounding us. known through the senses, there is an objective world we shoud seek to grasp and understand as thinking human beings. however, one quickly discovers the mind is not as 'mechanical' and predictable as the world we observe. we know that fire burns, yet we can think strongly on a fire in the winter cold, and not be warmed. further, we can think strongly of a fire that does not burn us, and water that does not douse it's flames. finally, we can reverse the arrow of time, thinking strongly again, of an apple leaving the ground and floating to the stem of the branch of the tree. obviously the mind is separate from matter in it' operations and laws that govern it, correct?

well let us now behold something beautiful, truly beautiful to us and not be moved by it's beauty. here, james brillianty discovers, the mind merges with the object world to the point the experiencing subject is the same as the experienced object. we melt into the object of beauty, forgetting ourselves.....

this is but one expample of pure experience that destroys the notion of the dichotomy between the subjects and objects of normal consciuosness james points up.

interesting read, a bridge between the views that came before; either a radical distinction lying between mind and matter, that the universe is dual..or that of the unifying kind...that the world can at least tenuously during 'pure experiences' become One...

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

current philosophical musings

That there are trees, forests and rivers, valleys, oceans and rocks to trip ourselves on, all testify to a world that is real, substantive. Through our senses, we perceive this universe composed around us, seemingly fine tuned to human and any life. Composed, when looked at in a miniscule way, of dancing quarks and leptons, subatomic particles that appear and disappear with observation, we never can know the absolute position or velocity of these small building blocks that unfold into the larger world.

There are some philosophers in the distant past who felt the essential substance of life was water. Heraclitus, the ancient thinker, said we can never step into the same river twice. He was correct there are constant changes occurring, eddies and flows, pebbles moving this way and that, rocks overturning from the push of waters, and erosion of the banks, all make it a fine example of the foundations our universe springs from.

The miracle to me is, as the very small, water-behaving, or even fire-behaving essence congeals into matter, it congeals and becomes stable, predictable on our human scale of things. It’s not like the first break in a billiards game, where the potential of the paths of the balls are almost unpredictable, it is more like mid game, one ball sitting on the edge of the cup which when approached by a cue ball with back spin, will drop right in every single time, with no scratch ball even.

Perhaps the most interesting facet to human life is our ability to perceive and reason. Before us, lie great thinkers who recognized a great divide between mind and matter. We may have an idea of the perfect chair and even attempt to manufacture one. But that ‘matter-ed’ chair will eventually break, or chip from wear, while the ideal chair will live on permanently, forever almost. Besides ideality, there is the time factor that poses a divide between mind and the world around us. We see that due to the arrow of time and entropy, everything in our universe has a definite birth, a maturation, and a ‘death’. I use ‘death in the particular, as all energy is conserved and really the matter is just transformed into something that transcends what it couldn’t achieve in it’s previous state. But I digress. The point is, in our minds, we can strongly think of an apple rising from the ground, floating to the branch and twig of it’s tree, when in reality, we know this is impossible. A man who is aging to his fifties can recall his childhood, even imagine things in the past or future. The arrow of time doesn’t apply to mind, and I say thankfully! How static things would become, how uniform and bland, if we were stuck in the moments of passing time. It would be like viewing individual frames, still lifes in slow succession, as opposed to being allowed to make of reality a movie being played at willed and various speeds. We know if we want time to pass, we can get busy doing something, and if we want it to slow, we can calm our activity.

But wait. Are there two main facets to reality then, as opposed to one, those two factors being mind and matter? William James found certain pure experiences to be absent of this duality. If one is stabbed by a sharp object, the experience and thought of it are the same. Painful and unpleasant. If one beholds something beautiful, they are always moved and lifted. In both cases, the outside objects, objective, line up with the interior subjective experience. There becomes a common consciousness between the knower and the known. Thiis, what James called ‘pure experience’, to me is a unifying bridge between the wide gulf of mind and matter.

Though pure experiences may be limited, and the rest the time we have the gulf between perfect ideal thought of chairs, and those manufactured, on perhaps more occasions than we admit, reality becomes One, not dual. Our inner reality tunes into our outer reality, destroying the perceiving subject an perceived object. These then, are moments of clarity, although they can be as unpleasant (being stabbed) as they can be pleasant (beholding something particularly beautiful.)