Thursday, May 25, 2006
In which I compose a poem, and it stinks, and those who are kind shall read it, and those who are genteel will ignore it, and those who know what the hell poetry really is shall dissect it.
In the stillest moments—when God introduces
The breath and the stars—
All is true; all is isolation
and universal.

What is visceral and bone
Moves us to understand our plasticity
Our existence through these limbs, and flesh, and tears.
We are temporal beings, set alight in the creation
Exhaling our cells to the heavens.

The interim of existence is completed
By vocalizations or thoughts or pressures within
Yet—we transcend.
And the depth of a soul is flung
To the wide, wide ocean of unknowing.

Even then, we wrap into the other,
Silently studying the ceiling, the hair upon my arm,
The wrinkle of your brow.
In this smallest sliver of being
We have seen the plains and seas of the world
And that starry, starry night.

We have convalesced;
There is no other answer for us.
Bound as we are by these bodies
We are celestial beings awaiting our lift
Into the Atmosphere.

I am sheltered within
The crook and being and net
Of your flesh—let me go only
When the skies have called us forth
To swirl endlessly under the roof of stars.

Now, you--
my starry night.

My second edition of Poetry Thursday.
Written by FRITZ
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Name: Fritz

Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten

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    What I Live By:
    We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. -T.S. Eliot "Little Gidding"

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