Hughlings Himwich

For You

I am old. I am young.

I am thirteen. I am an ancient child.

Winter

 

A bear walks in winter

Every growl commanding

The moon to rise, the sun

To dim, holds back

The spring, its claws

marking the trees

With fire, a song

More ancient than man.

Burn

 

Mind is alive

with the same

force that drives 

the stars to seek

their own demise

 

so mind creates

the light that guides

our steps at night

yet yearns

for that very dark

ness that alone endures

and alone

makes all things right.

 

Burn, burn

with the beauty

of the night. 

 

Stars Below

 

Mind runs like water

over rock and root

and seeks to fall

to the stars below.

now east now west

 

now east now west

 

the road has a mind of its own

and my feet obey

 

the rest of me stays behind

treelike

 

above

the sky grows gentle

 

MY HEART OPENS

 

the road goes on

as if not knowing

 

which way is best. 

 

 

Below the pond

 

On a walk through the field we come out below the pond

And see a bird floating as if on its own reflection

 

It is still early though the light seems of an evening

When first I found rest in the quiet of your eyes. 

 

I keep you close

 

The loneliest thought

Is not knowing you are there

and care for me.

 

It is like rain that falls

but does not reach

the ground. 

 

Yea but for love

you would not be here at all:

I keep you close. 

 

 

 

December 21

In deepest winter

clouds gather along the ridge.

It is all souls' night. 

 

Those who help not

 

Those who help not

those in need

who come their way

 

Are worthless

as those who stay inside

and fear the rain.

 

It is what is:

No more to ask

No more to give.

 

Rain cleans all bones the same.  

 

But for night

 

But for night

When eyes are blind

When you and I

 

Think as one

And touch as though

Were earth and sky

 

(So turn around

In mind and space

Our sighs in time)

 

Love would break

Like light the day

Those it would unite. 

 

Warning

 

so close your eyes

and let the dark

ness be thy sight

 

and If you die

there's none to say

I lied.

For Ber

For Ber

 

like laughter or

like light to those

who know themselves

to be like trees

that root themselves

in common ground

though mind apart

for he is free

to give himself

so generously

Not another word

not another word

why even that

why not silence a blank page

cause one is also other

a phantom that can not be driven off

that lurks and lures and loves to be what it is not

the mirror holds no image yet

the other there waiting patient suffering

creates itself even in darkness

for the darkness is

we stride ever through

And if we turn within

"For Christ's sake, not another

Ariel

On a bat’s wing I am flying:
Poetry is the art of dying.

There is a girl

There is a girl
so fell and free
she wants for love
like a memory

her hair like night
covers all the ground
and leaves behind
no trace of me.

What is not there

Like a woman
who does not know
she is beautiful
turns to a mirror

and looks and looks
but does not find
what is not there

and does not know
the mirror clings
to her form

and ravishes her,
body and soul

so too the sun
burns and brings
all to life,

mere shadows
on the ground.

The night leaps up

The night leaps up
And paints the sky
Just so a kiss
Draws a lover’s sigh.

You love so much
You long to die
Your eyes are stars
Your soul is fire.

No You

What will you do
What will you do
You have to live
And do and do

O you O you
What will you do
No one comes
To rescue you

So too so too
They'll come for you
They'll talk you up
And do and do

No one knows
No no one knows
Just what it's like
To be like you

O you O you
What will you do
There's no one there
To be there for you.

Even if . . . .

Even if it is true that who we think we are is but a narrative the brain constructs, even if consciousness itself is every bit as much a construction as that narrative (as is that very light by which we see itself but neural machination), even if consciousness, I say, is an illusion, it is not nothing. Whatever consciousness is, it possesses quality and all the activity of the brain goes to create and maintain that quality. The quality of consciousness is our reality; it is what makes life worth living or not. You know it well. It is the rhythm of the sea, always at one with itself though wave after wave breaks upon the shore. We are forever returning to that sea

Night

I turn to you to find the light
and like a tree that grasps the earth
these arms embrace the wind
like you my heart

as earth through darkness sweeps
around the sun I turn
and turn to you
and kiss the night.

I know the dying

I know the dying
And the dying
sigh

Like the light these eyes
Like these eyes
the night

So still the rhythm
of a heart
that's torn

Forlorn forgotten
Longed for
adored.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary

Of course
he had known her
before. Now
when they met
black on black
he blessed her
and she
she did not blush
to be remembered
in his prayers.

Lacrimae Rerum

Here where every sound
is a lama lama sabachthani
echoing in the brain

Where even silence
is a fairy tale
like that girl
who pulls my beard
and laughs
to make these gray hairs
roll on like waves

Here are the tears
of things that yet
break like thunder
on the shore.

In the wild

in the wild
there is a strange
silence yet
there is music

Listen

there is wind
tumbling through
trees water
flowing over
rock then rush
of wing you

hear yourself
singing

Ἅιδης

Persephone
demands you

Love all
Suffer all
Die to all

See yourself
in a flower
she tells you

you are beautiful
and you too
will die

over and over
and over

until you know
what she knows:

She is your bride.

Here u gonna hide love

Here u gonna hide
love in no godsuch

(Jack
son of none)

Here is meaning
what is called heart.

everything you believe is wrong

where were you
when the sea
cried out

and left me sighing

where were you
when the bells
cried out

and left me broken

where were you
when the stars
cried out

and left me dying

you didn’t even know I was gone

all you heard was the song

everything you believe is wrong

River Run

The river runs
with all delight
then pours itself
into lackless night:

So too do we
kiss soft we might
It does not last
it lasts the night.

A man knows when he is true

A man knows
when he is true:

He holds his hand
upon the flame
And tests his flesh.

It burns the bone
and frees him
not from pain
but fear

Of what the truth
will cost.

So truth goes
hand to hand
and gladly pays
the price.

Nothing ever happens

Does the moon sing
Like a bird
Through the night?

It does.

Does the flower bloom
In your hand
As though it were the earth?

It does.

Does a tear fall
Like light
Into your eyes?

It does.

Does your kiss
Give birth
To the sea?

It does.

Nothing ever happens.

Sense of Self

Our sense of self
Is like blind sight
It sees the moon
and thinks it's night.

Our sense of self
Is like a bird
Who sings for us
In our own words.

We all agree
That here is there
But no one knows
If there’s anywhere.

Reality Is not what we think it is

Philosophers, theologians, mystics, and even physicists are wont to return to the etymological background of certain key words to garner support for their theories de rerum natura. It is as if the root meanings of words like “reality,” “truth or “sin” provide a kind of archeological record of the mind, revealing profound insights based on a primordial and pristine perception of things. We can briefly observe how this etymological digging works in the excavation of that most controversial word, “reality.” “Reality” derives from the Latin noun res: thing, circumstance, condition, affair, etc. Res itself is cognate with the Latin verb reor, reri: to think. A philosopher who gets a hold of this last root meaning may suggest that “reality” is what you are able to think about. He may go on to argue that reality is a concept that mediates between the known and the unknown and, indeed, points beyond itself since what can be thought about and what is known are on principle always limited. Some Zeno, delighting in paradox, may argue that reality is precisely not what we think it is.

When I take your hand

When I take
your hand
disappears, these
hot tears
turn to ice.

One true word

One true word
makes me shiver

like the moon
the earth

like your kiss
the night

like the river
the sea

I run to the sound
And am free.

No rain but spit

No rain but spit
that stings
and stains my face
turned yet to meet
the eyes
that will not meet mine.

It comes senselessly
as though by fate
and with a call
as from a bird aloft
not mnding those
it does befoul

Foul weather
Foul spring
Foul thought
Of one not knowing
who he is
or whom he spits upon.

Yet by such stuff
Does the soul grow
To weed or flower
and turns its face
to another eye
that never tells a lie.

Out of ocean's stream

Out of ocean's stream
Comes mind
Form and flower
Comes this body
The soft full curve
Of your breast rising
Like the moon
Comes joy
Comes our story
And knowledge
Of its end:
It opens wholly
Into the pluraplenty
And the leaping beat
of the poluploisboios sea.

Spring Song

It is spring
And memories
Too hard to bear
Become something other
Than what has been

They grow
like seeds
out of the darkness
Into proofs
Of love

Where once there was
Just thought
swept through time
like leaves
there now is song

May every bird
With a broken wing
Find refuge here
and sing
for our delight.

Prophecies

You who know
That dark is light
Shall sing
Like sirens
That death is life.

You whose lips
Are hot and dry
Shall drink
The sea
Shall fall and rise.

You whose touch
Brings such delight
Shall burn
Like stars
In a starless night.

Love Risks Nothing

Love risks nothing:
The nothing
That is everything
The me that is you.

When hearts break
Nothing happens:
The nothing
That is everything.

There is no sun
In this cold blue sky.
Yet there is pain
Like tears like rain.

Hypnos and Thanatos

Though sleep be not death,
it is a gentleness
upon which the head
may fall.

Sleep makes death
bearable, even
possible.

A Lullaby

I hear my name
And know it lies.
I hear the wind --
A lullaby.

There is no kiss
Like that of rain:
There are no lips
to part and die.

There is no truth
Not even pain
to hold you here
Inside my mind.

Another Moon

In this land the sun
is another moon
that borrows its light
from the darkness
behind your eyes

like a baby from its mother
like saying one thing
and meaning another
like a child its dream
its orange and gold.

Here where nothing is

here where nothing is
your dark sky
and my dark song
make good the time
that is forever now

these words an empty
mirror of delight:

your face her face
Your hand a compass
Your body an orchard
Your hair fall rain
Your lips rich blue and green
Your eyes wine dark
Your heart the sea

it is your soul I feel

here where nowhere is
the song makes real
the night

Louise Gluck: Lullaby

The poet Louise Gluck is giving a reading tomorrow night at Albuquerque Academy where I teach. This is a poem that expresses my transcendental mind, the one that lives on despite my occasional cold stare at how things really are.

Lullaby

My mother's an expert in one thing:
sending people she loves into the other world.
The little ones, the babies--these
she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say
what she did for my father;
whatever it was, I'm sure it was right.

It's the same thing, really, preparing a person
for sleep, for death. The lullabies--they all say
don't be afraid, that's how they paraphrase
the heartbeat of the mother.
So the living grow slowly calm; it's only
the dying who can't, who refuse.

The dying are like tops, like gyroscopes--
they spin so rapidly they seem to be still.
Then they fly apart: in my mother's arms,
my sister was a cloud of atoms, of particles--that's the difference.
When a child's asleep, it's still whole.

My mother's seen death; she doesn't talk about the soul's integrity.
She's held an infant, an old man, as by comparison the dark grew
solid around them, finally changing to earth.

The soul's like all matter:
why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form,
when it could be free?

E.M. Cioran: "under the spell of inspiration"

Those who write under the spell of inspiration, for whom thought is an expression of their organic nervous disposition, do not concern themselves with unity and systems. Such concerns, contradictions, and facile paradoxes indicate an impoverished and insipid life. Only great and dangerous contradictions betoken a rich spiritual life because only they constitute a mode of realization for life's abundant flow.

(translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston, On the Heights of Despair)

I think of you, my friend,
on your great height:
so stood Icarus
poised for flight

You have only
inspiration
and words
that catch fire

Your only safety
is in that fire:
you shall burn
and know life.

Earth and Sky

Birds bid me aloft
Wing sweep lifts me high and far
All is clear below.

Lonely doesn't tell you

Lonely doesn’t tell you
how a bird sings through the night

how the wind rises and falls
like your body to my touch

Lonely doesn’t tell you
What the lone wolf knows

How the moon yields
to the night and burns.

What soft tune

What soft tune
Turns the moon
Through its stations?

No lover's art
Shapes the night
And makes it move --

Only the note
Of a dying bird
In its dark nest

Sings it round
The earth
And calls it home.

A poem without a woman

A poem without a woman
begets no sound
no sky
no wind born child

There is no overflow
nothing done
no undoing
no yes no now

A poem without a woman
closes on itself
like memory
like tomorrow

no hair
no breast
to touch
no song

that weaves
night and day
into skin
and makes it real.

Nonsense

Nonsense. Everything happens as if we were free to do otherwise. We walk toward the horizon but are everywhere rooted to the ground. Our promises betoken nothing. Even the tap tap tap of these keys makes no sound, no sense. The candle burns and casts no light. Yet we are responsible for all we do, life is a journey, promises are binding, and these words echo silently in your mind. Or so it seems. "But I think, I exist. I have a mind." You do not. "But the candle burns." It does not. “But why does it seem there is something, why not nothing?” Because nothing is something. “But that is nonsense!” Exactly.