All the Rivers Run to You

Though all the rivers run to you
I dive into the water’s deep
to learn a song I'll sing for you.

How a poem ends

My eyes
don't add up
to one or
two.

Her look
makes one
go blind.

The other
turns away
to this page
to catch her form
before the fire
It consumes.

It multiplies
Itself by ten,
then ten again,

but soon the one
and all the many
become the flame.

This is how
the poem
ends.

Poeta

Poēta

I yet may find the Golden Bough,
a branch from the Tree of Life,
and if it yields to my hand,
to be a gift for Persephone.
So she commands. Till then,
the song goes on, the words
an echo in the stone.

The Beating of a Silent Drum

Once all was play.
As if born of sea.
We called it home.

Once we walked all night
along the shore, each
wave a flash of light,
and called them stars.

Now horses stamp darkly
on a more distant shore.
We hear the beating
of a silent drum.

INVOCATION

INVOCATION

All that I have not
said or thought
may the gods of
earth air fire water
day and night
do and do
and speak
for me
of undying love
and you.

Sunrise

You rise
with the sun.

I count on
you

being there
where here is.

How else
would I know

where
to go?

I follow
the sun

and learn
how to love.

Were it not for wind

You ask where the call
to be who you truly are,
but all you hear is wind
that stirs the dust
and runs through grass
and tries to sing.
Were it not for wind
there'd be no song at all.

Many Me

At the end of day
a hand appears
and waves me on.
Who else is here?
All I see look like me.
I ask each one,
Who are you?
But no one knows
who I am.

"What a piece of work is man."

For far too long
the fates have made
a fool of me,
my life their stage.
Do what they will,
I will not play.

Sorry pal, the fates
will have their fun.
In your defiance,
I hear their drum,
"Something wicked
this way comes."

Turn the page

Turn the page and you will find
The emptiness you've been searching for:
A blank page now waits for you.

Though you yearn for what's not there,
Each word you write is so full of life
You'll never turn the page again.

The sun will spin and the moon will weave
Itself into the mystery of the night
Where now you find yourself
As you truly are, not there at all.

Let the land flourish and be whole,
Let the thunder call you home.

My Brick at Albuquerque Academy

Photograph by Ber Himwich (Translaton: "Don't follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek out new paths to truth."

A Blessing

I sing like some loony bird
over the face of the deep.
Nothing happens.
There is only the song
and the shadow cast
upon the surge
of the waves below,
so much like the beating
of my heart, soon
to find rest
in the fall of night.

a poet's prayer

Ram the stars into my eyes
until I see there is some hope

Drive a stake into my heart
until I learn the art of dying

Explode the lies inside my mind
and make me beg for truth

Then burn me in a last desire
'til nothing's left but the fire

Persephone

Poets say that the soul of man is immortal, and at one time comes to an end, which is called dying, and at another is born again, but never perishes. Consequently one ought to live all one's life in the utmost holiness. For from whomsoever Persephone shall accept requital for ancient wrong, the souls of these she restores in the ninth year to the upper sun again; from them arise “... men of surpassing wisdom and for all remaining time are they called holy heroes amongst mankind.” (Pind. Fr. 133) Seeing then that the soul is immortal and has been born many times, and has beheld all things both in this world and in the nether realms, she has acquired knowledge of all and everything... (Plato, Meno, 81b-c)

Persephone
demands you

Love all
suffer all
and fall away

See yourself
in a flower
she tells you

You are beautiful
and you too
will die

Over and over
and over
'tll you know

What she has
learned: living
is the art

Of dying.

The Night As It Is

When we turn
with the moon
to the dark side
and see through
closed eyes,
we see the night
as it is, turning
on an axis of light
inside the scattered
dust of us.

Shelter From the Storm

Sailing out to sea
Off Virginia’s* coast,
There is a wave
That will carry you
Home to me.
I won’t be there.
I got so lonely
I too set sail.
When will we two
Meet again?
When the thunder
makes it rain.

*Virginia Woolf

There is an echo of
Macbeth's weird sisters
in the last two lines:

When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurly-burly’s done . . .

Alissa:

I see Macbeth,
but there's Lear as well:
the storm, the cliff,
the storm . . .

Hugh:

You're right!
There's more
Lear in me
than Macbeth,
who whines
like Hamlet
in Elsinore.

Being Blue

for my students

Just remember the orange
Is not in the orange.

It is always you
Like a thumb in the eye
Or a gift
You were not expecting.

The blue sky
So glorious today

Is also you.
Be beautiful!

The Divine Comedy

for Charles

Ber remembers fondly
the time you said,
"You're incorrigible!",
his camera's eye
catching you and me
without time to find
a face.

He wears your comment
like a badge of honor,
and now says
with a smile
as wide as the Gates
of Heaven that you and I
are incorrigible too.

I wear it proudly
as his father,
and now
that epithet
I pin on you,

though it'd be
just like you,
incorrigible
to the last,
to reply,
"Not me too?"

Heaven opens
only to those
who know themselves
and freely laugh
at what is true.

though in my case
and perhaps in yours,
our skinny selves
may only get there

thru the Gates of Hell.

We the People

for my students

Mea Culpa

You shouldn't hesitate
to set me straight.
I am as I am
and am not
what I would be.

It's not your job.
It's just what a friend
or more than a friend
would do.

I hope I have a few.

for my students

Keep up the good work!

Truly I am getting older
and, sad to say,
I've grown no wiser.
Yet, because of you
I 'feel' at least
I'm getting younger.

Though I'll never be
as beautiful as you,
(and truth be told,
I never was) I pray,
heart to heart,
to someday be
as beautifully
dumb as you,

though at my age
wiser folks may use
a different word
and say,
"The man's a fool.
Stay away."
I hope you don't.

Fools like me
are hard to find.

lol

That must mean
'lots of love'.

Dumb luck
I do not need.

Forever Young

Let the dying wind
take me in its hand
and scatter me
on the waving sands.
A fledgling bird
sits on my tongue.
All that's lost
becomes my song.

Mysteries of the Human Heart

Ber & Dad

What makes you your own

Our idiosyncrasies are
What those who love us
Love to hate. You stutter
When you tell her
You love her true
And she knows
You really do
But prays aloud
To whatever god
May be passing by
(O let be
The hermetic one!)
For you to say it straight,
And so you learn to sing
The words to Amazing Grace
And she’s still not satisfied
And yet, though it’s no joke,
She laughs and sex that night
Makes the whole world shake.
Beast or god, each of us
Has our own.

lufu

Let's replace love with lufu*

When we are in love,
lufu dances
and rules the day.

*lufu is the Old English word
from which 'love' comes.

Fool's gold
is poetic treasure.

Sunday Morning with Charles

Flowers from Charles:
This is what it means
to capture the moment.

There was talk of
fascia and proprioception
and some whale
that mirrors the hump
back in my gait
and of a child
to whom you kindly said,
"God made the clouds."
But she unknowingly replied,
"I made the clouds."
and then, she with

a steady gaze, "God
and I made the clouds
for you."

And then we talked
of the 'demon' Dennett
who ran a clinic
for those addicted
to the immortal soul
and spoke for those
who would wish,
soul or not,
that he go straight to....

and, best of all, we talked
of "No Thing Not Here"
and could not decide
who said it first
but also knew
that it's how
we live our days
with what is
and what is not
here or there
that makes it
truly ours.

(Photograph by Ber
who loves Charles and me
for who we are

but thinks us "incorrigible"

-his word, not mine)
and tires of our gab.)

Though all this
may read as poetry,
every word of it is true.

I've attached the docs

to prove it to be so,

not for 'true believers',

who know Charles too well,

but to put to sleep

those who are wont

to doubt. It's like

what's said of Mozart,

there are too many words.

Download Epistle 1

Download Epistle 2

Death by Lightning

Who grows old but never truly dies?
One who seeks and finds the secret
in the children's eyes and rides the clouds
that sweep across the sky like inspired thought
or a poet's words that outrun the night
and does not fear the fury of the wind
or the lightning that will strike him dead.

(It may be this poem tips toward irony,
but that's for each reader to decide.)

I fall dead asleep / Poet to Poet

I fall dead asleep.
In the morning a bird's song,
The coffee brewing

Poet to Poet

"To have coffee
or think what's the use,"
(your words, now mine)
and face another day,
it makes no little difference,
like that of light and dark,
if you hear birds singing
despite your heavy heart.

Beautiful Strangers

Weirder and weirder
we become
as we discover
no one is like
anyone

So that if we were
to look in a mirror
we would see
a benevolent stranger
Who welcomes us
to who we are.

There’s no telling
what would happen next:

Perhaps we would start off
on a hopeful journey
Carrying a lamp
to find others
Who are also strangers
to themselves,

Or, we might lay back
in the grass,
as I do now, and dream
of a world where
we love those better
whom in truth we have
loved before but now
we are more alive
to who they
may yet become,

A world - Think of it! - crowded
with beautiful strangers,
at play in the flowering
sunshine of possibility,
each of whom is
beautiful and each
is beautiful to all.

Sense of Self

Our sense of self is like blind sight.
We dream the moon and sleep the night.

Our sense of self is like a bird
That sings to us in our own words.

We all agree what's here or there,
But your sense of self is everywhere.

It's in the songs of pure delight.
The birds will sing as you sleep the night.

Literature of the Mind Cards

Loomings

And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. --Melville, Moby Dick

My eyes were as Ahab’s
When the harpoon he hurled
Drew him to the whale
And then the rope
Bound him fast.
Though I had lost no leg,
- My only loss was Time and You -
I held the threads
That bound Ahab to a ghost.
My life was tied to Life itself,
Be it but a broken heart,
A phantom that drew me on
And on whose bruising bulk
I hurled myself, never thinking,
As you up there are sure to do,
Dying is what the living do and do.*

*The "do and do" recalls the 'weird' 'sister's line in Macbeth,
"I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do." Melville himself frames his story within
the logic of Macbeth's sorry fate. Like Macbeth, Ahab receives three
prophecies that no reasonable person would believe could come true,
except, of course, they do. It is of interest that the meaning of the
etymological root of ''weird' is 'fate'. 'Weird'' is the operating
principle of our individual and collective fate.

Classical Literacy Cards

The Rain It Raineth Everyday

I thought
you would like

to know
I am here

waiting
in the rain

I guess
you forgot

Heigh Ho,
the rain falls

on all
lost souls

blue skies
or no

The Weight of Age

for Alissa

'Tis true what you say:

Birds of a darker hue

Come now at break of day

Where once the robin & the jay

Would call with better news.

But worry not. The darker song

Is still song and triumphs all.

Winning and Losing

Winning and Losing

Do tell.
You’re making fun of me.
Does it matter?
But I was talking about serious things.
Yes, of course, you were.
Surely, you agree the war is serious.
O yes, all too serious.
You're doing it again.
Does it matter, war being war?
But there will be winners and losers.
You’re right, of course.
Doesn’t it matter who wins?
O yes. Should we talk bullets and guns?
Yes, and many other such things like tanks and bombs.
Do tell.
You're mocking me.
But you said it matters who wins.
Indeed, it does.
But in war, everyone loses.
Not everyone.
Tell me who wins.
The winners win.
And farmers farm, I suppose.
Seriously?
You don't understand.
What?
I much prefer farming.

(I know there are those who would want to object. In this case, that's not possible, as I've put a full stop to the conversation. I don't see the harm in that. At least, there are no actual bullets or guns. This piece is about men who would rather go to war than think.)

"The Tree Outside the Window Taps Gently . . . " -Virginia Woolf

(The following are three passages from VW's "The Mark on the Wall" that I have set in poetic lines to highlight the poetry of Virginia Woolf's prose.)

The Tree Outside the Window Taps Gently . . .

The tree outside the window taps gently on the pane . . . .
I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously,
Never to be interrupted,
Never to have to rise from my chair,
To slip easily from one thing to another,
Without any sense of hostility, or obstacle.
I want to sink deeper and deeper,
Away from the surface with its hard separate facts.
To steady myself, let me catch hold
Of the first idea that passes . . .

I like to think of the tree itself:
First the close dry sensation of being wood;
Then the grinding of the storm;
Then the slow, delicious ooze of sap.
I like to think of it, too, on winter’s nights
Standing in the empty field with its leaves close-furled,
Nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon,
A naked mast upon the earth that goes tumbling, tumbling all night long.
The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June . . . .

But after life.
The slow pulling down of thick green stalks
So that the cup of the flower,
As it turns over,
Deluges one with purple and red light.
Why, after all, should one not be born here,
Helpless, speechless, unable to focus one’s eyesight,
Groping at the roots of the grass,
At the toes of Giants?

Each Alone Together

From where I sit
I can hear the rain
And see the desert bloom

It’s but a room
Like yours,
On a street like yours

What we’ve done
To each other
Cannot last forever

Outside a girl plays
In the rain
And gathers flowers

She sees me watching
And laughs,
She could be crying

She’s rooted there
As I am here,
Each alone together

Leonora's Photography and Artwork, 191-196

Street art
(Wall art by Hong Kong based artist, Alex Croft. )

The birds they sang at the break of day

Street Mural

(..)

The birds they sang at the break of day

"Start again", I seem to hear them say

Don't dwell on what has passed away

Or what is yet to be

Ah, the wars, they will be fought again

The holy dove, she will be caught again

Bought and sold and bought again

The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in (..)

Leonard Cohen - Anthem-

Le dessert

Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle

Escape the madness

Van Morrison - Days Like This-

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Le lotus s'éveille

Emerging from the mud untainted

Radiohead - Lotus Flower -

Leonora's Photography on Flickr

Beauty and the Beast

It can happen that you fall

Into your lover’s eyes

And disappear.

It’s like a night

When the moon’s light

Becomes your own,

Casting shadows

That lead you deeper

Into a darker forest of

Sighs and terrors

Where you, who in the light

Of day are as strange

To others as a centaur,

Are now as beautiful

As you’ll ever be.

POEM WITH A FACE

Without your face

There would be no poem

Or any word that calls out

To anyone but a faceless god

Who may or may not be there –

It is your face, not hers or his,

But yours that hides and reveals

An elusive YES. It is

Your face that gives rise to

“How do I love thee?”

The night itself becomes

All eyes or call them stars

Dawn arrives with a golden tongue

All the world comes into being

Waiting to hear and be heard

Your face a burning flower

University of the Imagination

And there I was

Out of myself

Perfect whole happy

Think of the sea

Not unlike the one

On which we will take our final journey

And know the beginning of the world

That is this moment now

The other side that is as close

As the hand that now takes yours

And never again lets you go

All and ever in the joy of being

Think of the comfort of a woven shawl

That holds you like a mother’s large embrace

Or a tree that clings to a cliff

Not for itself but for the rock

Keeping safe the spirit and life of the world

Think of duty and the beauty it bestows

Like the food the biscuits, cream, and coffee

That satisfies and delights and soothes

Until we set sail again, too far

Not to feel the fear for life

That will end alone, ever

And again drowning at sea

The body abandoned on a nearby shore

Ready at last to be gathered up

In the grief of the living

Angel

The sadness in her eyes was so sad

That only the joy in mine could be more joyful.

So we met, lingering unsteadily, until her crying stopped

And my laughter had turned to silence.

So it was that we at last understood each other, seen and seeing,

as visible to each other as we were invisible.

The sky turned so blue that only the blue of an angel’s eyes could be more

blue,

But now a hawk caught my eye, and she, catching the wind in her wings,

flew away.

L'Être et le néant (Sartre)

How odd the thought
that Plato was not a Platonist
and that I who write so much about love
do so because love ever escapes me --
Dare I say it, I am like Socrates
who claimed he was wise
because he knew he wasn’t –
so too am I a lover
because love defies me.
How sad I hear you saying --
yet I am always in love!
It is the absence of love
that makes love rise up in me
in wave after wave.
The sound you hear is a heart
breaking upon the shore
and like the sea, I endure,
beating my heart out again
and again in song.
Love is what it is not
and is not what it is.
True love fulfills itself
as a useless passion.
Just so I am ever lonely
and ever in love.

The End of Desire

On the shore the children

throw stones to test

their strength.

No one wins.

A mountain hovers

over the river, a ribbon

of light. There is only

the silent splash of stone.

Song's End

The sadness of the song

Was so enchanting that you

Slipped from my embrace

And the music stopped.

So Orpheus must have felt

When three times Eurydice escaped

His grasp and his song became

But brute air.

Nescio

Poetics

It has been the search for understanding that has made my life one of despair and fulfillment. My experience is that I forget the answers I have found or discard them as yesterday's news. Sometimes, after a long journey, I discover I have arrived at the same answer I did years ago. Looking back at my philosophical journeys, I find one common feature: the powerful experience of thinking and feeling my way toward some answer. For me, the ever-recurring answer to the most critical question (What makes life meaningful?) is this moving depth of consciousness that I experience in the search for understanding. I have found that as my consciousness deepens, it turns poetic. Poetry is the moving image of the depth in man.

Socratic Wisdom

Socrates says that he is wise because he at least knows that he is not wise. Likewise, when I see that I don't know and utter those three short words, I arrive at the answer I have sought. But it can't be just a pose or a simple-minded response. It must be an authentic expression of my search for understanding. If it is genuine, my experience is despair and fulfillment. I experience a depth of consciousness that is, strangely enough, both the answer and not the one I had been searching for. It is not something I know; it's a different kind of knowledge. It is as though I remember what I am from the depth of my being.

Where the argument leads, I will follow.

In The Crito, Socrates engages in a dialogue that has life-and-death consequences for him and states that he is prepared to act in accordance with the conclusions of the argument. Socrates goes to his death as the logic of the argument directs. This is the ideal conversation, one in which words mean something. And so it must be here for me now. ." What is at sake? Meaninglessness.

How do die

Socrates dies as I would, thinking and searching to the end. And death itself: simple and complete -- with a final "I don't know" that rings over the sea of my being like a bell ringing through the darkness.

How will you know the answer you have found is the answer you are searching for?

I don't know. I don't know. And that is precisely the point. If the "I don't know" is an authentic experience, it will fulfill the search at the moment of its utterance. The answer I am searching for is the search itself.

The erotic impulse

My experience is that the philosophical quest is inextricably tied up with the erotic. If it were not for the erotic, I would never begin the journey. I would never know you or myself.

The turning of the soul

The final turning of the soul occurs when the soul understands that its own activity is the good.

Nescio ergo sum

The I-don't-know is the beginning and the end and knows itself to be the answer it seeks. It experiences itself as a lack and thereby fulfills itself. It is complete in its incompleteness, final even when it knows itself to be yet in process, and fulfills itself at the moment it despairs.