Pdlyons's Explorationsand if we sleep this night
will the tomorrow we awake to
be different from what dream
can we know either of us
we are the same
can we know either of us
again
what is ever changing
can it be ever known
what is never changing
can it ever be us
Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café
for Cordula
~~~
“trees or torture…”
“my breasts were made for children and your fingers…”
“choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface…”
“how do you know that’s not a table?”
“if we could meet in Ireland by the palm trees…
everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, every one drinks Paddy”
“even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes ?”
“to find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…”
“who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box ?”
“well when I am god I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise and instead followed the stars
to follow the question – Why? Why everything? Why not something else ?”
“ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…”
…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Bruce Springsteen’s : Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes, and kiss me. Let
me lay my tongue on yours. Let us swallow some of each
others spit, like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes you can be Winnetou if you want to…
When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit and covering
everything with a dry syrup crust. We were fond of bones and
murders, of sacrifices and lesbians and of our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. We sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.
When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna … Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little platz by the statue near the
Shubertring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among the stuffed corpses of every
living creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated every thing and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grows heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of north sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls ,who like the little boys of
a homosexual fantasy cover me with the slick semen of their
love. Their mouths moaning with love, their cunts hungry
with love, their ass-holes a dream of love…
In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs,
the flesh of Ronald McDonald, the catholic flesh of Christ bloodless
white and sour… I lived with the flesh of dead dogs and
aborted infants; sucked the juices from the fresh wounds of
teenage girls down in the darkness of their daddy’s garages.
(Dracula had nothing on me man). I walked the ninety degree
heat s of New York City streets. Streets made of skin and
muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz. The tattoos
sweating black ink and muggers. Whenever I couldn’t buy
anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street – Meat
Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the country side? It was for a breath of fresh blood and a
little something still warm from its body heat to chew
on.
… but now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland and we
have hung up our harps to dry. Pandora’s ass is so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man sucks sea. We don’t sleep anymore and the only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here and like Winnetou have
taken the blood of my wound into your own. So my dearest
look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known. Do
you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years
ago? Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal… So roll up another cigarette; the sun is really out
doing itself today, a splendid display of muscle and our
harps soon will dry… But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that
and yes you can be Winnetou if you want to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
on the occasion of my first trip abroad in 1983 I started this piece. this version was published by Slipstream a print magazine out of Niagara Falls New York (the town not the water) in their #14 sex food death issue. As you can see this one ticked all the boxes. It was published under the pen name Djanet Tozeur in 1994. At the time I didn’t realize it but my work was published alongside (more or less) material by Charles Bukowski. It wasn’t until I was 52 years old that I discovered Bukowski otherwise I would have enjoyed the publication even more. I was 39 years old in 1994. Unfortunately the issue is sold out and out of print otherwise you could get to read his really cool poem about his death. Anyway Slipstream is still publishing and doing the good work of keeping poetry alive in the USA and the rest of the world. The last line with the reference to Winnetou was not published by the magazine. Who knows why. But I liked it too much to not add it on here. Otherwise it is exactly as they published it. You should look up Winnetou, if you want to – Google is the way to go.
http://www.slipstreampress.org/
He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told… and left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn’t himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.
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Trust
I walk out
The horse does not resist.
Leads as if there’s not a diseased bone in her body.
Does not notice children crying,
Rain stopping sun brightening
But rather a yellow butterfly –
Moves her head to keep it in sight
Until for some reason she will never know,
Can no longer do so.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this was published by the now, non existent, no archive – The Calamity Jane on line. It was a side project of Caper Journal, Patasola Press which does have some archives while not active at this point. i would have written this in 1993 when i was working at a horse rescue rehab in Connecticut. They are still in existence and continue to do phenomenal work – H.O.R.S.E. of Connecticut http://www.horseofct.org/
No one knows for sure how
Maybe some ice age fluke
Some shamanistic trance gone awry
But some how it is there
Just a few acres wild weeds witnessed by an empty house an
Abandoned sheet metal shop standing where once the white wood slaughter-house once stood where layer after layer of thick lead paint could not keep old blood from seeping through
Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery
just a few acres wedged in by a half circle ridge of glacier rock and sapling hardwoods where wolves though heard are never seen and leave no trace not even in the snow where only smooth soled sets of footprints going in disappear mid field and like wise sometimes appear mid field heading out and all through the month of November any remnant of growing thing be it stem or stalk or stick, each night is tipped with a single never freezing liquid drop such are the tears from all those who pass in one direction or the other through what we called Little Russia.
2. When I was a kid at school we had the books
They had all the symbols in them even satanic ones
All the symbols of the world
Old and new.
But one day this man came, he went around to all the class rooms.
He took away all our books.
Even the teachers were mad at this
But they had to give us other books.
New books without all the symbols.
Now they don’t teach you anything,
Just reading comprehension – you read something they give you,
Then you answer a question about what you read
Then you get a degree
Then you forget it.
But I remember we had the books
They had every symbol in the world even the satanic ones
All the symbols old and new –
Now people don’t know anything.
They don’t know this is an ancient world,
They think it’s only six thousand years but it’s not.
Its millions and millions.
We had the symbols once but they were taken away.
And I know this, even though people don’t know them anymore,
There would be no world without the symbols.
And I know this, there’s still a place where you can find them,
Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery
Under the bark of old wood, drifting under pieces of bark and branches
All what people say are just worm marks the symbols of the world, old and new, made by such worms as those there are in Little Russia.
3. What they don’t teach anymore about photosynthesis in schools?
That each leaf of each tree makes a photograph, an image of what’s around it. This is how there are many worlds at once.
each year when the leaves fall the images are stored inside the tree and when the new leaves appear they do so with all the images taken by all those leaves that came before and then through out the growing season these fresh leaves take additional photographs. The images get stronger and stronger depending on how many photographs of them have been stored. The longer something is there the stronger it becomes – building up substance over the years.
that’s why if you parked a model A here beside this tree and left it there eventually the real car would disintegrate but then be replaced by an image of the car an image created by thirty years of constant photographing by multitudes of leaves. Thus these photos are synthesized into an image so
That long after the original had rotted away
That model A
No mechanic can make run
No grease fills its crank case
No gasoline fills its gas tank
You sat in it made it go up and down up and down
Then ran home shouting
Grandpa! Grandpa! I flew the car! I flew the car!
Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery.
Didn’t we meet there once?
Weren’t you the one draped in skins?
Smile polished sepia
Black eyes stranded behind silver languages
Mindful of Ukraine choirs before the war
Dear one, dear one, my dear dear dear one
Starlings of tears each familiar voice polished crystal snow
Beside those trees where the road parallels those tracks over that stone grey arch bridging this river tainted now as then by run off from the tannery
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
(for Jim when he lived in a tent by a river in New Milford ct. – we met while I stopped for a smoke, we shared a few and had a conversation. it was winter and I only had a fiver to give him and a half a pack of Marlboro – he gave me this poem. I tried for years to do it justice. He’d a done it better himself. Anyway the important thing is Jim, not the poem – so here you go Jim – this ones for you, and maybe all those who unlike yourself never had a chance with all the symbols of the world.)
Once We Knew the Dark
No matter where days may differ but darkness is the same.
What if I lead you by the mouth?
Places underwater you could breathe in
Fingers taught on instruments stranger than bones
Drawn by strings reminiscent of words long ago
Familiar colours since extinct.
When winter was all there was could you find reasons to celebrate?
No matter how elaborate windows intricate trees harmonic songs
What does it take to lure a silver sun?
Bleaktitude chased
Hot whiskey voices
Oak wood smoke
CúirtRed berry holly
Slender secret ghosts vulnerable to love.
If it were long ago and my name was Jesus
Would you change your name for me?
Would you be my Mary?
I have become food for other creatures
Things I never knew existed indulge themselves in me
Grey not white birds mark my passing secret self
No evidence during that time of my existence
Yet even so something still remains:
A dying ember tenderness unquestioned.
Drawn to the wound in you moon strong as my own
A thing to be fingered or fucked a place to meet or loose ourselves.
What makes me want to reach in wonder what shape your creatures take as I do?
Unlike them others, reverse rodents unable to stay,
I’m not afraid. I know nothing survives the future.
Why wait for secrets? When we forget enough we die.
~
for: Loretta ’73
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
West47 was a print magazine published by the Galway Arts Centre. they were very kind to me during the few years that we knew each other. they had an annual anthology in which poets previously published during the year were eligable to have work selected. the annual would then be released as part of the Cúirt International Festival of Literature . Once We Knew The Dark, was a poem i wrote in 1972-3. a litany of re-dit and streamlining around an essentially pristine theme, the core of which remains unchanged 30 odd years on. i really liked the work it took to make this and was very pleased to see it in print. a high school muse on many a math class afternoon, Loretta, as i have mentioned previously, was and is true cool.
Cúirt International Festival of Literature:
Your
Eyes
wet stars
torn from the sky of flesh
sharp the laceration
cool the winding breath of smokey sadness
I mourn for you
like a mother
mourns the child finally born
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this was published in 1979-80 by a little print mag out of Groton, Connecticut called A Letter Among Friends. Must have wrote it in the early 70’s. I remember the editors criticized the other poems i ‘d also sent as being “…too song like.” Funny what one remembers.
Fore Abbey
whiskered wooden posts
some still decorated by bits of rusted star-crossed metal
silhouetted on the hillsides
random marks above the weeds
as if the graves of unknown beings
silence but for crows
tied like rags upon a single thread
suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
more shades of grey than words I know
and when the sun
ignites as far away as I can see the rolling valley edges
in brief and brilliant flames of green such as
emeralds could only dream
as sure as this November morning
makes each breath I take a smoky prayer
this is the wherever I should exactly be
stone once shifted by anonymous hands
now held by my own
a nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
a richer draught than any fame
what lingers here for however long
black mud by gravel beds
fed by springs that have no end
where someday I along with all the rest
remembered by some other unknown soul
perhaps while sitting on this very ledge to ponder
fates befell all those who left their mark upon this land.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For years now i have been fortunate enough to know of and be able to walk the landscape around the village of Fore Westmeath. accompanied by my dear friend and on occasion my dear family. Lily was one of those all terrain jack Russell creatures who i have never seen tired although she would easily do at least five to every mile i’d walk. she was equal to all weather and was a fairly good rock climber when needs be. to day was the first time in i cant remember how long i walked her walk with out her.
this poem was published, along with three others, by the Irish |American Post http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/year2006/12fall-winter/featured/featured12.html FALL-WINTER 06 / VOL. 7 ISSUE 2. it is live archived. it is also still as of winter 2014 still publishing : http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/
and unlike some, she had a great capacity for retaining dignity
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