FULL BLACK Q by Klaus J. Gerken (1975) Black black black ten to eight black the night stalks everything there are shadows in which we cannot dwell others dwell in them you dwell in them like mirrors that explore the wrong side of you you who are lost you who are the seekers in the desert of african violets you find only scorpions you find only poison asps hot sand black night even stars dont shine black pawn in a jungle of deposed kings and queens you try hard try harder - it is the darkest night and the brightest day grey day paynes grey black non-colour mixed with white full colour produces gray gray black and gray darkest night the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly about old men waiting for their demise which has already come so long ago young men lost to emptiness everyone lost broken bottles drinking drunk stumbling falling falling it is the abysmal alley through which we stumble in which we fall it is the alley through which we walk drunk and drugged hoping for the night the day hoping for anything it is woman it is life it is a dragnet which is all that is gathered it is the poet gathering he gathers everything the tree might grow but it doesnt grow fast enough it is books and dust books and dust and repetitions it is periods of this it is periods the ending of a sentence the next paragraph does not begin as easily as the next note what is the next note what is not streets walking up and down the streets walking up and down ones past poems of the notebooks of the journals of the passing of the past the indecision the decision that gathers what to do or not to do the words angry words sullen words words without a hope of evidence that we exist letters answering letters and telephone calls and noise bearded men and lovely ladies poets verses sunshine maybe perhaps clouds hide it hide everything there are clouds in my eyes your eyes everybodys eyes the eyes that see the eyes that dont the ears that hear and the ears that wont read read read the blackest poem on the whitest page in this monotony seated by the open window years ago dreaming dreams still come and go dreams still do a lot of things but we mix them with reality reality fine illusion like the tv set are there really actors are there really people who write this stuff are there really poets can there really be poets this cant be true truth is stranger than fiction fiction is the stuff of dreams dissected into fact and how we conquer it how we want to conquer it how we have a wish to conquer what is there what is left take stock - fifteen thousand pages fifteen thousand ages in a world a-swim and how the world has aged how we turn the page how the world has bled for understanding and for knowledge calling wood and city country places cars and bicycles to work I just realized how alien this is I just realized I was realizing nothing that has been the same stale conversation stagnant poem like the stagnant and polluted waters of the world whales and oceans saviour and society telephones snags in all communication its a wrong number always the numbers one wants not out of order passed away ten years ago when the world was younger it was aging still this poem stretches back ten years it stretches back to shape and form upon an unknown canvas just exploded in my mind it ages back to everything old and new the past that is the past which was once before the future one searches and one finds renew yourselves yes thank you works of art are incorrigible everything is people of the roofs and jars of opium disturbance in the audience the audience is on the radio everyone should know that what yes yes whatever is whatevers not all of us chains do not unlock they make such pretty sounds clanking through the corridors go down do go down deep wells of wisdom filled with garbage on the beach a bottle and no message in the bottle cold wind and a dead gull white black feathers ruffled by a living wind pages black white peanuts and squirrels blue jays music photographs not liking ones own the image in the words the images on porcelain and the mirror of picasso the lives relived in words and photographs only surfaces too romantic to be seen in true flight why couldnt i have been born earlier when the world was young and people sick together in their feeling for each other and their art all of us what have we done we have seen our heritage diminished we have shrunk from our duty as citizens of the world we have made a sham of everything fragile planet birds rows of birds are art everything is art nothing is where do we stop where do we go where do we see these things we do not see what are these words these images these repetitions what are these poems with no rhythm these poems with no rhyme or reason reasons being out these days the poets are such simple people who like to think themselves much more they know as much about a poem as they know about themselves nothing we are all dumb broken shattered vanquished dumb it is boredom that we are afraid of we play games it is games that we aught to be afraid of it is panes of window glass we see the world through see through everything writers cramp of course everythings the curse of need machines break down and can be fixed like democracy at ten a.m. rain clouds dark and black and gray paynes gray of the voices voices that communicate voices that fall silent that cant some have no ears some only scars some are devastated some collect their ingenuity and smoke a cigarette and talk to pretty girls about their civil wars in bed break pause back gray day day that must be rain fingers of prague rain that must be shadow without sun salt and pepper rain on all of us blue roofs darkness in the streets dont shave when morning comes like a lark on fire singing songs of torture but the morning isnt good enough dont look in the mirror even if it cracks dont look at people they might just look back dont do anything pace the room pace it up and down shout scream drink get drunk forget to forget everything the blackness in your heart the too full jungle in your mind contrived in spaces that are inaccessible to anyone but god and who can boast of being god my guts ache they dont write poems like that they copulate like that the dregs of earth the lowest of the low that grace the lips of satan in eternal hell whats the use disguising in the world the good and bad the sun and moon what togetherness is not good poems do not lie they twist the truth society tells the lie and why not were only here for the duration of eternity we can never do ourselves the harm to put ourselves away what we do not finish in one life we finish in another what is the use what can we do of love and of devotion love what devotion to whom STOP and as the sign bearer stops everything also stops black notice that there are no stars the last one having been outdone by the dawn the pregnant dawn all our images are broken by the dawn the blazing dawn society depends upon the dawn the ageless dawn everything depends upon the dawn the dawn of what another day a new beginning question yourself the dawn of what i just want to top the dawn of what we know everything nothing the nothing that we know is everything only we dont know it yet isnt that a laugh the birds are on their southern journey give a warning sign they are going on vacation we only lock ourselves into our prison cells it is like we would be if we were not or vice versa with ladders climbing to the sky the rungs are broken we all think we can climb the ladder we try we only fall down trying and still think that we succeed we get nowhere the higher we get the further we get away from what we had and what we had has been our solid base we are in outer space the solid base is weightlessness how long will it last chains rust but to actually cast them off that takes courage how much courage do we have what is freedom will we ever dare again were we ever in danger as today do we have each other do we know any more do we know ourselves were all these things as important then are they that important now the art of fighting without philosophy yes yes yes they are important the saviour is society we are the witness to the truth we are the witness to the silence we equate with full communication if we could only learn the language of community if we would only listen to the cars and the machines and where the footsteps end upon a barren beach where is the wind where are we and do we really know ourselves do we really know anything at all do we really care are we so broken as to think that we are together yet and look at what we lose by losing look at all of it all the wonder the light the different light that permeates everything as open to the sky as love envelops us the blue cerulean the wonder of this studio with outstretched arms the radium sun heightens us in shadows shadows of our nature shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes let is leave the darkness of this city let us leave the darkness of all cities let us walk into Beethovens pastoral and let us seek the quiet place where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds and breathe the freshet air of harmony beneath the gentle universe of stars it is late and it is early and the voices of the night are silent and the voices of the day begin another clamour i will say no more i will let the word come through of its own accord forgive me reader if ive said too much i will say no more Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara. Shantih shantih shantih... Night of 21/22 Aug 1975 Copyright (c) 1975 Klaus J. Gerken
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 17:25:30 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015