to even be,
i ride through forests, child
of trees, my first steps
treading on dead
leaf and seed.
do you see me riding,
even hear my horse’s echos,
strong dark root
of kock and seed. you laugh
and slice me,
have you heard
tale of naked youth,
a tree, the smell of horse,
the sense of oddity? ...peasants
hide behind dead trees.
to the land of mirror —
i need to reach you,
languor — shall i touch
you? green leaf vigor —
beauty of this city.
hand on hand, glass
if you know
of fire stretched out
memory of trees.
7 Mar 15
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this is familar is this a repost ?
i like it
this is a re-write, some changes in form and word.
like the 1st dream when tomorrow breaks.
i'm reading this with a fresh set of eyes -- it does read differently now from the way it was originally posted here -- and wondering what havoc warranted the deletion of so many comments... though that may be too obvious to not recognize, yes?
what happens when i get to read a style of writing which is different from mine or way over my head is that it gets my full attention, and i'm then inclined to learn it and try to ride the waves in it with/in the proper gear, mindset, emotion, the works. on top of that, it makes want to create my own in at least the same, original spirit.
conformity always means comfort, and that can remain the status quo only for a certain degree/length of tenure, making people seem to be simply parroting each other which is not okay nor the way to make progress... like a huge bulk of my works is meh, because i'm a hobbyist writer more often than not.
see, this business of trying to throw in what seems to be good advice to one well-meaning poet[-wannabe] and which might be otherwise to another will definitely ruffle some serious feathers. i should know, 'cause i lost some friend a few years ago when i was just trying to be objective about his work. these days, when other friends post their attempts at poetry, all i get to spew out is sanitized critique, and i feel awful, but that's the burden i chose to put upon myself... BUT, really, art and/or the path that leads to it has to be pure rather than misguided.
...makes me* want to...
i have this thing where i let the poem teach me how to read it -- i surf it and there's waves and air and things coming up from under the sea.
thanks for the thoughtful comment, frac. worth posting it just for this kind of comment.
there's a vid of me reading and talking about my stuff.
for 'no one'
Utterly brilliant. I mean, truly, utterly fucking brilliant. You've done what great Art does. You've created a capsule into the human heart, elevating an experience to the status of Art. You've communicated, and brought the stranger to a place--as if the mundane and neglected day-to-day were a pedestrian walking on avenues, waiting at a cross-walk--here Art turns it to an opera house, and elevates the world to a symphony, elevates the pedestrian to spectator, to audience; removing him/her from himself/herself and his/her world, placing him/her in a seat to experience him/herself waiting at the cross-walk--and view it all instead--as Beethoven's 9th. That's what Great Art does. Elevates the benal and ordinary to the status of Art, while simultaneously communicating beneath the "performance" a dialogue of human experience.
Using the symbol of the horse as sexuality and taking it to new heights is something only a real poet can do.
the horse, in this poem, is I'm assuming(you have to be, I don't know or remember if you've said you are) your homosexuality?the first stanza, the hesitant journey forward of the young boy--in realization of his homosexuality--to now explore it. stanza 2 being of the secret places one must go to have this normal human experience, to have sex, to love even? and the stigma, the fear of the "peasant" hetero world.
and then you have stanza 3, looking for your "own kind" in the "land of mirror", riders of the same horse and victims of the same horror and tragedy in an unforgiving world. drawn to the same forests. but what makes it gorgeous verse, is that you give us a faint self-consciousness--where in the midst of the ugliness, the tragedy, the loneliness--you never once question the beauty of your homosexuality. that the world has not corrupted your sense of self. that you are still capable of beauty, of "normality" in your love, in your lust.
then ending on the remembrance of one of those secret moments, of two people having to explore their humanity in silent places, in hidden forests, before returning to the "normal" world. revolving back around in the last stanza to a truly tragic sentiment. a loneliness. the nostalgia after a horse-ride into love, or into lust. back in the real-world, the peasant world, biding your time and sanity, in waiting for the next great horse ride.
I leave you now, with the poorly constructed commentary of my thoughts above, as well as this poem by Frank O'hara(To The Harbor Master). Because I feel this is a Gallery. I want to hang a Picasso painting of an Orange Tree, next to the Georges Braque painting of an Orange Tree. And in this context, introduce them to each other.
I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
cool reading of my poem, and probably mostly what it is. it's directly about this guy and how he can't love me, and what that means to me -- and, how to transcend that through making a poem. but, the structure has to be formed as you say -- formed out of my homo experience and mapped into the straight world.
thanks very much. this is probably the most thoughtful reading i've gotten here. it's very hard to create an alternate world in the poem and not have it seem cheap after a few readings. i think that's what the last stanza is about... the naked youths riding away from me, indifferent and creating myths of themselves as eternal beings.
Unrequited love, the act of writing....Ah!!!! I was close! Heh heh,
That's even cooler though man, I mean I really enjoyed this piece. I don't think it deserves a 6.4. Or, from what it seems up above, negative reactions and possible trolling?
This shit should be read, you know? Because I think this is the first piece of gay poetry I've seen on here.
Shit, even I as a hetero male can acknowledge the importance of that.
and that's why I really love this poem, and what I meant in my first superlative paragraph in the original post. You're giving voice to something unknown to me. A different lifestyle, etc. and it's something unique, fresh, and organic to me as a reader to be reading. because the subject IS so different. So new and unknown. I think that's where a lot of the really good stuff comes from. Artists with unique perspectives like that.
i run into this thing all the time, where people don't think we can actually love each other, two guys, that it's only 'lust'. one woman told me i was just 'greedy'. i think maybe that's an obstacle for people, that they can't figure or intuit because they've maybe never been in love themselves. otherwise, you'd think they'd read the words as kind of like polished and fitting with each other like a mosaic. but, most gays don't get my stuff either. it's like there's not enough soap opera dialog... but, that's universal, especially here, where most of the writing is soap opera.
Stripped bare for the average freak
Suicide by text.
Nice to see you put this back on. It's my favourite of yours-- just wanting to say that this still means something to me on a deeper level than most.
thanks, j. I always thought it was too private a piece. I'm writing some pretty good stuff now, but these romantic pieces from 2003 are really what I consider as writing beyond my ego.
It's definitely a private piece but maybe that's why it touched me. There are a handful of poems that somehow changed my life, or at least changed my perspective which in turn would change my life. This was one of them. I agree with a lot of views you've shared here over the years.
Did you change this at all? It feels a little different. Or I'm just older and nothing stays the same.
no, it's published a couple of times, so I can't change it if wanted. it's really like I can't and won't get into that certain emotional space now.
maybe your experience was like mine, where I realized if I was going to write in a magic medium like poetry that I could write 'magical '... just let the images carry the poem.
Like running away from your pain. Avoidance, poetically.
We don't stay the same, we're always growing.
it's not actually running away from it, it's more like a conjunction of body and mind where i tripped out in a very real word space where you realize that all your moans are just smart things you couldn't say to someone's face, for fear of losing them or whatever. and, you realize that the truth all along is that you like to write, that it's like swimming -- it just works for you on so many levels. so, you start to go back to learning to play -- and, that was what my comment 'childish but not child-like' was about -- that you go back to the spontaneity of saying amazing things, that you don't try to keep the transactional truth of staying rational, cause rationality didn't do shit when the time came... that all your poetry could not make you love him. so, write to love yourself instead, just write yourself things you'd like to read yourself.... give up writing legal complaints before the supreme court of love.
v day love flood
...irthday ...oday. ...eventy
i read this today in a different mood, my head so light... and i read it again... and again...
i just wanna read it; it feels good to do so.
birthday happy burp, mike.
yes. just reading it to read it. that's what i want for my poetry -- to open the reading into the unknown and unsayable.