These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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ALWAYS, After Pablo
Neruda
I'm
not concerned about those other men, The
lovers who came before me.
I
could not care less! Forget about it. Your
friends, those guys who had previous claim, Who
boasted title to the blood rush of your heart, They
mean nothing to me. Come
to me carrying an old boyfriend on your shoulders. Show
me that picture, The
one which has a hundred men sniffing your hair. Conjure
up a mother goddess image, A
thousand guys nestling between your breasts, Or
tell me that you have had acolytes adoring your feet. Flood
me over as were your memories A
monsoon river torrent, when in mid-July it empties The
mountain-gully slopes of Goa, And
speeds the great, red earth out into the Sea of Arabia. Roar
into me with the tidal wave of all your mementos. Show
me the wrecked hopes, The
twists and heaps of those tokens which at one time spelled The
bleeding-heart intent of your now-drowned lovers. How
wretchedly long the debris stretch, How
deep and far your keepsakes tear inland over the coastline! What
vanity dreams to withstand the timeless motion of the surf! Yet
here I am. I
wait. I am waiting for you, No
matter what, or who it is, you may bring along. We
are alone, we shall always be alone, We
shall always be you and I.
And
here -- here is the time, The
place, where, through the ages, Through
worlds and worlds, through universes apart, In
a flash out from the cycle of life after life. We
are now at the moment. Our
affection reaches beyond the stint of ordinary dimension. It
has settled in for the term we call immortality.
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HAD I BEEN BORN PERFECT
Remember
I told you how I handled Gregory? He
was a bad case, eh, What
with his doing 8 bags o' dust at a time, And
then visiting local bars, so sick, Upchucking
right on the patrons' jackets, While
they sat there, all innocent, People
on their stools were having a drink!
I
didn't talk to him for years, Refused
all contact, I was afraid, People
had not realized how great my fear. He
occupied my thoughts night and day.
I
thought he might wind up in jail, Or
dead, or a victim hooked up, Like
some medical experiment, Doctors
without options, practicing Last
resort medicine, wires and tubes, And
a parent witness to nightmare, The
nasty ordeal when intervention Takes
place during hospital emergency.
It's
not death, for death is but a word. It
is the way of it. I feared.
I
called it love, my having nothing, Absolutely
nothing to do with him, Until
he went for help, because he seemed Unable
to help himself, and cease The
shit with which he played.
I
did not know what else to do.
Once
he called me and said, 'Dad,
I've got the monkey off my back!' But
I hung up the receiver, Didn't
let him explain. I
couldn't take it, no more rot!, I
knew he was still in the circus.
And
Billy, a surrogate son, You
know the story, I … I treated him the same, The
same cold shoulder, not talking to him Months
on end, until he realized our friendship Depended
on his treating his own two boys, Like
a proper father. I wanted him to put His
children first in life, and I meant it.
Forget
about my smile and easy charm, It's
never smart to test my resolve.
2.
But,
darling, when it comes to dealing with you, I
find no form of human love prevails. No
mere earthly style or mode of affection works!
Oh,
the poetry! Look
to the poetry I write for you. My
heart wells up, the warmest regard, Right
up to the breaking point, In
poem after poem I tried to portray How
great, how utter the abandon, I
declared, were fate to bring us to a terrible juncture, A
crossroad where all choice reduces To
either my life, or yours,
Gladly
would I give up mine, I would die for you.
To
proclaim the veracity of your physical beauty I
wrote, RED ROOF INN.
I
spent a year and wrote, NOW VOYAGER for you.
The
time, when in Brooklyn I found you, That
early, that rainy morning, I
knew you were treasure. You,
the reason, I wrote, SERENDIPITY!
And
that I might attest to your strength of character, Express
my fondest feelings for you, I
wrote, then, over and again, I rewrote, DREAM
CHILDREN, verse which pictured you In
future time the mother of our two children.
How
tender and constant the thoughts! You on my mind Beseeching
you, and ever so softly, so gently I
sought to play upon the strings of your heart.
And
the letters, they are all love letters, And
we have a pile of them.
When
in this correspondence, I said it wrong, Overstepped
the line, wanted propriety, And
for those errors in judgment and phrase, The
anger, when I fell, put my own bruised feelings Before
yours, did not consider your own hurt first, And
failed to acknowledge the great gift, Your
being in my life that day.
I
implore you please forgive.
Whenever
I lacked intellectual power, Whatever
defect of moral character foiled me from Exercising
both the restraint of my tongue And
the rush of my fingers upon the keyboard, Where
had been my even basic sense of compassion? Still
it was you -- your well being foremost in my life. My
intent was proper, though my behavior poor, My
expression amiss, my communications hasty, And
ultimately for my behaviors there are no excuses, However
I had meant the best for you.
Yet
today as well as it had been then, I
wish you forever well.
Still
I doubt all my love allows you any easier a sleep. I
wonder what technique, What
kind of human love might lessen The
pain, the disorder troubling you, And
calm the upset, which at end has us delivered To
this grisly end, the final stages of our romance?
Here
I pray to God.
I
fall to my knees -- such the will to believe -- Ask
that Munificence be granted, The
Almighty do, on earth, All
those things that I had failed to do for you. God's
will be done.
3.
Had
I been born perfect.
How
I now regret, when as a child, I
wasted time playing with crystal sets, And
in the basement of my parents' home, Spent
hours profligately upon Imaginary
laboratory tables with chemistry, Meaningless
experiments with liquids and powders.
Had
I been born a man wise enough, The
kind of guy who might do you real good, I
would have had you in mind right from the start, I
would have abandoned my attempts at writing. I
would have turned about, Learned
the illusionist’s trade, And
trained until I possessed every trick in the book.
Then
I could live within the mirror, Work
the conjurer's art so that when you went to look, When
you fixed a gaze upon your own mirror image, Instead
of you, the reflection staring back, My
picture of you, the way I see you, The
enchantment, my awe, which is you, Whenever
you stand before me, The
image of you so bountiful and pure, You,
the brilliance at center of my sight.
Had
I been able to practice real magic.
There
would be light, love, and just approval, And
it would be my voice ringing through The
reflecting glass, no more whisper of doubt, My
wizardly spell, the timbre of my incantations,
Banishing
any word of fear and sadness, an end to frailty, Now
instead in your head the lyrics to hymns of all courage.
I
would rid the mirror's display of fault and distortion. We
would come to see a world without poverty, And
know only hugs, freedom and peace.
Were
that the case, Had
fate conspired to have me born A
man capable of grand devotion, The
kind of guy who might do you real good, I
would have abandoned my attempts at writing, Wasted
no time upon fruitless experiments I
would have turned about, set myself on right course, Learned
the illusionist’s trade, And
trained until I possessed every trick in the book. Then
I could live within the mirror, I
could dispel all bad images from from its surface, Let
you see how great your love's delight.
Tweet As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 196,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 740,000. http://www.facebook.com/stanleypacion THE WORD, A Lover’s Exhortation
Well! What do you say, honey? I believe that I say it right. It is God alone Who knows The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy -- The empty when we call upon the soul.
Only He can quell the hunger, quench the thirst.
But, sweetheart, hey! I tell you now. Forget it! Fly straight! Think of the Frick with its fabulous El Greco, Small though that one painting is, it amply captures the fury, When Jesus castigates the money changers.
The Word is clear.
No man may serve two masters. God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame. He loves the lilies of the field. Grass need not care how it clothes itself.
Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it, When the first shall be last and those with least, Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth, And children be fountains of wisdom?
We have seen the sorry example, what terrible precept!
Celebrated priests and magistrates have not known the Lord, Yet once He had stood right there before them.
It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.
First, the surgeon clipped a couple of toes. But before too long he lost his foot. The doctor cut it off almost at the ankle.
Yes, it was a very dreary business. Burton was chopped down.
His disease had brought the big man down, Burton, down, and of him the adage reads:
Above life itself, he loved his drink.
The genie was in the bottle, Her spirit, more to him than family and friends.
What love! He held her close, How he caressed her mouth to mouth, He clenched her with hands whose such strength No mortal man might ever asunder, And he fondled her, and was true to her, Until death did them part.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contènts Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise, No one ever said she was the smartest, But she painted well, an artist, And following the common adage, Different time and place, who knows the reputation, The renown she might have attained?
She dressed the girls in pricey sets, And every one appreciated it, For Dad was gone, Family, three girls abandoned, And Mother was sick, Had to stay long time in the sanatorium, But Grandma had her ways, Paid no heed to underwear, Think on this a moment, for who could see it?
Though it be tattered and dirty, And Lord knows should have been replaced, Especially when one consider the cash outlay, That she paid no heed to any outfit’s cost.
She favored subtle, flower prints, Nothing garish; she was master seamstress, A healthy woman, who loved her cats And took in every kind of stray, animal and human, A former dancer who partook of chorus, Had her training down at LUNA, And, all who knew her swear, She practiced kicks, over head, when she had, She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.
You know it's all bullshit, honey, This talk of visionary moment and prophetic feat, No more than ploy, Another way me getting into your pants.
Yet loving you no quick turn of verse, It's serious task, requiring dedicated effort.
At prognostication I am gifted. I have always been able to see around corners. On our first night we slept together, You may recall, I told you I saw our future, I knew what was going to happen.
And once you actually experience, Live an event which I prefigure, You recognize about it uncanny familiarity, Déjà vu, you feel the situation, As if it were previously known, Or may have been already played, An event you swear you had witnessed ages before.
This power strikes deep. It causes tremble, And it bestows pleasant excitement; It makes life expectant. With me you will learn to swoon and shudder. You will know warm and be hot all over, Yet others freeze in midwinter.
I told you your grandfather speaks to me. His voice emerges from a dream, Though the setting's familiar, my own bedroom, The light comes from afar, Suffusing the space and me within it, I dwell in delicious, excellent hues of red and green.
He tells me I am the man of the house, And gently brings to fore knowledge, Oh! He speaks with unmistakable clarity; Happiness the product of our life together.
I have another secret; I want to share with you. I envision major experience, Not unlike Leda's when she learned; It was a god who had entered her. You should know from you will issue -- Yes, marvelous to relate! -- Being supreme, a mortal whose Life and renown, belongs to that golden, Regal realm, where Homer rules king.
I slip, revealing more than I intend.
I knew it. I knew it early on in life, Long years before your birth, Within truck farm fields, Along the rows of cabbage and corn, My love for you was growing strong, I had sight then, ears to catch the sounds, And nose to whiff out the dreams, Conferred on me, oracular, from on high.
I stepped out from the Hitching Post Diner. I saw you! It was you. On the packed-mud bridal path, just ahead, By a yard or two, down the trail were you, Your form preceded me, walking apace.
This last August, eleventh, Before we had begun to date, Between bed sheets wet from too much sweat, Your heat wakened me. I knew the smell of you! They were your odors bursting up my nostrils From the threads of woven cotton, While I in my bed that lonely summer's night. I had instantly recognized those fragrances, Once I slept with you, Once your presence entered my pores.
And now, again, the moment, it commands My fingers on the keyboard in front of me. Before I had met you, I realize I heard it, your name! I heard your name, Though it came to me from time, prior, Yes, actually previous to your birth!
I assure you, when yet not adolescent, a child, No more than ten or eleven years old, I witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois. The refocusing veils of shimmer, aurora borealis, The phantasmagoric curtains of shifting color,
So utterly present, then, in a feint, As if by trick of hand, gone, Held me captive; I had fallen to trance, bewitched, And in the midst of this awesome, display, From the far North, your name, I heard it.
I heard! I heard your name; it was announced, While the green and red flames of light crackled Along the vault of the universe, I looked, glimpsed into future time.
And that very self-same night, I was no more than ten or eleven years old, From the backyard lawn of my childhood home, Facing north and up into nighttime colors, I witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois.
I saw oak trees growing outside an iron fence, And above a low earthen mound, a cemetery marker, My name, it was struck upon a gravestone. I knew it. I knew the certainty; The ground I saw was in Sweden.
The green and red flames crackled your name Along the vault of the universe, I was a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, I stood entranced, captive, Gazing into the aurora borealis, bewitched.
