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Friday, June 6, 2014

NOW VOYAGER, A Dream Sequence (Parts 1 & 2 of 6)

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                                                                                                                                              NOW VOYAGER, A Dream Sequence (Parts 1 & 2 of 6)


Were I a gentleman true, gallant,
The kind of chap with plumage in his hat,
Whose cape readies for damsel's distress,
I would say let us end it now; you are
Too young or, even better put,

I am too old for love with a beauty your age.

But let us face it!
No two-bit convention possesses me.

Long ago,
It was in the woods of Western Massachusetts,
I saw time tunnel down the trail before me.
I saw the nature of things,
The whirl into which all we know disappears.

And tonight faces of the dead startle me,
Yet I do not awake. I dream that
Family and friends float before me.

The calamity, death holds both young and old alike!

Darling, the air in my bedroom
It drops to the temperature of ice.

I envision my aunt, Helene, and see her
When she says to the child, who is me,
"Stanley! Go ahead! Touch her!"
My cousin, Barbara, lies in her coffin
Before the age of six; she was a year older than I.

I remember how stiff and cold her corpse felt.

My buddy, Burton, cut down well before prime.
Thought of him occupies my every day.

Revelry brings me to Joey who cried
"Whitney's dead!" And right there
On Fifth Avenue, opposite the Public Library, 
He placed his gun on the glass of the showcase
Counter top. I was in the jewelry shop.
I dream a slip back to my former ways, the drinking life; 
I could taste the whiskey shots, the beverage
Dispensed that afternoon, it was Johnnie Walker Black.

The haunting goes on; 
More of the dead, they parade before me.

Omar, tall, dark, forgive me here for I know
No better than the honest truth, handsome,
The child, Spencer, my son's best friend,
My high-school sweethearts, Arlene and Lynn,
All taken, all unwitting emblems, as if to prove,
Life bears no promise of continuance.

Nightmare arms with disembodied hands, 
Wag imaginary fingers
They seem to demand I pick up pen and write.


2.

But before one dream ceases another appears.
The scene abruptly changes.
My fantasy goes from a somber, personal cast,
To new vision of vivid color and improbability.
My emotions are steady, yet I realize a rush of air 
And that I am falling. I have fallen backwards 
Into other, previous space and time.

The world before me, though a tableau
Seemingly breathing and alive, stays frozen. 
It wants animation, nothing moves.

When I look, I see the birds of the air keep still --
Those who were eating did not eat,
And those who were conveying material to make nest,
Do not convey it. And, as I further study 
The dream picture which enfolds 
Right there in front of me, 
I recognize that I am witness to
Low surf beaches and natural limestone harbors
With wharfs upon which anchor long ships,
Vessels whose hulls sprout tall, center masts
Which themselves are rigged,
Tied to great, single, rectangular sails, dyed blood red.

And athwart these ships, from gar boards up, 
Are planks, broad-axed-hewed, and each of the planks 
Has paint a color its own,
And each plank appears nailed one upon the other,
The sides of those long ships are as, 
The bands of rainbows, red, orange, yellow,
Green, blue, indigo and regal violet.
Color upon color runs the length of keels, 
And a fierce dragon head in gold crowns the prows

Rudders are mounted at right, and within each craft
Upon rows and rows of chests sit oarsmen.

The ships are set to sail, 
Yet the entire assembled host
Seems as if stuck in stone, 
The scene resembles a painted sculpture done in high relief. 
All motion suspended,
The waves have stopped, they break not.

What a night! It is, 
It really is, what a remarkable night!
Never before have I beheld, 
Have I seen such a Technicolor panorama.
My own closed world of family and friends,
Familiar events and their sad foreboding,
Now become historical vision with scenes 
Rooted long-ago, displaying a physical geography,
A world which I had never visited,
Environs of which I had no familiarity. 

My bedroom warms. And a seemingly true,
But sixth sense intimates Spring,
I bear witness to a prelude,
The dream carries me and I sense the long days,
The glory of Scandinavian summer awakens before me.

Light, bright, bright day dawns, and it thrills me.
I ready for adventure. I am happy; 
I am exhilarated beyond normal human expectations.




Thursday, May 29, 2014

BLACK WATER

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                                                                        BLACK WATER,
An Adaptation of a Theme from a German Movie*

Water in the forest, terrible black water,
A pond over rot and dead leaves, 
You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay and are still,
Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood.
In the groves pines lean; 
The nets of spiders are torn apart, 
And then the splintering begins.

You in the hollow, you, you rest, black water.
Branches fall, leaves scatter,
Bark peals from trees and flies in every direction at once.
All woodland shelter vanishes.

Yet nothing reaches you, down there, black water.


*I first heard the expression of this phrase in Rainer Werner Fassbinder,  “Berlin Alexanderplatz.”  But I have embellished his original sentiment.



Thursday, May 22, 2014

RED ROOF INN, Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey

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RED ROOF INN,
Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey


Darling, darling, girl,
Much between us remains unsaid. 
Remember that first overnight date at the Red Roof Inn?  
I am in search of this lost time.

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length. 
It ran from the front door to the rear of the room. 

And you, there, in your bikini briefs, 
At the end of the aisle, you were in an alcove, 
An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom.
The area occupied half the suite’s entire width.

Your back to me, 

You stood up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a big mirror.
The mirror, you recall, was as long as the table’s surface, 
And it covered the entire back wall up to the ceiling.

Recessed lamps provided light from overhead. 

You brushed your hair, and 
With each stroke I witnessed the sinews beneath your skin,
Your bones, how your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I remained behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist.
I was squatting on my haunches,
When I extended my arms between your legs.

Each one of my hands was wrapped around one of your ankles.
My fingers held you just above your feet;
My thumbs pressed upon your Achilles tendons.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder went to the center, 
It rested within a spot between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the back of your right knee.

That was my posture when I had at first embraced you.

Once I stood up, 
Regained at least some sense of composure,
I told you that 
I had never personally encountered a woman,
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

“Wow!” Burst out. And you said,
“You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

I was dumbfounded. I thought for a moment;
I took a moral attitude, yet my tongue was tied.
I spoke these words, yet they were only to myself.

‘Woman! Trust my veracity. 
‘Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’

Then, pretending to further my defense,
I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words,
Those lines about truth and beauty being one,
And is not response to beauty, truth?

I ran the maxim in my mind. I remained speechless.
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’

I dwelled in total awe of you.

And when old age our generation shall waste, 
And time brings world to more and other woes,
We have had this moment and its sentiment remains –
‘Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself, 
I had not uttered a word aloud, 

‘You know on earth, and all you need to know.’


JOHN'S TALK



JOHN’S TALK


Bogged down now,
I am unable to picture the heavens as anything more
Than some old textbook,
Flat-line drawing of a sun-centred universe.

My hands are dirty; I have been on the floor.
The hurt which had exploded upon my shoulders and head was
A whole lot greater than I had been led to expect.

I refused to step forward and cross their glossy white line.
I would not declare Caesar is Lord,
No pinch of incense from me.

Later I discovered that I had spent a month in the prison-hospital.

OK I survived the physical assault,
Plus then the five years I spent in jail.
I have learned to pray and give thanks.
But across my heart there is a very bad scar.

Darling, things for us will never be same.
Were Mar’s worship not so fiercely organized,
How far we might have traveled in each other’s company.

A distant childhood memory persists.
Now whenever I shut my eyes
I see the bodies of robins brought down flat upon their backs,
Done in by a thin, white layer of a late-April snow.
Out from icey orange/red breasts their feet stick straight up.

What silence envelopes me, not a whisper of wind;
How might my heart stir, 
when not one other thing before me moves?



Tuesday, May 20, 2014

FOUR PORTRIATS OF STANLEY PACION

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FOUR PORTRAITS OF STANLEY PACION


Some portrits of Stanley through the ages. left to right: 1963 in Chicago, Illinois. Greenwich Village Balcony, apx 1983. Two contemporary pics, first a self portrait (selfie) apx 2009; 2nd, and last portrait pic in these four is by
the photographer and artist Michał Młyńczak, a friend who had helped me in so many ways, both in business as well as in the beginnig of my YouTube videographer career.



BLUES, Deep and Bad


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BLUES,
Deep and Bad




I got the blues, tonight, honey.
I got the blues, deep and bad.
You have gone and soon I leave,
I go abroad for a long, long stay.
I doubt we see each other ever again.


I sit at the end of the bed.
The bedroom couch is gone,
Much of the art is removed and sold.
The furniture arrangement, I must report,
No longer resembles anything that you once knew.
The whole apartment looks different,
Not at all the same, nothing is the same,
Since the time you dwelled and laughed with me here.


Now living in a dream world
I need not close my eyes,
I picture you as you stand in your white hotel slippers,
And wash grapes under the faucet in the kitchen sink.


And my loving you, it frequently comes to mind.
That we had fallen and broken apart,
No words reach the depth of my regret.


Listen to the music coming over the TV.
Oh, sweet momma, daddy,
Daddy has caught himself a wicked case of the blues.
Horns worry a lower pitch, run semitone in a six note scale.
The drum loops hit my entire bodily frame,
And when I fall, drop within myself, my soul clamors,
'A middle note is missing.’
My heart’s down, the shuffle strokes are down,
The rhythm accompanies the lyrics, all of it is down.
How did it all go wrong?


How did it all go wrong?


I doubt we see each other ever again.
I go abroad for a long, long stay.


I got the blues, tonight, honey.

I got the blues deep and bad.


Tuesday, April 29, 2014

ADAPTED FROM GURU NANAK*

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ADAPTED FROM GURU NANAK*


Do not for a moment think that
I show disrespect should you find me
Having fallen asleep with my feet pointed to the East.
Do not be angry, instead please turn them
In some other compass direction
Where our Creator does not dwell.

And if you see me in the holy Ganga
And I throw water opposite to the rising sun,
Know that I mean to show love for all my neighbors,
Wish to water the fields of my western home.


*The founder of the Sikh religion, he was born in Lahore province, the Punjab, 1469.  Although he was a great teacher, he considered himself an ordinary mortal, and wrote, "I came in the course of nature, and according to God's order I shall depart.” d. 1539.


 
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