Wikileaks and Poetry

[Mole]

Bringing us down to -

Sea Level

Down from the mountains of Appalachia
and the highs of new love
I've come across the extended monotonies
of interstates, back to where
scrub pines stand small at sea level.
There's the house I left for good
(if forever can ever be good),
and there's the Great Egg Harbor River,
which widens here, and everywhere
the visages of ghosts appear
and disappear. I've come to visit
the friends who've stayed
casualty's course—the dearest ones,
who somehow have learned to live
amid the messiness of allegiances,
the turns and half-turns of whom now
to console, whom to embrace, and when.
I pull into their driveway, wanting
to tell them how it feels to have—
for the first time—an undivided heart,
a sudden purity of motive,
but when I begin to speak I realize
I don't. I say it anyway, won't take it
back. When their outside cat wants in,
they let him in. Then he wants out.
They accommodate. That cat
is almost as lucky as I. No mountains
here, I can see the afternoon sun
on the horizon hanging on,
about to dip and be gone. Their yard
is a dusty orange. I love the truth,
I swear I do.

- Stephen Dunn.

 

[Mole]

If you liked the poem, "Sea Level", you might like to meet the poet, Stephen Dunn, in person, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YV14D4MxJes&feature=related

 

[Mole]

F.Y.I.O. -

Signing Ceremony

Hotel Timeo, Taormina

The lilac peak of Etna dribbles pink,
Visibly seething in the politest way.
The shallow vodka cocktails that we sink
Here on the terrace at the close of day

Are spreading numb delight as they go down.
Their syrup mirrors the way lava flows:
It's just a show, it might take over town,
Sometimes the Cyclops, from his foxhole, throws

Rocks at Ulysses. But regard the lake
Of moonlight on the water, stretching east
Almost to Italy. The love we make
Tonight might be our last, but this, at least,

Is one romantic setting, am I right?
Cypresses draped in bougainvillea,
The massed petunias, the soft, warm night,
That streak of candy floss. And you, my star,

Still walking the stone alleys with the grace
Of forty years ago. Don't laugh at me
For saying dumb things. Just look at this place.
Time was more friend to us than enemy,

And soon enough this backdrop will go dark
Again. The spill of neon cream will cool,
The crater waiting years for the next spark
Of inspiration, since the only rule

Governing history is that it goes on:
There is no rhythm of events, they just
Succeed each other. Soon, we will be gone,
And that volcano, if and when it must,

Will flood the slope with lip-gloss brought to boil
For other lovers who come here to spend
One last, late, slap-up week in sun-tan oil,
Their years together winding to an end.

With any luck, they'll see what we have seen:
Not just the picture postcard, but the splash
Of fire, and know this flowering soil has been
Made rich by an inheritance of ash.

Only because it's violent to the core
The world grows gardens. Out of earth we came,
To earth we shall return. But first, one more
Of these, delicious echoes of the flame

That drives the long life all should have, yet few
Are granted as we were. It wasn't fair?
Of course it wasn't. But which of us knew,
To start with, that the other would be there,

One step away, for all the time it took
To come this far and see a mountain cry
Hot tears, as if our names, signed in the book
Of marriage, were still burning in the sky?

- Clive James.

 

[Mole]

If you are sensitive or intelligent, you may wish to avoid seeing and hearing the poet, Clive James, by not clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ww3f3YTZbQw

And if you are worried things could get much worse, don't click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_N5TRk1Qt8&feature=relmfu

 

[AgentF]

poets i have known have always disappointed me in person.

they are almost always better read than heard.

what did *you* think of Signing Ceremony? i thought it was beautiful, and sad. and worrisome because it reminds me of my British ex's parents and their home in Lanzarote and their insistence on nude sunbathing.

the British with very few exceptions should never sunbathe in the nude.

 

[Mole]

poets i have known have always disappointed me in person.

they are almost always better read than heard.

what did *you* think of Signing Ceremony? i thought it was beautiful, and sad. and worrisome because it reminds me of my British ex's parents and their home in Lanzarote and their insistence on nude sunbathing.

the British with very few exceptions should never sunbathe in the nude.

[MENTION=12102]agentfurrina[/MENTION]

And quite right too, dear Agent Furrina.

I could look it up but I would much prefer you to tell where Lanzarote is, and I would like you to do one more thing for me, if you will, and that is tell me the meaning of, "pequeña pero picante".

Of course I could look it up, but I think there is nothing nicer than you telling me yourself.

How nice to hear from you.

Victor.

 

[AgentF]

so happy you asked!

Lanzarote is part of the Canary Islands, popping up just west of Morocco yet part of Spain, the insatiable colonizers (my mother was colonized by a Spaniard so i won't complain). the island was formed by volcanoes and is covered in ash and Brits on holiday.

the latter mainly during the summer--it feels fairly uninhabited once you leave the capitol city. we have the volcanic aftermath to thank for its dusty moonscape (and for some bitchin' footage in the "One Million Years BC" film haha). the best part of the island is that the wind brings bits of the Sahara with it...i assure you that you haven't fully lived until your face has been whipped by the unrepentant, dust-bearing Saharan winds that the Spaniards call la calima.

Paul Bowles said it best:

“There is a way to master silence
Control its curves, inhabit its dark corners
And listen to the hiss of time outside."

the Sahara is like that. the ground shifts under your feet and the weather does strange things to you. a few of the many reasons people cling to its edges.

*

"pequeña pero picante" means "small but spicy" (literally). a more faithful translation would be "small but potent/powerful".

for i am.

 

[Mole]

so happy you asked!

Lanzarote is part of the Canary Islands, popping up just west of Morocco yet part of Spain, the insatiable colonizers (my mother was colonized by a Spaniard so i won't complain). the island was formed by volcanoes and is covered in ash and Brits on holiday.

the latter mainly during the summer--it feels fairly uninhabited once you leave the capitol city. we have the volcanic aftermath to thank for its dusty moonscape (and for some bitchin' footage in the "One Million Years BC" film haha). the best part of the island is that the wind brings bits of the Sahara with it...i assure you that you haven't fully lived until your face has been whipped by the unrepentant, dust-bearing Saharan winds that the Spaniards call la calima.

Paul Bowles said it best:

“There is a way to master silence
Control its curves, inhabit its dark corners
And listen to the hiss of time outside."

the Sahara is like that. the ground shifts under your feet and the weather does strange things to you. a few of the many reasons people cling to its edges.

*

"pequeña pero picante" means "small but spicy" (literally). a more faithful translation would be "small but potent/powerful".

for i am.

[MENTION=12102]agentfurrina[/MENTION]

I am tempted to reply to you immediately but I know if I wait a while, something more interesting will occur to me - but I can't wait. My reply to you is yet to be fully formed - it is as yet unripe, unready and perhaps not a sweet as it might be.

I haven't quite taken in that you live in the Atlantic, directly opposite me on the Earth. And although you are surrounded by the cool waters of the Atlantic sea, you breathe the air of the Sahara.

One thing I can confirm though is that you are powerful. I could sense this from the moment you wrote to me. But just as we live at opposite ends of the Earth, we may be opposite personalities - you may be extrovert and I may be introvert. So you are strong on the outside and I am strong on the inside. What do you think?

Tell me a little more about yourself - what do you most like to do? What do you most fear?

And I am glad I make you happy by asking.

Victor.

PS: I feel like writing more and more and more but somehow I must come to an end by pressing the Reply button. See ya. Goodbye. I'll be seeing you again, goodbye. Au revoir. See ya Agent Furrina.

 

[Mole]

Sent in anonymously by our agent -

Endowment

Han-shan is not indifferent to fame.
Often he imagines himself winner
Of the literary competition held each
Year at the capital, to which end
He stores his poems in the family's
Ivory ringbox, ready for transport
Should the invitation come.

Ah, he thinks, at fall festival to stand
Among the great bards of the province!

What troubles him is that he has no robe
Fit to wear in such company nor any way
To arrive at the august presentation
Except on foot. No one he knows
Owns a mule he might borrow
For a trip to town.

Then there are those scandalous reports
He hears of what the judges demand
For a favorable decision.
A coupling for a couplet!
What, Han-shan wonders, would a villanelle
Cost him by way of quittance.

Each year, on the night of funding,
He sits at the crag's lip reading his pieces
Toward town in his loudest voice,
But no runner comes upmountain
To announce the good news.

So he adds another season's worth
Of poems to his already brimming box
And plants another garden in the purlieus
Of summer, telling himself that in all reason
He should have been a ringmaker
Like his father.

- George Scarbrough.

 

[AgentF]

[MENTION=12102]agentfurrina[/MENTION]

I am tempted to reply to you immediately but I know if I wait a while, something more interesting will occur to me - but I can't wait. My reply to you is yet to be fully formed - it is as yet unripe, unready and perhaps not a sweet as it might be.

I haven't quite taken in that you live in the Atlantic, directly opposite me on the Earth. And although you are surrounded by the cool waters of the Atlantic sea, you breathe the air of the Sahara.

One thing I can confirm though is that you are powerful. I could sense this from the moment you wrote to me. But just as we live at opposite ends of the Earth, we may be opposite personalities - you may be extrovert and I may be introvert. So you are strong on the outside and I am strong on the inside. What do you think?

Tell me a little more about yourself - what do you most like to do? What do you most fear?

And I am glad I make you happy by asking.

Victor.

never fear, my favorite fruit is pomegranate.

what i most like to do? smear myself with reality and duality, of course. discover ways in which my thinking is wrong/limited/distorted and and allow that knowledge to do its work. at other times, piss off from those duties by rolling around in my own kind of wrongness, loving myself exactly as i am. or think i am.

i most fear having squandered whatever gifts i've been given. i think we all have latent abilities, i am just keenly aware of mine. sometimes that awareness is a source of great pride and at others is about as relaxing as a night at the Overlook Hotel.

you?


p.s. the only kind of power i'm really interested in is self-mastery. pretty sure you got that, though.

p.s. 2 a friend who works with the Miwok Indians invited me to stay for the weekend. her home overlooks an area named "Tuolemne". it is pronounced "to all o me" and means "land of the mountain lions".

 

[Mole]

never fear, my favorite fruit is pomegranate.

what i most like to do? smear myself with reality and duality, of course. discover ways in which my thinking is wrong/limited/distorted and and allow that knowledge to do its work. at other times, piss off from those duties by rolling around in my own kind of wrongness, loving myself exactly as i am. or think i am.

i most fear having squandered whatever gifts i've been given. i think we all have latent abilities, i am just keenly aware of mine. sometimes that awareness is a source of great pride and at others is about as relaxing as a night at the Overlook Hotel.

you?


p.s. the only kind of power i'm really interested in is self-mastery. pretty sure you got that, though.

p.s. 2 a friend who works with the Miwok Indians invited me to stay for the weekend. her home overlooks an area named "Tuolemne". it is pronounced "to all o me" and means "land of the mountain lions".

[MENTION=12102]agentfurrina[/MENTION]

Well, it seems you are in California with the Miwok Indians and I am in Canberra among the politicans.

So in two posts you have moved from the Canary Islands to California, while I stay rooted to one spot.

You are squandering your gifts with me. We untie the ribbon and see what we shall squander together.

Squandering your gifts - it's a bit like christmas under the christmas tree with the presents half open on the floor.

What have you been doing today Victor?
Oh, just squandering.
Not with that Canary girl?
No longer a Canary but a Californian.

Why not tell me about a latent ability of yours, perhaps in concrete terms. Could we realise your ability? How do you feel about realising your ability?

And as we keep things balanced between us, I am telling you that at mid-day today I began my spiritual exercise. I only had a taste. And it is as powerful as I expected. So I think I will slowly ease myself in.

So now tell me, tell me something concrete, dear Agent Furrina.

 

[Mole]

How to -

Get Away from It All

Go, go, I breathe the air

flossed with silence​

moving me to melt
into any form what

choice when they​

finish your thought
did you mean numerous no

numinous​

when minds flood into minds
yet one creed molds
this town of giant convenience

a white church​

of blond wooden pews burning
a dark pile of something

enough these terrors,​

clarity, empathy, please
drop me onto a quiet coast

dotted with sandpipers​

the horizon hyphenates
are they UN forces no

they are nudist bathers.​

They have beached.
Dashed with amorous wet,
they call out like walruses,
these loafing rebels against

the enhanced,​

I see too much
yet go, go into the unknown,

smell the salt, rancid​

scent of water, seagull,
blades of grass and listen,
the one with the sodden beard says

undrape yourself,​

you are not guilty to me.

- Cathy Park Hong.

 

[AgentF]

[MENTION=12102]agentfurrina[/MENTION]

Well, it seems you are in California with the Miwok Indians and I am in Canberra among the politicans.

So in two posts you have moved from the Canary Islands to California, while I stay rooted to one spot.

You are squandering your gifts with me. We untie the ribbon and see what we shall squander together.

Squandering your gifts - it's a bit like christmas under the christmas tree with the presents half open on the floor.

What have you been doing today Victor?
Oh, just squandering.
Not with that Canary girl?
No longer a Canary but a Californian.

Why not tell me about a latent ability of yours, perhaps in concrete terms. Could we realise your ability? How do you feel about realising your ability?

And as we keep things balanced between us, I am telling you that at mid-day today I began my spiritual exercise. I only had a taste. And it is as powerful as I expected. So I think I will slowly ease myself in.

So now tell me, tell me something concrete, dear Agent Furrina.

something concrete! about a latent ability...

i would like to be more concrete--even though it's awkward for me--but part of the challenge is that i am a person who exposes those things for other people. latent abilities are easy to identify in others because most people feel thwarted in some visible or communicable way by their nature or circumstance. i rarely do. having only ever found one person who can do the same for me adds to the challenge. but there is always hope...

so that was me trying to be concrete. awkward, wasn't it? to continue: the trouble here is that i (possibly--probably--quite arrogantly) also feel that i have developed many of my latent physical/mental/social abilities, at least to the degree required for me to feel quite happy, and find that now, the only ones that intrigue me are of a deeply spiritual, even mystical nature.

there are no words to describe that type of exploration, but it's the one that begins at the conquest of certain human limitations and leaves me with a burning desire to hunt larger game, if you will. most people don't want to transcend...throw themselves down and gnash their teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus. they want to live comfortable, safe lives and i don't know...shop at Walmart.

oh wait. you had mentioned something about your inner peace and my outer peace. (or was it the other way around?) anyway, is that the beginning of this walkabout?


p.s. i have travelled throughout north africa and some adjacent islands, but do not live there. it is simply a part of the world that i slip into very easily, perhaps because i grew up in a desert. (cormac mccarthy's desert, as it turns out, but a desert nonetheless.) so i have spent some time in that part of the world and have many happy memories of egypt and morocco in particular. have you been to either? civil unrest notwithstanding, it's much nicer to be awakened at dawn by the Ali Akbar than by an alarm clock.

 

[Mole]

something concrete! about a latent ability...

i would like to be more concrete--even though it's awkward for me--but part of the challenge is that i am a person who exposes those things for other people. latent abilities are easy to identify in others because most people feel thwarted in some visible or communicable way by their nature or circumstance. i rarely do. having only ever found one person who can do the same for me adds to the challenge. but there is always hope...

so that was me trying to be concrete. awkward, wasn't it? to continue: the trouble here is that i (possibly--probably--quite arrogantly) also feel that i have developed many of my latent physical/mental/social abilities, at least to the degree required for me to feel quite happy, and find that now, the only ones that intrigue me are of a deeply spiritual, even mystical nature.

there are no words to describe that type of exploration, but it's the one that begins at the conquest of certain human limitations and leaves me with a burning desire to hunt larger game, if you will. most people don't want to transcend...throw themselves down and gnash their teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus. they want to live comfortable, safe lives and i don't know...shop at Walmart.

oh wait. you had mentioned something about your inner peace and my outer peace. (or was it the other way around?) anyway, is that the beginning of this walkabout?

p.s. i have travelled throughout north africa and some adjacent islands, but do not live there. it is simply a part of the world that i slip into very easily, perhaps because i grew up in a desert. (cormac mccarthy's desert, as it turns out, but a desert nonetheless.) so i have spent some time in that part of the world and have many happy memories of egypt and morocco in particular. have you been to either? civil unrest notwithstanding, it's much nicer to be awakened at dawn by the Ali Akbar than by an alarm clock.

You and I are nicely opposite. For where you have travelled across North Africa and outlying islands, I have only lived in two places, Sydney and Canberra.

Sydney is a colonial city that grew up around not one but four harbours, so Sydney is part of the clothes I wear. Whereas Canberra is a designer city, our first non colonial capital city. And not only do I love Canberra but Canberra love me. It's a city in the Bush. We don't build on hilltops or ridges so the Bush comes right into the city.

If you are interested in the mystical, you may find your friends among the mystics. My favourite mystic is Simone Weil (pronounced Vey) who was the first female graduate from the Sorbonne.

 

[Mole]

Poetry concrete -

The Port Was Longing

The port was longing
The port was longing

Not for this sea
And not for that sea.

The port was longing
The port was longing

Not for this sea
And not for that sea.

The port was longing
The port was longing

Not for this ship
And not for that ship.

The port was longing
The port was longing

Not for this ship
And not for that ship.

The port was longing
The port was longing

Not for this and not for that.

 

[Mole]

It's our -

Origin

The first cell felt no call to divide.
Fed on abundant salts and sun,
still thin, it simply spread,
rocking on water, clinging to stone,
a film of obliging strength.
Its endoplasmic reticulum
was a thing of incomparable curvaceous length;
its nucleus, Golgi apparatus, RNA
magnificent. With no incidence
of loneliness, inner conflict, or deceit,
no predator nor prey,
it had little to do but thrive,
draw back from any sharp heat
or bitterness, and change its pastel
colors in a kind of song.
We are descendants of the second cell.

- Sarah Lindsay.

 

[Mole]

Here -

The Supplicant

prays for birds
before an ancient icon—
a stray cat.
The inbred need
to pray
is what makes God
necessary,

and not, she says,
the other way
around;
beyond that

it's all mystery,
so don't question
why Man creates gods
that demand

sacrifice,
condemning mortals
to spend their lives
trying to praise

godhead into mercy.
Better instead
to ask the frog
to bless the fly,

and, once the cheese
is in the trap,
to beg forgiveness
from the rat.

- Stuart Dybek.​

 

[Mole]

Just -

Imagining Heaven

makes me uneasy and superstitious, so instead I read books
where people understand purposes and goodness,
and am full of wonder. Some days, especially, I know

how impossible it is that heaven exists; I unfurl on the couch
like a fed snake and won't leave the house
until the day is inhaled back into its sea.

As a child, my imagined heaven revealed how basic
were my wants: a red porch littered with projects,
many animals, benign accidents to be tidied;

all movement like ice skating and everyone about twenty.
If there were a heaven we would be given a glimpse of it
once in a while, as we stumble over memories—

on a long drive, a flash comes and we try to reel it back—
wasn't that a dream? Where was that? What a marvel,
how terrible—to have nearly lost that game, that trip,

the buttons on that dress, the grief of that cold water
on that early May morning; his room without pictures,
her jewelry box, that bowl of oranges. I can do nothing

so I put myself in the old heaven, sprawled out
on the red floor. I am youngish, the dog is with me,
I can whistle and do, having left behind this life

in New Hampshire with the car and children.

- Alison Powell.

 

[Mole]

It's -

Ridiculous

This is ridiculous
said the literary old woman
nobody gives us any respect
the young in one another's arms
are talking on their ipods
the politicians are lying through their teeth
and our husbands are taking a nap

this is ridiculous
said the tulip
all those genetically altered blossoms
those stupid long-lived orchids
that are practically plastic
and those fancy designer grasses
getting more than market share

this is ridiculous
said the dog
now they not only have to walk me
they have to rush up with their
sanitary plastic bags
what is it but old-fashioned
imperialism

- Alicia Ostriker.

 

[Mole]

Here we are at the -

River Crossing

There, where stones populate
the underneath, splay
rain as it blends & stops
being rain, raises the river,
water into water, stone
into soil, too slick to stand
or walk, too wide to freeze
or span, to cross you must
swim, the current a visible
instance of movement:
you'd enter the water here &
if not pulled under
would emerge so far down-
stream the crossing'd require
another journey entirely,
on foot, over uncertain terrain,
over what, through ownership,
through deed, is called property,
thus encroachment, thus trespass.
The mind, though, can cross,
along with the eye (where it can see).
The body, my dear, counts for
so little—nothing, really—here.

- Brian Henry.