Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

May 20, 2018

PROSE FROM A DREAM MAN

Filed under: dream, DREAMS, fragments, lost, prose, stream of consciousness, surreal, Uncategorized, visions — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 10:53 am

 

Grand Hotel Sousse

Sousse Monday, March 15, 1920

This Africa is incredible

. . . Unfortunately, I cannot write coherently to you, for it is all too much. Only sidelights. After cold, heavy weather at sea, a sparkling morning in Algiers. Bright houses and streets, dark green clumps of trees, tall palms’ crowns rising among them. White burnooses, red fezzes, and among these the yellow uniforms of the Tirailleurs d’Afrique, the red of the Spahis, then the Botanical Gardens, an enchanted tropical forest, an Indian vision, holy acvatta trees with gigantic aerial roots like monsters, fantastic dwellings of the gods, enormous in extent, heavy, dark green foliage rustling in the sea wind.

Then thirty hours by rail to Tunis. The Arab city is classical antiquity and Moorish middle ages, Granada and the fairy tale of Baghdad. You no longer think of yourself; you are dissolved in this potpourri which cannot be evaluated, still less described: a Roman column stands here as part of a wall; an old Jewess of unspeakable ugliness goes by in white baggy breeches; a crier with a load of burnooses pushes through the crowd, shouting in gutturals that might have come straight from the canton of Zurich; a patch of deep blue sky, a snow-white mosque dome; a shoemaker busily stitching away at shoes in a small vaulted niche, with a hot, dazzling patch of sunlight on the mat before him; blind musicians with a (hum and tiny three-stringed lute; a beggar who consists of nothing but rags; smoke from oil cakes, and swarms of flies; up above, on a white minaret in the blissful ether, a muezzin sings the midday chant; below, a cool, shady, colonnaded yard with horseshoe portal framed in glazed tiles; on die wall a mangy cat lies in the sun;ia coming and going of red, white, yellow, blue, brown mantles, white turbans, red fezzes, uniforms, faces ranging from white and light yellow to deep black; a shuffling of yellow and red slippers, a noiseless scurrying of naked black feet, and so on and so on.

In the morning the great god rises and fills both horizons with his joy and power, and all living things obey him. At night the moon is so silvery and glows with such divine clarity that no one can doubt the existence of Astarte.

Between Algiers and Tunis He 550 miles of African soil, towering up to the noble and spreading shapes of the great Atlas range, wide valleys and plateaus bursting with grapes and grain, dark green forests of cork oak. Today Horus rose out of distant, pale mountains over an unending green and brown plain, and from tie desert there sprang up a mighty wind which blew out to the dark blue sea. On rolling, gray-green hills yellow-brown remains of whole Roman cities, small flocks of black goats grazing around them, nearby a Bedouin camp with black tents, camels, and donkeys. The train runs into a camel which cannot make up its mind to get off the tracks; the beast is killed; there is a great running up, shrieking, and gesticulating of white-clad figures; and always the sea, now deep blue, now hurting the eyes with its glitter in the sunlight. Out of olive groves and palms and hedges of giant cactus floating in the flickering, sun-shot air rises a snow-white city with divinely white domes and towers, gloriously spread out over a hill. Then comes Sousse, with white walls and towers, the harbor below; beyond the harbor wall the deep blue sea, and in the port lies the sailing ship with two lateen sails which I
once painted!!!!

You stumble over Roman remains; with my cane I dug a piece of Roman pottery out of the ground.

This is all nothing but miserable stammering; I do not know what Africa is really saying to me, but it speaks. Imagine a tremendous sun, air clear as in the highest mountains, a sea bluer than any you have ever seen, all colors of incredible power. In the markets you can still buy the amphorae of antiquity things like that and the moonlll! . . .~Carl Jung; (Memories Dreams and Reflections; Pages 371-372.)

LETTER TO EMMA JUNG FROM NORTH AFRICA (1920)

April 17, 2018

ALWAYS A WAYS FARAWAY

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 9:48 am

watch me  catch a concept/

always  a ways faraway/

a fleeting thought/

meets my cage   & caught!/

Some thing  I thought  I’d never think/

given form  & falls   in ink/

March 19, 2018

2 descriptions of an essential, existential dream I never had

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:37 pm

2 descriptions of an essential, existential dream I never had

“Solemness”s not the only noun
That best states the state I found
Myself drowning in.
I’m quieter this hour , and long past another
Where I worried, When I wondered
I guess as it goes as a boy in the throes
Of a late night alone, of a faith underdose,
and no mother, he goes
“If I die before I sleep”

“Apprehensive,” says it also.
An appreciative hospital with the wherewithal, they’ll
welcome
Me and yescheck my symptoms.
I’ll finally sleep & they keep me for observation.
I’ll finally be on their watch instead of mine.

January 22, 2018

HALSEY — BORROWED FROM: Tribrach: for those who love (or would like to love) poetry

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 6:24 pm

Halsey’s Women’s March Poem Is a War Cry – Whitney Kimball – Jezebel – 1/21/18

via The poem from yesterday’s Women’s March that everyone is talking about…. — Tribrach: for those who love (or would like to love) poetry

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:33 pm

 

BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI


old grey-haired waitresses
in cafes at night
have given it up,
and as i walk down sidewalks of
light and look into windows
of nursing homes
I can see that it is no longer
with them.
I see people sitting on park benches
and i can see by the way they
sit and look
that it is gone.

I see people driving cars
and I see by the way
they drive their cars
that they neither love nor are
loved –
nor do they consider
sex. it is all forgotten
like an old movie.

I see people in department stores and
supermarkets
walking down aisles
buying things
and i can see by the way their clothing
fits them and by the way they walk
and by their faces and their eyes
that they care for nothing
and that nothing cares
for them.

I see a hundred people a day
who have given up
entirely.

if I go to the racetrack
or a sporting event
I can see thousands
that feel for nothing or
no one
and get no feeling
back.

everywhere I see those who
crave nothing but
food, shelter, and
clothing; they concentrate
on that,
dreamlessly

I do not understand why these people do not
vanish
I do not understand why these people do not
expire
why the clouds
do not murder them
or why the dogs
do not murder them
or why the flowers and the children
do not murder them,
I do not understand.

I suppose they are murdered
yet i can’t adjust to the
fact of them
because they are so many.

each day,
each night,
there are more of them
in the subways and
in the buildings and
in the parks

they feel no terror
at not loving
or at not
being loved

so many many many
of my fellow

creatures

January 2, 2018

WINTER AWARENESS SEMINAR

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 5:51 pm

 

1) ONE  WINTER  ADDITION

teachers to small children

the world over

pastors to parish

they all will tell the pretty truth

(aside the pretty lies, “pretty lies”)

that crystalline snowflakes

are unique. unique.

and maybe later in both

secular schoolrooms

and sunday school classes

(and in all their varieties the world over)

small children might make snowflakes for themselves

they’ll fold lacy paper exactly in half

with a good crease

and taking their round-ended scissors

they’ll cut their very own unique cuts

so that when everyone unfolds their lacy paper

and lifts it above their heads

everyone can laugh at their uniquenesses

.

but one thing that ministers & mentors

rabbis & nuns will fail to add

is that those one-of-a-kind snowflakes

are all

alone

in their descent

on icy black currents

all their night fall

.

2        STILL, NOT STILL

It’s the coldest morning this year

And the Farmer’s Almanac says this year

There’s gonna be a winter of ’em

Me, I won’t mind

I like how loud the still is

.

forty years ago a brother from Chicago

called the cold wind

“the hawk”

I wonder if it’s still true

I wonder if “that muthafuckin Hawk”

is still cursed & bundled against

in the only city cited for its big blow.

.

3

When island settings lose their place

in imaginings,

When our mornings sun  there

warms our skin, bare,

There’s these shade floral sanctuaries,

And, I’m betting,  perfect for setting your eyes on…

God’s perfect line,  one horizon.

When all  won’t free you,

Won’t call you from all this freezing

Point of view,

This illusionary season,

What ttthen?

.

.

.

.

(from a dozen frozen years ago)

December 7, 2017

No Law Says

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 1:42 pm

November 9, 2017

Harsh truths to a rhythm & cryin crime rhyme

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 5:13 am

November 1, 2017

poetry contest

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:09 pm

https://kaylaannauthor.wordpress.com/2017/10/21/poetry-competition/

October 14, 2017

POE’S MISERABLE MYSTERIOUS DEMISE

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 11:43 am

(from The Raven Report)

Edgar Allen Poe was never one to underestimate the power of a good secret, and his death was no exception. Rarely have the details of someone’s final days caused such a stir in the annals of dark history. Just like the spine-tingling tales he wrote, much of Poe’s personal and professional life was shrouded in mystery, […]

via Was Poe’s Death The Greatest Of All His Mysteries? — The Raven Report

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