Late In November ... We Shall Wonder ...

The Consent

~ by Howard Nemerov

Late in November, on a single night
Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees
That stand along the walk drop all their leaves
In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind
But as though to time alone: the golden and

Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday
Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.
What signal from the stars? What senses took it

What in those wooden motives so decided
To strike their leaves, to down their leaves,
Rebellion or surrender? And if this
Can happen thus, what race shall be exempt?
What use to learn the lessons taught by time,
If a star at any time may tell us: Now.

We close the eyes before heaven, and are flabbergasted by the darkness. We seek the sounds, and picture them as answers, and draw them outside time ... to fit within a rhyme.

Monday, October 12, 2009

For A Scientist, I'm Pretty Lyrical

Soliloquy of the Solipsist
~ Sylvia Plath

I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.

Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.

When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.

Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.


Dilemma : Has a Solipsist the Right to feel Lonely?

Monday, September 28, 2009

No? 3.

"Take care, your worship, those things over there are not giants but windmills."

~ Don Quixote de la Mancha, by Miguel Cervantes

I dream of dreams of the unexpected. Images of the odd, which... seem not odd, but follow an order, a logic which looses it'self' in the unknown strings of time. I have different memories, in my dreams, - all spin themselves inside my perceptions as the worms of illusion so often do. Inside people. Eating, or, perhaps, feeding their dreams.

And the days, all now seem equal, and the nights spend their darkness motionless in the 'sight of thought'... and windy dreams so often crawl towards their source ... the windmills.

The giants ... they scare me when I reach out for an image spawn in the deep sea of my ... mind? Self? Addiction... to being and ... to time?

To sea ... to Sea or not to See? That is the question.

... and the Dilemma : Are We our Dreams, or are our Dreams Us?

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I try To Make Time

I try to make time,
Inside vesicles of idleness,
And shout out particles
Of art and the enzyme
That catalyzes ceaselessness.

I bring ideas and forms,
To Beings and pray they would listen.
But empty eyes reveal the distance
From me and the worms
Of the dreams in crimson.

I write dimensions,
And force creatures in realms and beyond,
Enlighten them, yet they don't,
Appreciate my tensions,
Of which my spirit is so fond.

I end up alone,
In every chapter, every story
Without the climax of a glory,
Between letters of my own,
Never free, but fluffy, curly.

© 2009 Lith Ium

Tuesday, September 15, 2009