Archive for the ‘Grand Gnostic Central’ Tag

Corpus Sample: “After a Legend of the Prior of Urfort”

My stylistic trend of recent years has been asymptoting to a “poetry degree zero”, a language stripped of overt figuration or texture, relying, instead, on metonymy, allusion, and, what in classical rhetoric might be termed, arrangement. But recently I’ve been hankering for a more complex poetry, not unlike some of that included in my first trade edition Grand Gnostic Central and other poems (1998).

One poem there that embodies what I have in mind is a slightly cheeky retelling of a story about the medieval German mystic, Meister Eckhart, awhile the Prior of Erfort. Eckhart is referred to only paraphrastically, and the spelling of Erfort is modified, as well, for, well, poetic reasons. Whether the poem achieves the sophistication of thought and expression it aspires to I leave, of course, to the reader.

Too, thematically, it touches on the concerns addressed in my last Corpus Sample, since, one way humankind has traditionally attempted to tame the chaos of the wild ride of being alive is to impose a mythic pattern or order, as we’re told the Prior of Urfort seems to, here.

mystic

 

After a Legend of the Prior of Urfort

 

No soul

Has effect

But by the body held

 

What you know

What two no one can hold

Weave in a scuffle

 

These

The plottings

The subtle wishes

 

Sung by one

An inbred family

On a mountain top

 

These in one

Divine

He said

Corpus Sample: Grappling with the Heraclitean Tao: “At Red River’s Edge” and “Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”

Sometimes, whether sincerely or out of hubris, one comes to believe they’ve got a grip on things, and so it seemed, more or less, to me. But, recently, reading Baudrillard’s Symbolic Exchange and Death and an overview of the late Mark Fisher’s life and work, reflecting how, when I was around ten years old, the world was being maneuvered into its (apparent) Neoliberal (dis)order (a view of things probably already belated) and beginning a perceptible acceleration into what has come to be called the Anthropocene, I feel, now, there is nowhere to stand, nowhere at a standstill, that vertigo and fear just under the heart that starts at a sudden drop.

Of course, unknowingly, I’d grappled with these matters before. “At Red River’s Εdge”, the first poem of my first book (Grand Gnostic Central) attempts to resolve, with all the virtues and vices of a youthful work, this nigh metaphysical  flow of things (or, as I thought of it at the time, “dissemination”), while the last poem of the book (“Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”), it appears to me now, approaches the same concern, but from a different angle.

IMG_3184

 

At Red River’s Edge

 

I shed scales and

blood the slow water

at the river’s edge, the fish

gutted on some warming rock.

A wondering after

origins and wellsprings

rises with my standing

and squinting into the glare

of light broken upstream

at my vision’s limit.

What source spills

up this river?—

numberless puddles brimming

over as rain falls

to fill them, clear

water writhing

over slick dark rock

too hard to carve

a lasting path in,

waves of rainwater

draining in rippling sheets

off flat rock walling

a gleaming highway,

or running in rivulets

charging a careening stream

from a sudden height

in an opening spray of sparks

that scatter against one

mountain’s steep

lower rises. Upward,

glaciers moan and turn

themselves to fluid under

their own weight

for the sake of motion.

Lighter ice and snow

drop, overheavy

overhang, giving

the glitter of crystals

to the lift of winds

and the long swerve of descent

to dew on darting speargrass

leaves or on the grains

of the smallest antmounds

mining the glint

of sand mixed in the topmost soil

of swelling foothills.

Clouds shadow the climb

of rock, condensing

and losing themselves

in the strain

to come to nothing

but clearest light.

Everywhere, countless sources urge

one flow that fills

perfectly any particular

gap in every ground

in its scrambling run

to that ease of gravity

proper to the sea.  This river

one route before me

and beyond me on

either side, never ebbing,

only ever changing course

to another.  I follow

some black bark carried free

on flashing rises of the current,

sometimes edging a shore, sometimes stilled

in the turning of

a darker random

swirl, but always

spiraling out again

to give with the slow measure

of the ocean’s deepest founding swells

or float on the light

lift of waves

and the chance of the wind

into some child’s quick

excitement in the seadrift.

 

“Tonight, the world is simple and plain….”

 

Tonight, the world is simple and plain.

The earth is round and the sky two domes

Enclosing us, excluding nothing.

 

The stars are all arranged in such a way

As to suggest an endless emptiness

Or heavens full of foreign deities.

 

And choosing to choose neither we lose

Ourselves, desiring only an end

To this plane enclosed around itself

 

That keeps us coming to ourselves again.

 

sk night sky

“…where lives the virtue of poetry…”

Yesterday, Canada’s Chris Banks baldly posed the question to his Facebook friends “What is authentic poetry?”. I (mis)remembered, after my own initial contributions to winding or snarling the ensuing thread, I had written a poem that addressed at least “the virtue of all authentic thinking” (and I’m hardly the first to imagine or suggest that poetry can be a kind of thinking). I post that poem, below.

It was written at the same time as the poem that opens Ladonian Magnitudes, “topos tropos typos’ (a confession”, itself composed before even my first trade edition, Grand Gnostic Central. It’s title is a quotation from Charles Olson. Whether it is possessed of any qualities that might be construed as “authentic” I leave to the judgement of the reader. For my part, I cite again, as I did first in yesterday’s thread, Novalis, from his Fragments and Studies 1799-1800, #671:  Schwer schon ist zu entscheiden, doch einzig mögliche Entscheidung, ob etwas Poesie sei oder nicht”:  It’s already difficult to decide, but it’s the only decision possible, whether something is poetry or not.

 

“Unreal, that is, to the real itself”

 

where lives the virtue of poetry

and all thinking free

of the tyranny of the real

 

in perceiving the real

flow, elementally

fluid, hence watery

 

form forms

breath

seen in Winter

 

as slippery

hard and cold

as ice to the head

cracked

 

as the sea, unfathomable

God as Melville says

pondering

from the masthead

 

a shriek above

the water

 

a shriek

above the water

 

the same

Three poems in German translation

Three poems in German translation

Karawa.net has kindly published three poems from Grand Gnostic Central  in careful, meticulous German translation by Petra Sentes, with the English-language originals.