kerouac soul writing, undam the head and flow
like twist around an image, spin closer
span farther, pulled in and pushed out
until the brain and the heart explode outwards
inwards to the centre of an expansion of viewpoint
we are all driven by the big bang, first cause
god, experiment, physics, an idea that sings
division locked in our cells, programmed
we seek to return to that perfect state:
small, singular, simple, sexless, safe
choice and the bifurcating path are pain

or we push to become everything
to catalogue the sensations burning
the satellites turning round about
with us in our static automatic dream
dead centre, fuel igniting, combustion engine
we smoke to learn to breathe different
kiss to learn how others taste
and lay the old established to waste
the edifice they fed you is a towering list
of bullshit dripped from the liar’s lip
and that first mistake didn’t take a fall just a slip

there are no questions which you might ask
that would demonstrate faith as much as
sitting there and being quiet
as children should do

we plucked out an eye because it offended us
and eye for an eye insured the blindness
now we rely upon a stranger’s kindness
when forethought might have reaped rewards

they came to preach, not teach
egotist god and the centrepiece priest
who gets the best cuts at the celebratory feast
and calls his devil’s advocate a beast

it is all a conversation between two opposing forces
trying to argue relying on different sources
there arguments are incommensurate
and the resolution can’t be complete or accurate

and you think that you understand the names of gods
that you have their heartbeat close to yours
with your face pressed in behind and alien visage
belief is a caveman itch scratching itself with eloquence
the simple reach for the ceiling, dancing through fire
spitting out dogon teeth over double helix unravel
the eden to which we travel, thoughts of lost quarter
some saharan keep held by uriel, fathom deep
in the sunken notion of nephilim, shadows
of something ancient playing through like melanin

there are drums that do not understand anything
beyond the acoustics of a termite mound
ignoring the syncopations of hearts
for the structural integrity of hive mind enshrinement
they change names down through the years
because their legacy lessens in the leaving
and many left, the crops that do not replenish
that forget the rotation, the inundation
and it is never the nile, just tears of the crocodile
as the clock clicks in its throat, winding down
uncoiling of that mortal winding, what you are finding
was already found and run to ground
and what you lost will never be recognised
until some subtler death has closed your eyes

there is no truth that a name can give
there are lies aplenty that shadows hide
and you claim to understand your mother
but you never listen to her
you fail to see it as a cradle
fail in your vision of it as death
there are routes back to this place
there are roots trailing behind your face
and you know there are things you never ask
in a hall full of same your name’s a lost mask

The stage is black.  The curtain is closed.

Sit and wait as I might no clap of mine

will cause you to step onto the stage

and sing one more

In my joy, I miss judged  you for a gentle friend who’d

be open for coffee or ale and never move away, or die

How could you after all you’ve accomplished?

Does the thick fabric of the curtain hang onto some

of your DNA where you rubbed as you rushed by

to change your costume for the romantic scene?

Are there skin cells of yours on the make-up brush

that helped your eyes pop so the person in the back

role could gage the soul in your expression?

Is there a hair of yours on the jacket

that you wore when you went outside

to rehearse your lines and get fresh air?

Did you leave your voice in the creeks

and falls of the building, rhyming in

rhythm with carpet hairs and the very foundation?

Is there some magic left that some other may find

or did it leave when you killed yourself?

i’ll sit here and you can watch
this slow game of observation
waiting for a realisation
to come upon us
as the shadows move around us
the sun dialling up time

i am a still life
this is still life
work the composition
we handed over volition
to the grandmaster chess players
and those who would essay us

we have been waiting here
since they told us to
expecting something to happen
because that is how stories end
and we are running comparitives
on narrative and formulating a possibility matrix

Wilhelm Waiblinger

November 22 (21), 1804 – Heilbronn

January 17, 1830 – Roma

*

Roemische Freuden

Corso, Theater, und Akadamie, Oktober und Giostra,
Essen und Trinken, man lebt einzig, damit man’s geniest

“And I know you hate me and you’ve got the right
To kill me now I wouldn’t blame you if you do
But you oughta thank me before I die
For the gravel in your guts and the spit in your eye
For I’m the son of a bitch that named you Sue”

Take notice of the songwriter’s name.

It’s none other than Shel Silverstein, the late, renown children’s author and playwright. Apparently, Silverstein was quite an accomplished songwriter as well.

While I’m no “fan” of Wikipedia, there is an interesting, if not enlightening article on him there. Sorry… no link. You can look it up. That’s my form of protest.

BUT! As a service to you, kind reader, I will provide a link to ShelSilverstein.com – his his official site.

Lyric excerpt from:
“Boy Named Sue“
(legal title)
Songwriter/Composer – Shel Silverstein
Affilitation – BMI
CAE/IPI # – 28738853
Publishers – Evil Eye Music, Inc.
Affiliation – BMI
CAE/IPI # – 53070412

Phone: (212) 594-9795
Fax: (212) 594-9782
Contact:
Evil Eye Music, Inc.
c/o The Richmond Organization
266 West 37th Street
17th Floor
New York, NY 10018
DLEITNER@GOLENBOCK.COM

This was one of my first ever spoken word pieces….enjoy

I vibe off a thought try to write a little poetry
Wont put my name on it but still you know it’s me
Subject, flow, timing, vocabulary
Hints of emotion, lo and behold you know it’s me

The plain and simple
The unspectacular
Till I fight into your senses
With adjectives to back me up
Against a wall of truth
I survive on the unseen eternal fruits

You see I have an underground vineyard
Everything I produce connoisseurs wanna sample the
Laboured for fruits of my youth
In a quake off the Richter scale my roots wouldn’t move
And I have nothing to prove for I’m that deep

Reluctantly fashionable I only work for big companies yet its not big company I keep
And I hold real not prototyped hyped new age beliefs

I am the topside of a chocolate digestive
Provoking gluttonous lusts yet the most resisted
So I take calculated risks if victory exists
And at the site of beauty I just lick my lips
For its just its…
The don king of moments
The little bit of crazy that everyone goes with

The versatile black that flows with any outfit
Make gold look good
Softly spoken realist
Spiritual apprentice
I was bought by love
Will never be rented
I AM

Here is a list of my favorite poets and lines from some of my favorite poems.  I find inspiration in their words.

Emily Dickinson:

PROUD of my broken heart since thou didst break it,

Proud of the pain I did not feel til thee.

William Shakespeare:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances.

Pablo Neruda:

My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.

I love what I do not have.  You are so far.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

TELL me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream! -

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

William Ernest Henley:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

I have always been a fan of poetry and writing my own poems.  Leave a comment and let me know what your favorite poems and poets are.  I’d love to find new poetry to read.

Rahman Baba (1653-1711) is a renowned Pushto Sufi poet. He is fondly called the Nightingale of Pukhtoonkhuwa. In the preface of the book called ‘The Nightingale of Peshawar’ by Jens Enevoldsen, Professor Pareshan Khattak writes:

Pashtuns are proud of Khushal Khan Khattak, the warrior-poet of the nation, the venerate Ahmad Shah Abdali, they have a taste for Hamid Baba and Kazim Khan Shaida and they appreciate even lesser poets. But Rahman Baba rules their hearts and minds. Love of Rahman Baba is in the blood of every Pushtun. His advice is binding, his decisions are final.

Rahman Baba is often quoted by literate and illiterate people alike. His couplets could be seen painted on the local buses and rickshaws.

As Professor Preshan Khahttak explains about the poetic style of Rahman Baba:

He as a master craftsman, coveys his thoughts through word association rather than through the direct meaning of the words themselves. He was so skilled in use of his language for his words have something to say to everyone who reads them. To the uninitiated his words are simple, soft and easy. For the mystical mind they are unfathomably deep.

About the Author

Jens Kristian Enevoldsen (1922-1991) was born in Esbjerg, Denmark. He earned an MA Theology (1954) and was the Minister of churches in Erritsoe (1954-58) Tjorring (1972-81) and Utterslev (1981-89).

Jens Enevoldsen came to Pakistan in 1958. He taught European History at the University of Peshawar and was a volunteer researcher at the Pushtu Academy. Jens worked to increase the awareness of the Pashtu literature in the North West Frontier Province and the West.

With Lorens Hedelund and in cooperation with the Pashtu Academy he started mobile Pashtu Literature Service, travelling to villages throughout the NWFP.

Throughout the Frontier, Jens Enevoldsen was known by his Pushto name, Ghulam Isa, ‘Servant of Jesus’. As a padre, teacher and scholar Jens Enevoldsen sought to build bridges between his faith and that of his Muslims friends.

Taken from ‘The Nightingale of Peshawar’

I have taken that poem from the above mentioned book translated by Jens Enevoldsen.

Bad Days

When bad days come
What can the clever do?
When fate shows up
What can a wise man do?

The parents pray:

God give us offspring good!
When luck is bad
What can the parents do?

A big hand may
Set friend from friend apart
When that hand stays
What can the lovers do?

You pray, you curse
But God alone decides

If God won’t act
What can your prayers do?

By force or gold
No one has made his luck
Be weak or strong
In this, what can you do?

The moth complained
About the candle’s heat
RAHMAN, what can

Your tears, your laughter do?

The more Jack asks the Holy Spirit for guidance so that he could know God more and understand the reason why Christians live like the yo-yo (up and down, wandering and wondering in the wilderness of life,) are often weak, sick and powerless, the more the Holy Spirit responds and reveals to him from the Word of God, the Bible, which is life and Spirit.

For quite sometime he was led to read psalms and detected how the psalmist suffered from oppression and depression too! King David was one example. As he read, he saw a pattern emerging from the confessions of King David. Today he read Psalm 13 and summarized below what he has learned:
Psalm 13
1 How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever?
How long will You hide Your face from me?
2 How long shall I take counsel in my soul,
Having sorrow in my heart daily?
How long will my enemy be exalted over me?

3 Consider and hear me, O LORD my God;
Enlighten my eyes,
Lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4 Lest my enemy say,
“I have prevailed against him”;
Lest those who trouble me rejoice when I am moved.

5 But I have trusted in Your mercy;
My heart shall rejoice in Your salvation.
6 I will sing to the LORD,
Because He has dealt bountifully with me.

The psalmist was deeply depressed. He was oppressed by the spirits of death, rejection, and darkness. These are revealed in the following verses:

Verse 2: The adverse situation affected his emotion and mental state. He was sorrowful daily. “Having sorrow in my heart daily”. His mind was affected. He suffered mental agony. He could not help thinking about his problems over and over again. “Take counsel in my soul”.

Verse 3: The situation affected his sleep. He slept like a dead man. “Lest I sleep the sleep of death.”
Verse 4: The situation affected him spiritually. “I am moved (fallen)”.

In fact he had suffered this sickness for quite sometime. He used the word “long” to describe his inability to tolerate anymore. Verse 1-2, he asked God “how long” three times and strong word like “forever”!
The cause of his sickness can be summarized as follows:

1. The psalmist looked at God in a negative way (he suffered from unbelief). In verse 1-3 he was blaming God for his condition. He accused God for forgetting him, ignoring his plead (not answering his prayer), not seeing him and talking to him. The truth was, the psalmist could not feel God’s presence, see God, or hear God. Instead of acknowledging his own distance from God, he projected his problems to God, “You forget me”, “You hide Your face from me”, “consider and hear me”, “enlighten my eyes”. (Verse 1, 3)

2. The psalmist was obsessed with his enemy. He felt oppressed. In verse 2 and 4 he complained that his enemy might win over him. “Exalted over me” and “prevailed against me”. He was worried and indignant that his enemy would “rejoice” at his fall. He was oppressed by the thought of his enemy winning, laughing at him and saying things that hurt him!

However, as he persevered and prayed with honesty, the Holy Spirit revealed the solutions to his depression, in verse 5-6. He remembered the goodness of God, which God had given him in the past: mercy, salvation and abundant life! “Your mercy”, “Your salvation”, “has dealt bountifully with me”.

Then the faith that God has given to him rises. He “trusted” God afresh, his “heart rejoices”, and he “sings to the Lord”. Indeed, he worshipped and praised God despite his depression illness. His focus was on Jesus, the salvation of Jesus on the cross.

Thus, the depressed poet (psalmist) was healed!

2009-11-22

It seems that poet and editor Paul Vermeersch has been following the reviewing fiasco and has decided to throw his own opinion into the hat. Thus far his argument seems to engage more with the nature of criticism and the actual text of a book than the person of the author or reviewer. When a review strays from this he sees it as lacking in good critical practice. Vermeersch’s take on the idea of authorial intent is much as I see it: not about getting in the writer’s head (which is inevitably impossible), but assessing the work’s message, meaning, and purpose as presented in the text itself. The intent of a well written work should be discernable and supported by the writer’s craft, style, technique, and creativity. How these are used, or misused, can be assessed, not what magical series of thoughts (what s/he was “trying to do”) had circled in the author’s head at the time of writing.

Poetry is more than mere building blocks; it’s communication, and all communication has a purpose, which to say it has intent. In critical discourse, engaging with “intent” has more to do with understanding how the poetry works within its given mode, understanding how a text has been assembled and reading it with an eye towards understanding its purpose, its message, and its content. For example, one would not (should not) measure a poem by E.E. Cummings with the same material yardstick one would use to measure a poem by Robert Frost, or whichever two dissimilar poets you might choose. The two poets have a different ethos, a different project, a different way of communicating, a different “intent” that is expressly manifest in their work.

Anyway, quite a good post that I recommend you read if you haven’t yet seen it. You can find the entire post here.

Photo by VC Ferry

“A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye

in the head of a poet.” ~ Orson Welles

VC Ferry

All Rights Reserved

© 2009

how would you explain

some things happening with

head, belly and heart combined

head hurts as you just fell down

heart aches as the days are losing

and people near you, are not people you keep

as they are to be freed from your bound

and people you desire, require

more than what you are on ground

they are god believers

they believe in gravity

so apple must go up bound

belly is reasonable

as there is no food in it

it must run the silly brain

and heart drowned

combined they disorient you

with the cohesive action

children alive in your womb

and then there are more

some listen and some see

feelings…if more than touching

heart is already drowned

huh…i am already raising a family

though this dumb family decides

what must be the radii

of the path…life gonna turn around…

pass away (cancer)

In an apotheosis
you moved the last glance to the other
for us it’s a mystery of faith and hope
that we will ever come

I am learning to

start from middle

where things catch up speed

holding edges so tight

the middle grows unseed…

John Muir & John Burroughs

The work in the field is at an end for the present season, and I am now busy preparing my report. Two alternatives present themselves for the treatment of the reserved public timber lands. One is to reserve all such lands at one blow by refusing to allow any forest lands of the United States to be disposed of hereafter. This course would probably require Congressional action, and it is by no means certain that such action could be obtained. The other course is to secure the reservation of considerable bodies not now reserved, so as to include, as far as possible, all mountain ranges and any other considerable bodies of government timber land which may exist . The President has the necessary authority, and Congress would not require to be directly consulted… Letter from Gifford Pinchot to John Muir, Dec. 15, 1897 on establishing the National Forests

Now this is just cool! The University of the Pacific has made available on the internet 6,500 pieces of correspondence to and from John Muir. The letters become part of the Holt-Atherton Special Collections which includes Muir’s Journals and drawings as well as an extensive collection of photographs. The collection gives images of the original correspondence along with full-text transcriptions.

John Muir, of course, was the heart and soul of the early conservation movement. Around the turn of the century he advised and tutored scholars, educators and politicians such as Louis Agassiz, John Torrey, Theodore Roosevelt and Gifford Pinchot and on the inherent value of wild places. As co-founder of the Sierra Club, Muir fought tirelessly for preservation of wilderness.

The new collection provides valuable insight into the personal side of John Muir as well as perspectives on his influence on the creation of our national parks, national forests and wilderness system. This is one web place I would certainly be sure to visit, but make sure you have at least a couple of hours to devote before you start to peruse the site.

“God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fools.” John Muir

After careful consideration, and several yelling bouts, along with a smattering of battings about the head from Miss Crankypants, Cousin Harold decided that he had to control and disguise his innate ability and distink talent for farting.

No longer would he be Jack the Ripper, sneaking through the dark and cutting up near fine ladies, or not.
No more would society find fault with his mumbled replies to questions he did not even consider anyway.
Cousin Harold would not be taken for granted any more. He would become The Phantom Farter.

Prior to his new sophistication, Cousin Harold would just crank one leg over and let fly. NO matter the  venue, surroundings, or people nearby.
At those times he would not surreptitiously point to Miss Crankypants as the guilty party, this would earn him amused looks, facial expressions of downright disgust, and upon occasion, a severe vomiting from those more sensitively inclined.

Cousin Harold had decided that no more would he be unappreciated, or mistaken for a simple version of Tommy Thunderpants, his native friend. Hee Wahn Huhn wah – rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip.
No more would be he mistaken as the less fortunate human caretaker of such celebrities as Walter, The Farting Dog.

No, his inspiration and aspiration would combine, and lift him to more surreal heights than Joseph Pujol, le Fartiste, who entertained the crowds at the Moulin Rouge last century or two.
Forget Superman, forget Spidey, or Batshitman.
Cousin Harold would annihilate their memories.

Wall Street, Broadway, Yonge Street, the wooded hills of Tennessee, the lakes of Ontario, the valleys of Kentucky would never be the same again.

Cousin Harold and his Grand Plan were afoot.

(Tomorrow Cousin Harold divulges his true inspiration, beginnings, and through defeat and frustration, his ultimate and crowning moment that led him to this New Land of Discovery.)

©Dean J. Baker

©Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

What is love?

I cannot say what love is, because I am not an expert on it. The dictionary cannot tell one what love is, and no one person can say with any great deal of authority what love is. But there was one person who most accurately defined love, and it changed the world. Continues to change the world. He continually teaches me and others what it means to love, to be loved, and to share love. So much have I yet to learn about the deep waters of love, and all of its facets. I can only tell you what this man has taught me, what love is.

Love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love does not give in to jealousy or envy.

Love does not brag, pull rank, or pass judgement.

Love keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not resent others.

Love does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

Love does not insist on its own way.

Love is not swearing when the situation “calls for it.”

Love is not high and mighty.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things (even death).

Love never ends.

Love thinks of others and does not desire its own pursuits.

Love is talking with that one person for five hours straight because they need to get it off their chest.

Love is giving rides to and from the store/church/campus and never asking for anything in return.

Love is covering the bill at a late night Perkins run.

Love is shaking with excitement when you hug them after a long time away.

Love is not remembering the things said in anger, yet recalling the growth in love.

Love is praying for someone for three months without knowing why.

Love is driving a friend home who’s had just a little too much to drink (and understanding that it’s not common for him).

Love is sending a message at 2:30 in the morning that you had pre-typed and waiting for the right moment to say.

Love is making a cranberry apple pie on a Saturday in the fall.

Love is not making that off-color remark when you know it would be really funny.

Love is taking post-it notes off of your friends car (and not retaliating for them).

Love is holding the door open for everyone behind you.

Love is saying “You’re beautiful” to the broken on a Sunday morning.

Love is music that is felt rather than written.

Love is trust, no matter what.

Love is giving even though you have nothing.

Love is listening to every word, and completely understanding the deeper meaning.

Love is sacrifice.

Love is holding a sign that says “Free Hugs” on the dreariest of days.

Love is a swipe in the caf.

Love is letting your friend do laundry at your apartment for free.

Love is pain that leads to growth.

Love is donating your paycheck to your roommate’s ministry even though you need to pay rent in a few weeks.

Love is the silence shared between brothers (and sisters).

Love is that laughter that no one else understands.

Love is the memories of the ones that came before.

Love is organizing a night of appreciation, and saying “You’re worth it.”

Love is seeing your friends once a year, but acting as if you’ve never left (it makes the 12+ hours of driving worth it).

Love is holding your brother (or sister) to your chest as you both cry your eyes out.

Love is saying sorry for the curt remarks at 3:00 in the morning (while out in the middle of nowhere).

Love is calling someone out in truth and grace.

Love is taking joy in its simplicity.

Love is asking your new roommate if they want to come hang out with you and your group of friends.

Love is telling your roommate to go to bed every other night.

Love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love is a jumble of letters to express its intensity and joy (alsdkflahkmlisdfjh).

Love is a poke in the stomach and a tackle to the ground (but seldom at the same time).

Love is a fight in slow motion or a spontaneous wrestling match.

Love is staying late to scrape old wallpaper off the living room walls.

Love is having people over, no matter who they are.

Love is keeping it real.

Love is burning with fire and passion.

Love is meeting with a mormon every week to talk to them about faith.

Love is writing stories at 8:00 in the morning and leaving notes on beds.

Love is answering the same question three times in a nursing home.

Love is giving away your favorite hat to the kid who is learning to speak your language (and you his).

Love is leaving a place of comfort and familiarity to go reach the darkest of streets on the other side of the country.

Love is saying no to lust.

Love is hating sin with every fiber of your being.

Love is not dwelling in regret, but growing in truth.

Love is making a decision and believing it is for the best (for both of you).

Love is forgiveness (seventy times seven).

Love is doing the job that no one else wants to do.

Love is reaching back to help the ones who lost their way.

Love is justice for those who cannot defend themselves.

Love is perseverance in the face of failure.

Love is the blue eyes that shine when you come to visit.

Love is the greatest of these.

I charge you, friends, to hold fast to love and to love one another deeply. Love, because you were first loved by our heavenly Father. Love, because love endures all things. Love, because love wins. Always.