Thursday, January 13, 2011

I am peering out the windows
at everything but You,

I am leaning on Your tree trunks
neglecting what to do,

The sky is screaming silence,
while the wind blows past in blue,

And I am waiting by my hard heart
til Your Spirit passes through.

1 comment:

  1. This lonesome portal and this stone gone and back in a glistening through much surrounding wave and paradise; this 'hard heart' is precise in that while the world offers it spins coldly and with so much, with anything and something like a desultory overtaking 'blue'. There is a balance that while there are aspects of a gliding fusion or a soldering unto passions that can close to you in an aural secrecy, you are knowing and you are like a seashell uncovering something oceanic in a protective void scantily unbelievable, but you as in the rise of the narrator have not come away too much to douse it all away have not been near heartless. By it the incarnations fleshed in what is held of this narration in blossoming form sting from something that feels like a warped heat and cosmic sensibility but beads in a last lit focus, and one stores in this wonder beside the narrator as it fastens something of us to the world. By it highness is all over, everywhere and is bled by a pulse at times the narrator cannot contain and is yours going direly up, if not all the way true, and that which enervates on through from the top breaking into flood, into a down so sure, but passion by it is a fountain that has years and years and geological pools of time, by finding what's disabused is what can be 'done' while here and there, why its stable grounds are come paralyized beneath when we set still, and look to shake with it or against? It is something, DK, that you continue to do and your work is bold, with wings and seamless and still reaching and ripping quality.
    We will make these into proper papers and bring them out for you to see in line with their majesty how like the narrator has gone out for us and bent like a rainbow of the great 'trunks' into nothing that she wills to hold up and light on false surfaces, yet we cry being with her we posses the intensifying looking on that it is still there, for there to be soothed a matching creation of beauty the narrator has brought us next to our timed shattering, frenetic buzz of freedom and now moving wildly in the pain of the heart poring its way, with the bliss that can be held to no ration steady in this same directive but oh so deep into the poem also so locked to the heart that is 'leaning' (beautiful line) a pounding and vaporous soaring and utter 'falling' on 'passage' such that is before us so open to craving, heart still again and again that is aching and is sacred in the daze and devastation of the feeling process that for us is bound to where sensitivity does not lame but pierces so much magic to the organism.
    People trust you, DK, adore, and they want to have your hope, expression, unadulterated 'screaming' where they do awake silently, look at their poetry books silently, and they choose something winnowing in the master setting, their windows they might smash through silently and there's a lot of 'slivering', blanking out silently.
    My take is not at all representative of the thoughts and opinions and heart of your poet, and, of course, blogger: but, boy, to read and see it is it trying and possessing, beautiful, and I think to the point where it's getting so true and you itch yourself in a life and death great itch by the time you get yourself to a line. There's a really cool and gifted large handfull of recorded followers that feel this in uttery different terms, and there are those who've seen and think about you as a poet-I, qualifying, as a follower who's not a registered follower.
    To get you on proper paper-workshop form- to proper paper is a distance that with every step of work reaches pure and basic separation, and there's a wondrous salience to silence that like in your poems will open just beyond touch.