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Hasier Agirre

The contradictions are recycled words.

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Are There Words For The Discontent I Feel Now?

ARE THERE WORDS FOR THE DISCONTENT I FEEL NOW?

Are there words for the discontent I feel now?
Is there a way of saying each and every minor and major irritation?
The human being lives and dies
With so much ugliness unsaid
Even in himself.
Why am I complaining now
When I have so much to be grateful for?
Why is the sun suddenly shining now
While the pain of the cold rain still shakes my bones with endless madness?

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The Poems Are All I Have Now

THE POEMS ARE ALL I HAVE NOW

The poems are all I have now-

They are small
As my soul.

They tell what I am inside.
But do they have Beauty?

I write these words now
With the hope that they will be
Something
They probably are not.

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The Poems Are Gone For Now

THE POEMS ARE GONE FOR NOW

The poems are gone for now
I am leaving them –

Inside myself
A different music
If it is that-

I do not know
If and when
They will come back.

I do not know
If I ever again
Will express my deepest feeling
In words.

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What The Reader Needs Is Words

What the reader needs is words
So Beautiful
And so Surprising
That they bring Joy and Mystery
A sense of Freshness in all things.

What the Reader needs
The Poet should give
But there are Poets who cannot be
The best Poetry is

Still they live and write
As I do.

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I Write The Contradictions Of My Heart

I WRITE THE CONTRADICTIONS OF MY HEART

I write the contradictions of my heart
I give them to you freely-
But you have your own contradictions
And where are they in relation to mine?

We share what we are
But also do not-
I write for you
And you are silent for me-
And I thank you guiltily
for the blessing of your listening.

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The Poems Are Coming Now

The poems are coming now
Like the waters of the flood
Overwhelming us
Driving us to places we do not want to go
Endangering us with their own disastrous carelessness
The poems are coming now at us
As if we were not even here
As if they needed no one and nothing
And cared only that their great energy let itself loose
Upon the world
As if words could be
The endless electricity of the everlasting night
And keep us all awake forever
Drowning in their fears and tears and sorrows and words and memories and loves and lights and night and everything else there is in the world
Only they can say.

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The Gods Are Dead

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all. I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.

Once high they sat, and high o’er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once… long ago. But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.

It must be true. The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated: –
The Gods are Dead!’

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The Trees Are Blabbermouths (Fun Poem 113)

A song on a south wind
whispers stories to the trees
of love affairs illicit
that no one should know,
but the trees are blabbermouths
telling anyone who’ll listen
all the secret that they know.

If you pass a tree one day
when its leaves are rustling
just listen and you will hear
the secrets it has been told
of love affairs illicit
that no one should know
because trees are blabbermouths.

They shout their words across the breeze
so everyone can hear.
If you have a secret
and want it to keep it that,
make sure the trees don’t hear
or that secret won’t be a secret
because the trees are blabbermouths.


14 March 2011

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The Eyes Are Windows

The eyes are windows of the heart
Wherein transparency will show
A myriad feelings to impart
From where in sadness, tears do flow.

The eyes will say contents of heart
The speech two lovers freely speak,
For Silence eloquently starts
Romance in muted communique.

The eyes are windows of all cares,
Display the sad and wearied soul;
Distant looks and empty stares
Reveal a man who is not whole.

His weak attempts to somehow hide
What's clearly felt and seen-
Will showcase all the stuff inside
Deep secrets of where love had been.

The eyes are windows too of kindness
Touching looks that give embrace,
Blessing one words of forgiveness
Of bitter hurts there is no trace.

The eyes of Love are open windows,
Giving joy, shared happiness;
Reaching forth to let one know
It always seeks to bless with goodness.

-----
(Written May 4,2009 Tarlac City Philippines)

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Silence, where there are no words! !

'somewhere in my heart I still find myself some time,
I keep all the loneliness at one side and let the silence rhyme,
Then I open my mind to some fairy tales,
some heartless mind wandering trails,
oh then and there,
I land up somewhere,
up above the sky height.
I open the cockpit of my flight
and see the words flowing into you
oh you are the first woman whom i knew,

you are someone to whom my first words were addressed,
oh my heart rupturing mother come lets get dressed,
as we have to go so far away even from your words
to seek the language of the silence where there are no word,
the ultimate and utter silence mother'

'but what will you do there if there are no words there,
the ever eating silence will scare you and get your out, fear',

said the crystal eyed my other,

'won't you seek the silence in one another,
let me talk you through this out,
i want to hear my tears fall and sprout,
in this loneliness and utter silence i cry,
i am so soused but it's still dry,
no matter what i can't stop this thought of mine,
yes, there will be silence and everything will be fine'.

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How Much True Are Your Words Alone, Mom!

[ Prologue ]

The external appearances and the internal dramas of some men may be baffling...At times both may be in total contradiction... We may ourselves wonder why!
Poem
--
Mother dear, like the monsoon rains
ncessantly I chatter aloud-
Why then these people complain,
'Why you ever remain tight-lipped, o lad? '
'Do you too hear not my high-decibel chats, dear Mother? '

I weep in torrents
And my heart is tossed about
In the sea of my tears;
How then these people murmur,
'O boy, why no tears dim your eyes? '
'How is it that I weep sans tears, Mother? '

Restlessly I roam about all these places;
'Why do you ever glue yourself to this sullen chair
At this dark corner, O youngster? '
'Does not their one-voiced query amuse you?
How can I sit and roam simultaneously, Mother? '

I sing melodious songs;
And my fingers play non-stop on the lute strings.
'Have you lost all your songs, O lad? '
'How is it that they have such a suspicion, Mother?
My song waves outspreading ever-
Do they not kiss your ears, dear Mother? '

My heart melts like wax on flame
Of affection and miseries of others;
'Stone-hearted you are! '-
'Why are such heartless words aimed at me?
They must all be all wrong, aren't they
O my dear Mother? '

My eyes go beneath the blanket of lids;
Beside me gently you sit
And comb my hair with your wiry fingers-
'Why make a mockery of sleep
Though remaining wide awake, my dear son?
I am ever aware of your chats and songs,
Tears and joys, days and nights-.
ONE DAY YOU WILL RULE THIS WORLD! '

Your silken words softly caress my ears!
Yes, your tender touch has read me inside out!

'How much true are your words alone
O my Mother! '

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Patrick White

The Nuns Are Sleeping On Graves With Their Pagan Lovers

The nuns are sleeping on graves with their pagan lovers.
The black walnut trees have shed their leaves
half way between feathers and scales
like arboreal dinosaurs that are learning to fly.
And the branches of the staghorn sumac
that went up in flames like the rest of the greenwood
now look like the ribs of a snake blanched in the ashes.

I tell the hard rocks chiselled down to the lake
as if they were animate, sapient, sentient life forms
I know just how they feel
when they're dreaming of Carrara marble
and someone steps on them
like a skull of a common cornerstone
you can take for granted, but the birds,
why is it always the birds that are the first
to be alert to things like this, tell me
not to deprive them of their extinction.
So I'm prone to keeping my words to myself
when I'm on a backwoods pilgrimage alone
with too many death masks hiding the face of the moon.

Half the abandoned roads I've walked through life
have turned back in upon themselves
like an ingrown hair of a noose
in a claustrophic cul de sac,
like a thread of the mindstream
trying to close the eyelid of a needle that's dead.
But the other half of the labyrinth
on the dark side of seeing led me into clearings
in the middle of nowhere I ever expected to be startled by stars
that set my heart racing with mystic terror as if a partridge
just exploded out of the bushes in front of me
and enlightenment came to me for an hour or two
with such force of clarity I was breathing light not air.

And I didn't become one with everything.
How can anyone say they're one with everything
without resorting to the past tense the moment they say it?
I stood my ground beside unity like zero
because nothingness is the only way
of comprehending one without being excluded by it
like the exception that puts the lie to the whole,
and I amplified its immensity tenfold.

Ask any silo. There's no limit to what you can hold
when you're empty compared to what you can
when you're full. Even on upgraded hobby farms
where the wheat and the corn are stored
in more ample, lightning proof Euclidean storage spaces,
if you look over your shoulder in passing
at the old wooden siloes barely holding their ribs together
with rusting metal bands, cooper's barrels
abandoned closer to the road that's been widened since then,
their roofs blown off by the wind like the lids of garbage cans,

I've seen fully mature trees, rooted in the compost
at the bottom, rising up like green oil strikes toward the sky
or a clown like me being shot out of a cannon toward the stars
and landing in the safety nets of the laughing constellations
who weren't expecting to catch anything that night
but a few eyes out swimming too far, too deep from shore.

Just because it's a long shot, and your aim's off,
and your not quite as profound or sublimely targeted
as the asteroid that destroyed the dinosaurs,
doesn't mean you still can't make a big impact as a meteor
holding on to the flower in your hat for dear life
like a butterfly in a firestorm of dragons
with a childlike sense of humour marrowed
in the smooth bore barrels of their dusky funny bones.

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Patrick White

Is Silence The Negative Space Of Words

Is silence the negative space of words,
darkness, the stars? A fact is just a fact,
static and inanimate, until it moves and breathes,
a dynamic of the mind, sinks into the heart
and mingles in a confluence of the nuances
of chaos that characterize each one of us
in solitude, is it alive, one eye plucked out
of a voodoo doll, a sunflower at a black mass,
a fable of truth in time that time, too, will pass.

Venus and Jupiter near Spica in Virgo
and Arcturus in Bootes, still stand offish
as it was through the canopy of branches
of the black walnut trees this summer.
The worst place to discover your loneliness
is when you're dancing like the new moon
in the old moon's arms, and it's the old moon
that's having all the fun. Everyone wants to
fly with the waterbirds. The third eye of the river
turns itself into a simulacrum of the sky, but still,
it only runs. As the star that would efoliate
like the starclusters of the New England asters,
merely burns like a chip off the focus
of a magnifying glass in the hands
of inquisitorial children cooking butterflies.

Here is a bend in the Tay River about ten miles
outside the town of Perth. When is another
cold night on earth I had to get out of the house
to bathe my nuclear cabin fever in the heavy water
of the moon washing over me as if a lunatic
were immune to the craziness of going sane.
Why is the content of life that counter balances
death's bad sense of timing. How is a matter
of doubting the cure and trusting the pain
to turn you into someone you could never imagine.

The fish don't jump. It's Lent for the blackflies.
The leaves have torn up their book. The retina
of the river is partially detached. There's
more resentment in the woods than there was
even a month ago. As if the only way
you could live here were by trespassing.
As I do, furtive as a fox, wary as a wolf
listening to the distant barking of farmyard dogs.
The air's taken a vow of chastity that burns my face
in the warped clarity of the hottest part of the flame.
The atmosphere's renewed its virginity
like a windowpane in an infertile November rain.

The grass brittle and the starmud hardened
into shards of pottery in a midden of ostrakons.
I'm exhilarated by the way I'm threatened
by my own vulnerability at the possibility
of being eaten alive by the elements, rather
than expiring slowly en masse like the hungry ghosts
of the homogeneous consumers back in town.
No place for an old man, maybe, but the young
don't fare much better here either. Birth
is on the clock. No one's born on the nightshift.

Only the salt lick left out for the deer
isn't frosted like a cake in a famine
of mean-hearted snowflakes that don't adhere
like toupees and wigs to the judicious skulls of the rocks
but blow off in any slight gust of the wind
like tears of dry ice that don't know what there is
to cry about, and keep holding themselves back
like the locks out at Murphy's Point or the boats,
their sails furled like daylilies and withered poems
at Rideau Ferry. Even the dragons that used to
feather the staghorn sumac in their flames
are barely a skeletal candelabra of wicks
that have gone out. Just the dendritic deltas
and bloodlines of dynastic lightning whose roots
go all the way back to the sky, but don't
flash their sabres as much in the legendary storms
that once made them famous among
the usurped crowns of the sacred oak trees.

Laureled in poison ivy, their blood slows down
like the xylem and phloem of imperial Rome
wintering north of the Danube or Ovid in exile
on the Sarmatian shores of the Black Sea,
waiting for the Ister to freeze like a meat locker
while a tryst of sorrows pleads to be forgiven
for the joys they once took in living life erotically
as if frost-bitten toes were as close as he
were going to get to Augustan purple in his afterlife.

I wonder what my eyes have contributed to the stars,
what might have been added to their shining over the years
I've looked up at them, if anything at all,
in this inter-reflecting hall of incommensurable mirrors
warped by the mirages of my frozen tears
in this desert of snow grinding them into lenses.
Clear. Cold. Far things brought near out of the darkness
like moths and stars into the more intimate fires
of my heart. Per ardua ad astra, I reach for the stars,
the lamps and the urns, the eagles and swans,
and they scatter my ashes like a snow squall
along the Milky Way disappearing into a black hole
in a mindstream of its own like images of this occult art
of reviving my life by returning it to deeper, darker waters.

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The Stars Are Out

The stars are out
And they are coming to be with you
In the sky
My beloved sky

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The Daffodils Are Gone

On the daffodils
The morning dews
Dry out slowly


Now, blow if you will
Humid wind
The daffodils are gone

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The Rules Are Not Fair

JUST FROM MY ORDER
TO COURT, JUDGE AND ROYER
PRESIDENT, MPS AND BODYGUARD

THE RULES ARE NOT FAIR
THEY EVEN CAUSE ME BLOOD PRESSURE

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All The Fingers Are Not Equal! !

The nature of things,
The rule of life,
Some may find things easier than others in this life;
Because, all the fingers are not equal! !

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The new are intrguing

Anything new or any person new
Are readily accepted
In place of the established ones
Not that the new are superior
But they are intriguing..
05.04.2007

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The Stars Are Out Tonight

the stars are out tonight
glittering like diamonds in the sky

this, tiny firefly
tries to fly high glittering too

the stargazer asks,

'who is that nobody? '

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Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
      Not shaking the grass

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