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Let there be spaces in your togetherness.

quote by Kahlil Gibran
Added by Lucian Velea
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Speech Behind Speech

Speech behind speech
That teaches itself under the touch and sight
In the night-bound city
Uncovers spaces where no spaces were before
Language of light
Uncovers spaces where no spaces were
Between the image of it and your face
Language of silence
Surface and see and touch
My name was left [?, maybe "expected"]
Speech behind speech
That teaches itself under the touch and sight
In the night-bound city
Language of light
Uncovers spaces where no spaces were
Between the image of it and your face
Language of silence
Surface and see and touch
My name was left [?, maybe "expected

song performed by Sting
Added by Lucian Velea
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Minimalist Death Cyphers, A Meditation In Nine Rounds

.
for Mooky,
not even two hearts
could contain your
great spirit

1

Blue cornflowers

lean forward

Reach again

One hand

What cannot be seen

in spaces between

matters

Sky has no memory

2

Lean forward

One hand

in spaces between

Sky has no memory

3

Reach again

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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What You Say

You say you'll be with me
Come even the end;
You say you will always be
Always my friend;
You say that we two
All through time have to spend
Togetherness...
That's what you say.

You say we are one
Even though we're a pair;
You say that you understand
Always, and care;
You say that we one
Made a bond that we'll share
Togetherness...
That's what you say.

You say in your hope
That you never will bend;
You say that you know
And need never pretend;
You say that our breath
Even death cannot end our
Togetherness...
That's what you say.

Written 1995

poem by John Carter Brown
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Alphabet Spaces

In my mind rambles
ideas which seek to unscramble
and grant me crystal clear consistency
but the more I try to wrangle
ideas about Physics and Religion
the more they metamorphosize
into same and similar.

The more I learn about anything
the less I know about the whole
of any and all disciplines;
so I succumb to debates about
T's and I's
while forgetting my alphabet.

For example, if I take my own name
and examine it minutely,
space and letter
nano-space by nano-space
I cannot ever
see a whole word or letter.

Therefore, I come away nameless and confused.

So if I wish to learn the whole
of any disciple or subject-area
I have learned
best not to get too smart about
the spaces between the alphabets.

Yet, and this my conundrum, no letter
is ever apparent
unless there are spaces between Alpha and Omega.
So, too, music is a relationship between the sound and the silences-
too much music or sound is ultimately just noise or silence.
So in my mind rambles all these inconsistencies-
what about yours?
So we have the letters of an alphabet, and the spaces in between the letters
which are necessary to understand the words they form and from these empty spaces in between, much like silence and sound form music.
From this relationship we form the words and ultimately sentences, but note sentences alone do not form coherent paragraphs or pages for that matter and ultimately a book.
So what is the moral here? Pay attention to the background as well as the foreground, the seen and unseen since only from these relationships can we glean, true meaning:
too much concentration on the latter, and we miss the meaning embedded in the former.

True creativity means we are versatile in both and it is also the perfect metaphor for the differences and similarities between Science and Religion.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Fact Of My Life

I am always rewinding things
To hear what was missed between
The spaces between the spaces...

Words that were not spoken
Wonderful things never said
But were going through my mind

Like a hard rubber ball
Bouncing between the walls
Of the spaces between the walls....

Echoes reverberate
With incessant sound
Of inarticulate voices...

Incomprehensible
Maddening hollow sounds
Crash against walls of hollow sounds...

Which drive me to madness
Trying to coexist
In a world outside me...

In which hollow sounds
Resound against crashed walls
Of rewinding empty spaces....
That is my life
What else can I say....

COPY WRITE©2009

poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Allowing Spaces To Be Blank

Allowing spaces to be blank
creates a hidden presence for
the inspiration you can draw
by drawing from the mind,
a bank in which the thoughts you stored
lie unproductively, and find
ideas that you had left behind,
to be from blanks, when checked, restored.

Blank spaces are not solid, but
you’ll only find them if you dig,
researching them, a truffle pig
whose nose is sharp and mind not shut,
discovering within the hollow,
provided that your search is stolid,
the evidence you think is solid,
supporting views you chose to follow.

Inspired from a blog in the NYT in which I learned a new word, digg––digg.com, a user-driven news Web site, brings together hundreds of thousands of people to do the work of finding, submitting, reviewing and featuring news stories drawn from every corner of the Web––and was reminded about Willa Cather’s amazing story “The Sculptor’s Funeral, ” which, as the blogger points out, leaves blank spaces that create an “inexplicable presence”:
In Willa Cather's 'The Sculptor's Funeral, ' a train pulls up to a snowy Kansas town, carrying a coffin. The story is up now at Harper Perennial's site Fifty-Two Stories, which, as you might guess, will be posting a story a week all year long. So far, they've posted pieces by Mary Gaitskill, Louise Erdrich, Tom Piazza and Tony O'Neill, all contemporary authors with books from the publisher. Cather's story will be in their April collection 'The Bohemian Girl: Stories.' Originally published in 1905, the story can also be found elsewhere on the Internet, but the Fifty-Two Stories version is laid out well (and you can digg it) . After reading the minimalists that came later in the 20th century, a story like Cather's 'The Sculptor's Funeral' seems like it is naming pretty much everything. But it's interesting to look back and see where she was deliberately leaving blank spaces, creating an 'inexplicable presence' in the quiet form of the sculptor, whose imaginative art was lost on the place he called home.

© 2009 Gershon Hepner 2/20/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Torquing Torus

It very rare for Richard Serra
man of steel, to sculpt in error.
The shapes that he creates evoke
dunes, canyons and ravines. Baroque
the influence of all these curves.
Perhaps Borromini deserves
some credit for the inspiration
for their expressive undulation,
although, ingratiating, lavish,
his expertise inclines to ravish
as, torquing torus with inversion,
with parasexual perversion
it transforms alchemistically steel
into raw spaces where you feel
the presence of a dying numen
within the crevasse of the lumen
where people walk and need not climb
to sense a terror that’s sublime.

Michael Kimmelman reviews a retrospective exhibition of Richard Serra of sculptures at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, “Man of Steel, ” NYT, June 1,2007) :
That second floor at the Modern, by the way, is the show’s tour de force. A high, huge and like so much of this museum, totally unlovable space, it was conceived for housing Mr. Serra’s sculptures. Kirk Varnedoe, the Modern curator, came up with this idea, and the museum saw his plan through after his death. The resulting space is antiseptic, unfortunately, and too much of a barn for showing anything else, but it looks fantastic now. At one end is “Band, ” a 70-foot-long steel undulation, absent an inside or outside, forming four cavities. On the other end is “Sequence, ” which links two immense spirals. In between is “Torqued Torus Inversion, ” a pair of mirrored enclosures whose forms Mr. Serra has said may partly relate to his fondness for curvy Chinese bronzes…
These shapes and experiences are new. That’s about the best, and the rarest, compliment you can give to any artist. Mr. Serra’s “Torqued Ellipses” and “Torqued Toruses” and other recent works like “Band” and “Sequence” have their origins in work he did 40 years ago in rubber and lead, as this retrospective handsomely affirms, but these are nonetheless unprecedented variations on the theme of dumbfounding spirals and loops. The public’s perception of Mr. Serra’s work has also obviously changed from the bad days of “Tilted Arc, ” a quarter-century or so ago. That same vocabulary of curved, giant metal walls, once vilified as art-world arrogance, is now better understood and broadly admired. This is how radical art operates. In Mr. Serra’s case you can also call it democratic art because it sticks to pure form that requires no previous expertise to grasp. There’s no coy narrative, no insider joke or historical allusion or meta-art theme. There’s none of what Mr. Serra disdainfully calls, in the show’s catalog, “post-Pop Surrealism, ” by which he lumps together all contemporary art that leans for a crutch on language and Duchamp. In that catalog interview he was talking with Kynaston McShine, one of the show’s two curators. (The other is Lynne Cooke.) Mr. Serra famously looked at Borromini churches in Rome before he started torquing steel, but his work is not “about” Baroque architecture any more than it’s about Jackson Pollock or Barnett Newman or Donald Judd, whom he also looked at and learned from early on. The art is about the basic stuff of sculpture, isolated and recast: mass, weight, volume, material. What matters in the end are your own reactions while moving through the sculptures, at a given moment, the works being Rorschachs of indeterminate meaning….
A filmmaker I met in Bilbao, Spain, wandering through Mr. Serra’s sculptures there, likened the experience to movies. He thought the paths Mr. Serra devised within the works, between curving walls of steel, which suddenly jog, then arrive, unexpectedly, at cavities or enclosures, were like plot twists with surprise endings. Except there are no beginnings or endings in the sculptures. A novelist who has written about the Holocaust said the high, curving steel walls leaned over him threateningly, leading him until he became disoriented and lost, into what he felt were penned-in spaces, bringing to mind a concentration camp. The art scared him, he said, but he also loved it. Kant called this feeling “the terrifying sublime, ” which is “accompanied by a certain dread or melancholy.” Awe and fear mingle with pleasure. The concept was applied to mountain climbing, and Mr. Serra’s new works on the museum’s second floor, perhaps not coincidentally, evoke canyons, dunes, crevasses and ravines. The industrial steel walls, in uncalculated rusty orange and velvety brown, evoke natural terrains; the spaces through which the sculptures move people are akin to spaces in nature.

6/1/07

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Vast Times And Vast Spaces

VAST TIMES AND VAST SPACES

Vast times and vast spaces
Preceded our being here
Vast times and vast spaces
Will be should we disappear-

Yet our hearts tell us
A revelation from God we be-
And wherever the Universe takes us
We’ll go on for Infinity.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Non Spaces

the
non spaces

a waif,
knows many

a waif,
knows many

who
will dress
his
wounds?

will you?

once,
the
sleeping
smile of
innocence,
melts away
in to the crowd,
vacant stares
only remain

the
non spaces

Careful
not to
hold on
too tightly
to life's
taut string

too
tightly?

who
will dress
his
wounds,
will you?

breaking,
it drifts

arrogant

[...] Read more

poem by Tim Labbe
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The Stairs

In a room above a busy street
The echoes of a life
The fragments and the accidents
Separated by incidents
Listened to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Listened to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
The nature of your tragedy
Is chained around your neck
Do you lead or are you led
Are u sure that you dont care
There are reasons here to give your life
And follow in your way
The passion lives to keep your faith
Though all are different all are great
Climbing as we fall
We dare to hold on to our fate
And steal away our destiny
To catch ourselves with quiet grace
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Listened to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs

song performed by INXS
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tiny Love Spaces

I dont care if you leave your name after the beep.
Dont care if those are promises you intend to keep.
Cause lovers are just shadows that disappear with the light
And my happiness dont depend on if you come tonight.
Ahoh-oh oh
I dont think that youre cheap
I dont expect anything
You dont gotta leave what time you called on my machine.
Cause being in love just means calling places
When you cant afford the bill
Cause we all got these tiny love spaces that we need to fill
Ohoh oo
Filling up tiny love spaces
Getting lost inside of insatiable mazes
Looking for heroes in worn-out faces
Looking for a great big love in tiny places
You wake up, its the next morning
Put my high-powered columbian crystals in the coffee machine
Read the newspaper, drink six cups of cofee, listen to mozarts fifth
Do most anything not to hear the phone ring
Oh oo ooooo
And I dont mind that youre emotionally blind
Dont care if Im someone you want to see
You dont got to leave your number for me.
Cause I do not need your gosh-darn phone calls telling me how you feel
I only just need to make love to tell me that Im real
Cause we all got these tiny love spaces that we need to fill ohoh oooo
Transcribed by tom proven

song performed by Jewel
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Empty Spaces

Once there were times love
When we could touch the air between
And out acroos this room
Wed just touch hands life would shine
With electric dreams.
No matter how many miles
Nothing hurt long-distance-hearts
And there was always something there
That space could never keep apart
But now I know inside that something is died
When were apart
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Its not like were building walls
Too hard to climb to make us blind
Its just so much numbing space
To hollow out the heart and mind
And I can hear echoes of ghosts of love
We left behind.
Ill always love april
We fell in love and we planted seeds
But now we walk through fallen trees
And leaves are crushed beneath
And I will always live in autumn
Now were agreed
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Ithought this was meant to be
Our love had an energy
But only as time evolved
And all of our strength dissolved
And well never feel the flame that burned so naked
Again.
I walk through kentish town
And all the rain rain pouring down
So many people here
But space like this Ive never found
And as I get back home and step inside
I realise all I have
All I have are
Empty spaces.

song performed by Spandau Ballet
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Refuse

I refuse to persuade any emotion to a poem
like a horse I can lead to water but can't make drink.
If it's a straitjacket it's a straitjacket.
When its a wet suit it's a wet suit
to go swimming with stars in. Tea leaves.
Yarrow sticks. Tarot decks. Incinerated match books.
I listen to a poem as if it were a response
to what I've said, and didn't say.
I like the counter play of voices and mine
one among them, the whole tree full of birds,
and the chatter of black squirrels in the walls.

Midway between a car starting up and a stanza break
when I write, I feel like a thief that stole the prison
under the warden's nose, and broke out through the window,
exhilarated by the bliss of getting away with my freedom.
I'm on an island alone with the moon.
And it doesn't matter if I was marooned
or just washed up here like a wounded paint rag.
My spine is smoke. I drift tribes away from the fires
that send me like a message to the stars
without knowing what it is I'm going to say to them.
Until I get there like a crane-bag full of alphabets
and a couple of mystic words I'm keeping to myself.

Siderealized. Space speaks through its mere presence
like a field of unnamed wildflowers. Star clusters.
And there's a solitude you can't help answering
that gets deeper every time you open your mouth.
You stop fooling yourself about time the moment
it's realized there is none. You break the bones
of the sturdy ladders of all-well-and-good-but.
You crush the fossils of the crutches you once crawled upon,
take off your spurs, turn your scales into feathers,
and the wind comes along and fits wings to your heels.
Things stop being solid and become real. So
when I write everything writes along with me,
every leaf that falls upon the river like a map
changes the course of the flowing and I let it
and every fallen tree's got its hand on the rudder
and I say if not that way, where?
And the waves all answer in unison, here.

And even the loneliest guitar that ever sat under a willow
and thought of the home that wasn't there to go back to anymore
can feel crowded when myriad words begin
to introduce you to their relatives by close association,
and shades in the closets of the chameleons
that rainbows haven't worn in a thousand years.
You can see things through gravitational eyes

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Poem about People

The jaunty crop-haired graying
Women in grocery stores,
Their clothes boyish and neat,
New mittens or clean sneakers,

Clean hands, hips not bad still,
Buying ice cream, steaks, soda,
Fresh melons and soap—or the big
Balding young men in work shoes

And green work pants, beer belly
And white T-shirt, the porky walk
Back to the truck, polite; possible
To feel briefly like Jesus,

A gust of diffuse tenderness
Crossing the dark spaces
To where the dry self burrows
Or nests, something that stirs,

Watching the kinds of people
On the street for a while—
But how love falters and flags
When anyone’s difficult eyes come

Into focus, terrible gaze of a unique
Soul, its need unlovable: my friend
In his divorced schoolteacher
Apartment, his own unsuspected

Paintings hung everywhere,
Which his wife kept in a closet—
Not, he says, that she wasn’t
Perfectly right; or me, mis-hearing

My rock radio sing my self-pity:
“The Angels Wished Him Dead”—all
The hideous, sudden stare of self,
Soul showing through like the lizard

Ancestry showing in the frontal gaze
Of a robin busy on the lawn.
In the movies, when the sensitive
Young Jewish soldier nearly drowns

Trying to rescue the thrashing
Anti-semitic bully, swimming across
The river raked by nazi fire,
The awful part is the part truth:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pinsky
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Life

NAY, lift me to thy lips, Life, and once more
Pour the wild music through me --

I quivered in the reed-bed with my kind,
Rooted in Lethe-bank, when at the dawn
There came a groping shape of mystery
Moving among us, that with random stroke
Severed, and rapt me from my silent tribe,
Pierced, fashioned, lipped me, sounding for a voice,
Laughing on Lethe-bank -- and in my throat
I felt the wing-beat of the fledgeling notes,
The bubble of godlike laughter in my throat.

Such little songs she sang,
Pursing her lips to fit the tiny pipe,
They trickled from me like a slender spring
That strings frail wood-growths on its crystal thread,
Nor dreams of glassing cities, bearing ships.
She sang, and bore me through the April world
Matching the birds, doubling the insect-hum
In the meadows, under the low-moving airs,
And breathings of the scarce-articulate air
When it makes mouths of grasses -- but when the sky
Burst into storm, and took great trees for pipes,
She thrust me in her breast, and warm beneath
Her cloudy vesture, on her terrible heart,
I shook, and heard the battle.
But more oft,
Those early days, we moved in charmed woods,
Where once, at dusk, she piped against a faun,
And one warm dawn a tree became a nymph
Listening; and trembled; and Life laughed and passed.
And once we came to a great stream that bore
The stars upon its bosom like a sea,
And ships like stars; so to the sea we came.
One wild pang through me; then refrained her hand,
And whispered: 'Hear -- ' and into my frail flanks,
Into my bursting veins, the whole sea poured
Its spaces and its thunder; and I feared.

We came to cities, and Life piped on me
Low calls to dreaming girls,
In counting-house windows, through the chink of gold,
Flung cries that fired the captive brain of youth,
And made the heavy merchant at his desk
Curse us for a cracked hurdy-gurdy; Life
Mimicked the hurdy-gurdy, and we passed.

We climbed the slopes of solitude, and there
Life met a god, who challenged her and said:

[...] Read more

poem by Edith Wharton
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An Explanation of America: A Love of Death

Imagine a child from Virginia or New Hampshire
Alone on the prairie eighty years ago
Or more, one afternoon—the shaggy pelt
Of grasses, for the first time in that child’s life,
Flowing for miles. Imagine the moving shadow
Of a cloud far off across that shadeless ocean,
The obliterating strangeness like a tide
That pulls or empties the bubble of the child’s
Imaginary heart. No hills, no trees.

The child’s heart lightens, tending like a bubble
Towards the currents of the grass and sky,
The pure potential of the clear blank spaces.

Or, imagine the child in a draw that holds a garden
Cupped from the limitless motion of the prairie,
Head resting against a pumpkin, in evening sun.
Ground-cherry bushes grow along the furrows,
The fruit red under its papery, moth-shaped sheath.
Grasshoppers tumble among the vines, as large
As dragons in the crumbs of pale dry earth.
The ground is warm to the child’s cheek, and the wind
Is a humming sound in the grass above the draw,
Rippling the shadows of the red-green blades.
The bubble of the child’s heart melts a little,
Because the quiet of that air and earth
Is like the shadow of a peaceful death—
Limitless and potential; a kind of space
Where one dissolves to become a part of something
Entire ... whether of sun and air, or goodness
And knowledge, it does not matter to the child.
Dissolved among the particles of the garden
Or into the motion of the grass and air,
Imagine the child happy to be a thing.

Imagine, then, that on that same wide prairie
Some people are threshing in the terrible heat
With horses and machines, cutting bands
And shoveling amid the clatter of the threshers,
The chaff in prickly clouds and the naked sun
Burning as if it could set the chaff on fire.
Imagine that the people are Swedes or Germans,
Some of them resting pressed against the strawstacks,
Trying to get the meager shade.
A man,
A tramp, comes laboring across the stubble
Like a mirage against that blank horizon,
Laboring in his torn shoes toward the tall
Mirage-like images of the tilted threshers
Clattering in the heat. Because the Swedes

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pinsky
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My Love

For my love:
being with u, my love
in our abode of togetherness
is the sole need
the only lead
the one desire
only we in its empire

cherished it is with love
nourished alone by love
flourishes for love
yet vanishes without love

miles it takes us together,
smiles it gives us forever
keeping us bound to each other,
with love to surround us over
the miles together

only we in its empire
with one desire
the sole need
bieng the only lead
in our abode of togetherness
being with u: my love
for my love

poem by Amrita Mallik
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Shared Ecstasy for MY Lady Irene

The human frame cannot sustain
a state of bliss perpetually.
We reach the peak, descend again
although it is reluctantly.
The slow build up to the release,
a brief moment of ecstasy.
Two souls conjoined in perfect peace
as bodies move in harmony.
The ultimate togetherness.
No you, No I but only we.
A blend of lust and tenderness
we share but momentarily.
Togetherness we can maintain
we know we’ll climb the peak again.

26-Apr-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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It's All Mathematics

You+me=understanding
Us+understanding=communic ation
Communication+understanding=a bond
A bond+loyalty=love
Love+commitment=togetherness

A bond understanding togetherness,
Between you and me...
Equals communication and love.
It's all mathematics that minuses dramatics!
There can be no division once we've made this decision.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Together

(m. masser/p. sawyer)
Together, together
Like a leaf stuck to a tree
And thats the way it oughta be
With you and me, forever more
Never ooh, never
Do I ever think of you
Without including myself
Lying close to you, forever more
Its not so easy loving you
And yet still giving you your freedom
But like a butterfly with doubt
Without the room to breathe in
Dont you think I know?
So I let you go, so that we can stay
Together, however
Close I think we oughta be
We both should try to keep
Our own identity, seperately
Whatever, clever
Plans I make away from you
Disappear the moment that Im holding you
So tenderly
Dont you think I know
So I let you go, so that we can stay
Together, together
Give and take boy we can make it
In this world, together, together
Love is all were fighting for
And tell me what is worth more
Than togetherness, forever more
Together, together
Were so lucky that we met
And fell in love
Together, together
Our love is all were fighting for
Tell me what is worth more
Than togetherness, forever more
Together, forever
Were so lucky that we met
And fell in love
Together, together

song performed by Diana Ross
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