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Emily Watson

I've always been creative, I think.

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Feeling Obligated

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone is feeling isolated.
When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone else is feeling obligated.
Someone else is feeling obligated.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.
To leave another feeling obligated.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.

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Creative Mind!

Creative mind!
In the land of the heart of your muse to satisfy me;
But, what about those in the snow?

Creative mind!
Out of love in the land of your muse;
But, are you ready to learn? ! !
For, the muse of this love is all about us.

Creative mind!
Justified by the muse of your love;
And like your works as seen by all,
But, try to be yourself always.

Creative mind!
Love it and enjoy it and play with it;
For, the muse of my love is very fast and very easy! !
And like the joy around you in the land of peace,
But, try to understand my sweet muse of love always.

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Vivid Imagination

Vivid imagination should expand
Initiative with intuitions shared
Creating strong momentum unimpaired,
Kicking serf's shackles' strong wrongs most minds b[r]and.
Independent spirit seeks no grand
Embroidered mirage where, when fair truth's bared,
K eystone is found unstable, unprepared,
Valueless, - base built from desert sand,
Integrity, rejecting out of hand
Compromise, incompetence declared,
Kidding not! With facts intact compared,
Intelligence rejects cores coarse, mores bland.
Expediency's unhealthy cup of tea,
Key words are: sound, profound, autonomy!

Veracity and clarity combine
Intensely in a mind which hopes for scope,
Creative recognition not soft soap.
Knowledge wide inside retains design
Innate to contemplate true meanings, line
Existence with the will to grow, not mope,
Keeping ideals intact to underline
Vision deep, whose inner light should shine
Incandescent as the heliotrope.
Charming seems surface smile, yet one must cope,
Keel even though some seek to undermine
Innate principles reject weep whine,
Expect top quality not slippery slope,
Karmic energy to intertwine.

Enchanted by an understanding clear,
Awaiting an osmosis warm whose heart
Should share implicitly, ne'er need to start
To challenge for the sake of challenge here.
Creative thinking helps the mind appear
Open free from artificial art,
Arrogance and intolerance which chart
Shipwreck sure, lure siren insincere.
Touched by heart, tomorrow's travels steer,
Gaining trust, towards berth port where part
And whole are one, soul won with Cupid's dart,
Life, laughter, linked as frontiers disappear.
Energy creative shuns despair,
Choice, voice, combined, find mind binds joys hors pair.

Voice for choice in this decisive year
Important is as effervescent mind
Calls for conditions which can leave behind
Kennelled spirits, steer solutions clear,
Interactive, shared. Ambitions dear

[...] Read more

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Those of Creative Inclinations

I love it!
When those who perceive,
My ceative sensibilities...
Exposes a sensitivity,
That implies a character weakness.
Those of creative inclinations are often compared.
With limp wrists and tea cups!

But there are very few I now know or then knew,
Who were shy to tell anyone a thing or two...
Or where to go!
Anyone connected to this creative process knows...
It is not a joke.
Not this process carefully invoked...
To provoke a higher consciousness.

Growing older makes one aware,
Of the strength involved in this!

Nor made of fluff are these creative disciplines.
The only ones who believe they are...
Are those who have unruly children.
And have themselves disconnected...
From the creations of their realities.
Wishing to perceive,
Those of creativity are lazy!
Which for the most part,
Has been reluctantly failures man made!
To get a quick buck.
To find themselves at dead ends...
And out of luck!
Shall I say...
On their 'lazy' butts.

Remove the creative process out of schools...
And the manufacturing of fools are produced.
But then again...
I need not to say that today,
Do I?

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What Is From Them Expected

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Busy are they kept
The minds of those creative
Without sleep to say hours have been slept
Tools they are used
And lives lived blessed

With a doing done for them selected
And not much of a choice
To leave behind to neglect or forget

Few who have identified
Their creative connections
Can say they are motivated
By something they do
They themselves initiate

Those with gifts and talents given
Will confess from birth
They have known from within
What is from them expected
With a doing done from them to complete next

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Patrick White

All These Busy Busy Entrepreneurial Poets

All these busy, busy entrepreneurial poets
trying to substitute their usefulness for talent.
If you can't sing well enough to bear your own voice
to get lovers and applause on your own merits,
manage a band, control those who can,
network like gyspy moths in a Dutch elm,
take two creative writing courses
from a narcissistic mystagogue projecting
the fraud of the Wizard of Oz on the unsuspecting
listening to a firefly of talent talking like a starmap
about shining, about black holes and supernovas
dark energy and gravitational eyes, and the myriad galaxies
he teaches on the lower rung of a swing
in an institutionalized aviary of higher learning
as if the closest he's ever been to the light
was a dead starfish among the usual relics of a low tide
or sodden firecrackers of insight on a Halloween night.
He teaches you to take out whatever there was never much of
to put in. To strike the definite article
like crab grass out of your well-mown lawn
so you ending up writing in the patois of a robot.

Listen to this swarming starcluster of gnats
in the sunset of the word that's wondering
where all the songbirds went. Maybe it's me
and I've grown reactionary without knowing it
into a vicious old age but I swear my stomach
can't turn another page of a saddle-stitched chapbook
that reads the tea leaves in the broken skull-cup of the moon
like a bowl of soggy cornflakes that taste like breakfast haikus.
You can't live like a maggot and write
like a wounded dragon of the soul. You can't
paint a tsunami in watercolours and claim you know
what it's like to be caught up in the emotional undertow
of a tidal pool that threatened to sweep you out to sea
until your guru or your shrink reminded you like a tugboat
you have to sink before you can call yourself a shipwreck.

I think of Van Gogh. I think of the intensity of a man
of immense humanity, and it occurs to me if he were sitting
on your saffron sectional in your coffee-book living room,
going on obsessively about the nutritional value of cadmium yellow
you'd commit the same sin of omission and condemn him
to his solitude like an asylum for the underfed
listening to the voices in their head telling them
they're better off mad or dead than living on
the aesthetically modified junkfood
you dropp in their begging bowls like chump change.
And, o yes, wouldn't you just be the exception to the rule
who knew how to tell the difference between a sad joke

[...] Read more

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The creative and the receptive

To sing is creative; to listen is receptive.
To play is creative; to watch is receptive.
To write is creative; to read is receptive.
In sex, man is creative and woman, receptive.
21.09.2007

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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate


'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude


This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.


Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'


That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

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A Creative Heart

Where is a creative heart in grave,
all we pray for is acheivement,
ignoring our creative attitude and pure
heart, we keep praying yet our heart are creative in all areas,
can a creative heart be seen by a faded heart?
Indeed no heart is weak.

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Patrick White

Late Spring Snow

Late spring snow on its way.
Dead ochres and colourless greys
that have never heard of the impressionists.
It's a landscape
it's a mindscape
but it behaves like a still life.
I've been staying up late
trying to paint my way
out of my life
until dawn every morning.
The windowpane a ripening phthalo blue.
It's compositionally deranged
to hear the birds singing
when you're totally exhausted.
Mentally physically spiritually emotionally financially
gone gone gone altogether gone beyond.
All my happy endings orphaned.
A sum of depletions.
I'm living this creative life
scribbling down the notes of the picture-music
that doesn't just run through my mind
but is my mind
colours and words
down on canvas and paper.
When I'm writing
when I'm painting
when I've wholly disappeared into what I'm doing
for a few holy hours of life
immensities open up like the multiverse
and I've got a window a wormhole
I can fly through
and out out out among the starfields
with the evanescence of smoke
or a bird
putting itself in the picture
as a finishing touch to the sky.
And I am free to explore the intensities
of my own creative peace
as I keep saying to myself
one eureka moment after another
turning into a mantra
no no I can't leave that.
I've got to bring that back and show them.
They'll be delighted with that.
They won't believe it.
You've got to write and paint with an open hand.
Let the brush hold you.
Let the pen.
Then you're the meaning
of what the words are trying to say

[...] Read more

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Creative Mind

So gentle and warm
is the creative mind,
tender is the heart
for a creative mind.

You bring down the
love from heaven
with your creative mind
and thoughts from within.

A gift you have sharing
your inner feelings,
from your heart,
so the world can see,

the love you have
for the beauty of
things you see
through your eyes only.


(4-10-07)

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The gays like 'Project Runway' because it's a fashion, and the gays are into fashion and into design. It's a creative industry, and most of the gays are pretty creative, in general. That's just like the culture. We're not all into politics necessarily. We're more into the creative environment. I also think Heidi is a big draw. The boys love Heidi and think she's so fabulous. I just think it's a glitzy, fun show, and there are also always lots of gay boys on it, and, you know, that's fun.

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The Four Seasons : Summer

From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,

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Creative Perceptions

Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.

(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)

Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.

Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Images accompany
free originality.

(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)

As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.

Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.

[...] Read more

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Double Helix Abecedarian - Xylophonic Resonance He Licks Enigmatic

XYLOPHONIC RESONANCE HE LICKS ENIGMATIC
Kindly refer to notes. and see Temptations and Poetic Pizza Extravaganza below :)

Xylophonic Resonance
double helix abecedarian

The first line begins with A and ends with Z
the next line begins with Z and ends with A
The next line begins with B and ends with Y
The next line begins with Y and ends with B
The next line begins with C and ends with X
The next line begins with X and ends with C

A to Z top down A to Z bottom up



All fizzle, finish frazzled, launched with fizZ.
Zero dreams teem when spirit seems at seA
Because most adepts of philosophY
Yearn for zenith seldom dwell on ebB,
Carpe diem value, seeking sea, sun, seX.
Xylem tree of life’s cannibalistiC
Desires corrupt deeds most men seW,
With survival’s urge soon lost indeeD.
Events churn causal patterns, AsimoV
Viewed clearly, took as starship journey cuE
Finding worlds which may appeal to yoU,
Unknown reader from beyond Time’s gulF -
Great divide between those past, those lefT -
Time travellers peruse these lines to sinG
High praise of poets who’ll know no more springS.
Spontaneousl prose poem picks pensive patH
In patter pattern, feet dance to empoweR.
Rhythm harmonious, need no alibI,
Joins sense, style versatile, from mind's H.Q.,
Questions seeks, finds answers. Soujourn’s hadJ
Knowledge acquires to share more than to keeP,
Pipes clear to others drifting through the darK.
Lark sings dawn’s welcome song, and each man’s taO
Opens connections, on life’s sea a-saiL
Ma d, sad, glad, bad, for threescore years and teN
Never certain of his mortal aiM,
Nor sure to gain posthumous fame, acclaiM,
Making ends meet in hope to rise agaiN
On judgement day should trust and faith prevaiL.
Life-spans increase but trite hullabaloO
Prepares too few for winding sheet, corpse starK,

[...] Read more

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Something Easy to Do

I am told,
Since I enjoy writing...
I must find it easy to do!

First of all...
If someone finds something easy to do.
And they brag about it,
Not because what is done is 'liked'.
It is done because they find it easy.

Nothing is easy about writing.
In fact,
Those creative things I enjoy...
I don't find easy at all!
There are too many critiques involved.
Folks constantly expressing their judgements.
And then there are those who have jobs and drink coffee,
All day long to tell someone like me,
I should get a real job!

I was told that one time,
By someone taking a two hour lunch break!
And if it takes me two days to a month,
To complete a task...
I don't take breaks until that task is done.

I can't think of one creative person,
Associated with the economic collapse.
No one I know with discipline...
Has time to feed a greed.

And ultimately,
Those of creative minds will have to mend this mess!

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You 'Feelin' Me?

Look...
For the record!
I AM a writer.
It is much more than liking it!
I AM it!

I AM this creative being.
I was born this way.
You know how some folks,
Can't make up their minds from time to time?
I don't understand that.
I don't have that problem.
The problem I'm confronted with,
Are those who believe I seek their approval...
Or acceptance.
Or 'tolerance' for my behavior.
And it has taken me years to convince them...
Even 'if' they did not exist,
I'd still be doing 'this'!

Or finding time to compose, act or direct.
Sing or dance or just sit to reflect.
Or write my opinions to submit in response...
To some nonsense I've read in a local newspaper,
Feeding BS to dead heads.
To inject their community hostilities.
That 'game is played all over the place!
This 'business' about fitting 'in' to please...
Has never comforted me personally,
Or my needs, desires or wishes I dream.
I'm not focused into who did what to who...
And got mad as hell!
I thought eyes were meant to roll,
Until my mother said to me...
'Boy, you better stop rolling your eyes at me.
Before I pop 'em right out of your head!
AND look at me when I'm talking to you.'

My mom had a way of getting my sisters and I
To listen to her!
It was quite a different intimidation than my father's.
He would just fix his eyes on me and not move them,
At all.
Not even blink for minutes.
Or say a word.
He was 'extremely' convincing.

Look...
For the record!
I AM a writer.

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Patrick White

By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By

By the light I have been given to go by,
I can see how homeless the journey truly is.
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music
impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.
The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight,
in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans
gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.

I have imagined my way into an understanding
that is a rite of passage into a space that is
a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness
that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things
as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought,
a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm
of creative awareness that we're completely alone
and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides
as if nothing bound us, not even detachment,
nor a god that exists as a confession of the way we do,
nor any medium we work in as reflection of our presence
labouring away at an unattainable world that won't exist
until we do, and it's 7 to 5 against anyone making it that far.

But what a joy to emerge out of our own nothingness
like a secret we're letting ourselves in on,
making it up as we go along like a deportable myth of origin
we can adapt to our infinite beginnings
because for starters, it has none of its own.
We were born to express ourselves like apple trees.
We were born to see and be happy marvelling at the event.
To enjoy longing for things we were never missing
and be guided by wise men we never listen to
back to a silence that has nothing to say for itself
that we didn't already know in the first place.
Everywhere is the threshold of the return journey.
Life is either an exile, or it stays at home like a follower.
Bless the enlightened apostates of the dangerous religion
that desecrates the mind by worshipping it.
Why make a chain out of your umbilical cord
and get your head wrapped around it like a noose
because you forgot meaning was an art
and not a way to take yourself way too seriously to heart?
Why go to war with your own mind
just to administer to the needs of the suffering
when you can paint a god in blood and ashes
and decultify yourself with the creative freedom
of your imagination deconstructing the fable of your belief
that it's the being, not the becoming, that endures.

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Patrick White

To See The Glee In Your Eyes At Eighty

To see the glee in your eyes at eighty
as if you were about to achieve something as big
as you did at three.
And you, there, shy one, freaky adolescent
day after day in the same corner of the restaurant
like a bruised mermaid
riding the clock out like a sea turtle
until it’s time to go home again and face the music;
you who drive your pen so deeply
into the fleshy paper
of your black arts journal
as if you were carving up a body
or intensely wedging the tiny bird tracks
of your hieroglyphic footnotes
like some bitter aside
into the shin of that Ramsean gigantism
you’re standing in the shadow of
waiting for it to get dark enough
the fireflies might come out.
To see you light up like a rainbow at a black mass
when I ask if I can look
and you turn your book over like a leaf
and show me a breakthrough masterpiece
that’s good enough to start a school of crocuses
with no instruction from anyone.
To see you afraid to believe in your own excellence
the juno of your aristos
yet risking the possibility it might be a fact
you’re the mysterious matrix
of a genuinely creative act;
that you might feel
like you’ve got a lump of coal for a heart
and a La Brea tar pit for a mind
but when the mascara comes off
like a Gothic eclipse
you’re a new moon
and you’re starting to shine like a diamond.
To see the black dove in your eyes
liberated from the cages of disapproval
imposed on you by white crows in disguise
is to know
what human beings are doing on earth.
To see what softens the angry blue eyes
of the next generation
of gram masters of Gore Street
with their heads shaved like Auschwitz
or the Stalinesque inmates of the Thief’s World
with its rock pile laws
trying to stay true to the Rosetta Stone
of their prison tattoos

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Kahlo-Christ Conjunctions - Sacrificed Flesh, Broken Bread, Emmaus Vision

[The curious or, better, interested reader may view the images alluded to in this essay at this website: http: //falconwarren.blogspot.com/2011/01/kahlo-christ- conjunctions-sacrificed.html]


Kahlo Strophes


As with love, also the bellows.

Calavera*, the Future stands
hand to mouth, fingers to forehead
unfolding before still instatic shapes.
Hold desperately to frames before
these quaking perceptions.


She could not stop there,
had to flare out, dry paint,
and the dryer flesh peel down
to bone, a sexless esqueleto**,
skull no longer mustached,
a calavera, nothing more,
curved calcium reliant forever
upon canvas, what is congealed
there to fan and burn,
a 'cauda pavonis'***.

- the author, from the text below

*Skull
**Skeleton
***Peacock's Tail (an image in alchemy) .


'Poetry such as this attempts not just a new syntax of the word. Its revolution is aimed at the syntax of the mind itself. Its structuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike. We are dealing with a self-induced, or naturally or mysteriously come by, creative state from which two of the most fundamental human activities diverge, the aesthetic and the mystic act. The creative matrix is the same in both, and it is that state of being that is most peculiarly and characteristically human, as the resulting aesthetic and mystic experience is the purist form of human act. There is a great deal of overlapping, today especially, when art is all the religion most people have and when they demand of it experiences that few people of the past demanded of religion....A visionary poem is not a vision. The religious experience is necessitated and ultimate.' - Kenneth Rexroth, World Outside the Window, the Selected Essays of Kenneth Rexroth, pg.255-256

Rexroth's words are pertinent to the images used in this essay, Kahlo's painting above is visionary, Grunewald's are religious, and several photos are both, and all are 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself.. Its restructuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike.' The images included in this essay, which is more a prose poem than regular prose, are meant to convey equally or more, at least as as much as, the words in their incantatory formations which may induce entrance into 'imaginal' spaces where word and image meet in a practical magic, inspire a felt understanding and perhaps gain a view or actual entrance into what ecstatic poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, calls 'the Greater Relation.'

I've decided to publish this piece-in-progress as it unwinds in spirals 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself...its restructuring of experience' with the understanding that it may later appear in greatly altered form. In a real sense this writing writes itself; I try to heed, copy, then hone to the bone what might be wanting to be sung, for what is below, and often what I write, is more akin to music, a vocal/verbal lilt beyond a particular solid tilt of view of a world absolute, static logos.

Heraclitus noted thousands of years ago, 'All is flux.'

To this I would only add, and perhaps this is what all of my writing amounts to,

'All is reflux.'

Selah. WF

NYC,1/31/11

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