Tag: Poetry

Silence

On By NW FilbertIn absence, Aging, being, Experience, fragments, Poetry, Reflections, silence, Writing3 Comments

Greetings all – thank you for continuing to visit, care, find, read the polysemic stupor this site has been for me. I have felt that I should respond to my extended quiet and lack. As with everyone, much transpires within-without always/all ways… for now I can report that after years of PhD studies into the concept of “nothing”, an ever-expanding and extending fertile void…

Has drawn me toward pondering more intensely what silence might evoke or emit… I should like to say that I have been interactive, con-fused, com-municative, alive/immersed in much (empty-full) space(s). Here’s a card of greeting, thanksgiving, and hello again:

Words of Silence

…dreamt to hush you,

like “now”

or some othered ‘then,’

“here” “you” “?”

It is time now, I said,
for the deepening and quieting of the spirit
among the flux of happenings.

Something had pestered me so much
I thought my heart would break.
I mean, the mechanical part.

I went down in the afternoon
to the sea
which held me, until I grew easy.

About tomorrow, who knows anything.
Except that it will be time, again,
for the deepening and quieting of the spirit.

Swimming, One Day in August – Mary Oliver

“Most of the time, to give oneself to language is to abandon oneself.”

                               –Maurice Blanchot–

“A word’s reach extends a speaker’s grasp, or what’s a language for?”

–Stanley Cavell–

the songs i do not know (iii)

On By NW FilbertIn being, communication, creative writing, Experimenctes, intimacy, Knowledge, Language, Other, Poetry, WritingLeave a comment

Tell me the songs you don’t know

Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song

Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible

-SIR THOMAS BROWNE, IN B-Q, OF SILENCE AND SONG

iii. inside the other

.

i walked

caves, hollows, holes

reaching in

wondering, wandering,

exploring

.

wherefore?

in whom?

this forest-stream-mountain

rain

cloud or animal

species

perhaps kind

world

.

else

.

eye, crotch, finger, part

leg, mouth, buttocks, cleave

begin

in prayer

darklight arithmetic

and and and

also

more

.

a line

emotion

an happening

or even

event

what is called

beginning

again

what feels like

entering, entrance

entry

way

.

fuel

to the opening

.

i walked

in prayer

singing

nothing

known

listening

still

to answer

.

call

response

(“Tell me,” she said)

of songs

you do

not know

(“i don’t,” i said

i do

.

begin

again

before

where now

already

The Songs I do not Know (ii)

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Knowledge, Language, Poetry, Writing4 Comments

Tell me the songs you don’t know

Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song

Light…makes some things seen, makes some things invisible

-Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Of Silence and Song

ii. “Tell me…”

bluebell. jay.

joy. blank. block.

blur. when.

what?

how. where. ever why.

now

it is very

most unknown

not knowing –

i don’t;

breathe

.

cerulean. youth.

abstract. asunder.

i wonder

what for

then

when now?

how does

one tell

not knowing

unknown

always

it sings

knowing

(its’ icon)

and melody

The Songs I Do Not Know (1)

On By NW FilbertIn absence, awareness, being, change, creative writing, Experimenctes, Language, mystery, Poetry, Writing2 Comments

“Tell me the songs you don’t know.”

Dan Beachy-Quick, Of Silence and Song

“–knowledge is made by oblivion.”

Sir Thomas Browne, in B-Q, Silence & Song

clips, or snippets,

the known as partial

notes

signifying

the experienced

gesturing

hymning (nearly celebrating)

its reverse –

everything

unknown

i didn’t know

the sounds of

as they were

always changing –

ever never

.

so i made noise

my shapes

transparently novel (novice)

windows

framing, marking, visibling

all i do not know –

every word an icon

view-finding

all it’s not

.

Image

Sound

Landscape

Intention

Meaning

Clarity of

.

definition

None

.

thus every song i sing

i sing of what i do not know

or hear or dream or feel

i think

but do i tell of songs

i do not know

or sing not knowing?

.

would i recognize

unknown

song?

do i?

sing?

.

it’s hard to tell

meaningful questions

from questioned

meanings,

meaning

tones

notion

her eyes

the water

sky

adroit

wonder

or passion

.

not known

i sing.

10.21. Handwriting

On By NW FilbertIn absence, Experimenctes, Graphotos, Image, Journaling, Language, memory, Poetry, WritingLeave a comment

A Womb-bomb Psalm

On By NW FilbertIn Aging, being, existence, grief, life, PoetryLeave a comment

Blessed be the name of the Lord –

sweet carrier of the womb –

fiery cauldron,

cold and dark

within the pit.

.

Blessed womb-bomb,

threatening peril,

life-giving

horror of wonders –

inside

.

that terrible cave

in the belly

the heart, the brain

like a virus,

a cancer,

a seed –

.

herewith do we praise thee –

our lives

and surround –

impenetrable everywhere,

blessed immersion

and thundering calm

.

go forth

quiet conquer

of light

veiled in darkness –

a pit, a cave,

o glorious sky!

Quiet. Dampening.

On By NW FilbertIn awareness, being, creative writing, Experimenctes, fragments, hope, PoetryLeave a comment

so this is how you swim inward,

so this is how you flow outward,

so this is how you pray

Mary Oliver, Five A.M. Pinewoods

Rain, snow,

damper pedal.

softening…

slowing…

so that sound

may

rise –

Arise quiet sound –

its feel –

tonight, now,

then

a melancholy birth,

nostalgia and utopia

again, combined.

.

Sustain.

Cabin Reflections (July 2022)

On By NW FilbertIn awareness, being, Embodiment, Gratitude, Journaling, nature, Poetry1 Comment

Between

(sky and birds), between

(enclosed and contained),

between the not existing and the sleepless

there are no obstacles.

Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Xenia

it’s hard to make sense

outside of the world

or in a larger world

things don’t register

in expected ways

.

the pace is all different

and nothing is counting

time, space, and motion

do their thing as one

the human happenings

.

don’t make sense

or seem separate, divorced,

a frantic scale

the earth holds quietly

.

even words dissolve

and transform

like breezes

and bird-calls,

not meaning the same

.

passing, passing, held

passing, passage, hold

i imagine at Heidegger’s hut

he was murmuring

these things, being

.

hard to make sense of it

with reason or belief

a stance

but easy sense

outside

.

Where do you listen?

What are you listening

with and for?

How do you listen?

Silently, with wing-beats

aflutter

water moves

.

i move

out of my head

into the rest

of me, my skin

an open passage

my organs trudging

patiently, waiting

blood moves

.

accordion chest

filling my limbs

hands holding

feet touching

grounded

.

lay back

all in

an other

with / in / of

this world,

here.

Today. Again. Almost.

On By NW FilbertIn Complexity, Dying, Experience, Heidegger, Living, Physics, Poetry, Uncertainty5 Comments

[or, grass in pavement; beyond black holes?; “boundaries are made to pound against” (Hejinian); after Celan, after Knausgaard) “you have to dream new ways of thinking”]

.

We praise the dead (remember?)

and the Mother holds them,

in catacombs,

the earth…

…beyond the black hole,

again and again and again…

.

The world is radiant!

Feel that?!

Continuous fomentations out

of undifferentiable chaos –

muddy unsolvables

.

Look! Look again!

Quit speaking.

It is here. (mysteriously)

Redolence…

.

…beyond the black holes,

again and again, not yet…

Where are you, real-ly,

becoming and formative,

nearly gone. To where?

.

Look! Look again!

Call it listening,

attention. The smallest detail

comes infinite.

You are there, also!

But where? you ask –

and can’t be found…

.

…just there, now,

which is – where? –

No longer. Linger.

It occurs, what might

be else.

.

Cheers to the wonder,

unknown! – what

is. Like being

before there’s a there.

It happens…

.

…beyond the strange darkness –

horizon-event, that complains,

and becomes as it passes

in strife, in the Mother,

the dying, remembering

birth-like

November the 24th

On By NW FilbertIn WritingLeave a comment

Lydian

The summer

almost always,

so hard to endure –

warmth, light –

no solace

no protection –

only so much

undoing

is possible

in light…

heat

.

The autumn:

a young child

aging,

deteriorating,

dear demise,

desiccation,

something almost true

to fact

.

The spring –

its delusion,

deluge,

as if there were

a coming-to-be,

or fascist utopia –

with –

all the bells

and whistles

.

Our winter:

discontented,

and good –

solidity

of presence,

sweet ache

of living,

being,

held,

in place

.

I love.