Tag: Poetry

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By NW FilbertIn being, change, Experience, Fear, Language, life, pain, paradox, Poetry, Writing1 Comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum –

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters

–

Thrum spark! –

the difference between hearing

and listening-for, anticipation.

Or expectation?  and its careful ache

awaiting every painful jolt

–

The fear involved –

an awful angst of joy –

timbre re-minding the body,

bodies, of things that surge

–

Like language –

what’s drawn out

and quartered

into inestimable more

–

So like-wise, the idiot

breath and ready veins

fill up with begging

bursted already in the mouths and hands

–

and far beyond.

Reach in, reach out

one motion as touch

the no-one-knows-where

–

Leading back,

bringing back,

reduce:

our introduction

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By NW FilbertIn creative writing, Journallings, Language, WritingLeave a comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum -

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters






Thrum
spark! –





the difference between hearing





and listening-for, anticipation.





Or expectation? 
and its careful ache





awaiting every painful jolt










The fear involved –





an awful angst of joy –





timbre re-minding the body,





bodies, of things that surge





Like language -





what’s drawn out





and quartered





into inestimable more





So like-wise, the idiot





breath and ready veins





fill up with begging





bursted already in the mouths and hands





and far beyond.





Reach in, reach out





one motion as touch





the no-one-knows-where





Leading back,





bringing back,





reduce:





our introduction



		
	

			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Being something

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn being, human, Living, Perception, Poetry, Writing1 Comment			

					


		

			
This is how we see:


a set of brackets, dark,


moving across wires in the sky


(that we placed there)


because of the angle of light


and it’s changing


– perhaps –


and perhaps it’s the change


and the angling,


and perhaps it’s involved with the light


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Tapping at Windows of Words

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn creative writing, desire, Experimenctes, Language, Poetry, Traces, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
The bestial want


is it ever more?


Evermore.


.


Ache beauty


its terrible


hunger


.


The voyeur


at what is not


“mine.”


.


What can be taken?


What “had”?


In the seeking,


the peeping,


the glimpse


or the glance –


its desire?


.


Such beastly want,


evermore,


grasping


.


forth or out


I reach –


a solid pane.


.


I am limited


constrained


delimited –


.


it would seem


I see clearly


but it cannot be


touched.


.


‘I’ is alone


with-out.


With-in


comes from ‘you.’


.


So ‘I’ scopes –


a feral yearn –


and gazes…


.


tapping at windows


of words.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Fog and Birds

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Poetry, Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			


In swarms.


The littlest pieces –


– form clouds.


Droplets, ions, atoms.


What is called “molecules”?


.


Faiths.  Belief.


.


Trees standing,


apparently strong,


lost to view,


in dense fog.


.


Molecules…accumulated,


accumulating, gathered


toward some clearing.


Same differences,


at large scales.


.


“For Nathan…with love”


someone writes.


“Nathan” signifies me,


“love” signifies…?


.


Imagination and dream…


a fog and a swarm of birds,


an hypothesis


into the unknown


.


a thing humans are prone to


do by “nature”


– ? –


who or what evaluates “nature”?


what “human”?


if “nature”?


for SummerMLee


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
How it is, part exponential

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn communication, Complexity, creative writing, Experience, Experimenctes, fiction, fragments, Philosophy, Poetry, Writing6 Comments			

					


		

			
We followed the arc of the diver, losing it in the fog, wishing to make it out clear.  I might have said this meant “philosophy.”


“Poetry,” he said, “is utilizing known language to invoke the unknown.”  Or certaintly uncertainty, or something like that, which I liked, and indicated by asking what is not uncertain?


Your hands, the music.  My desire, a naming for them.  I think of your waist as a séance.


What is it to be crippled?  I keep trying to use words.


Another asked about the “arc of the diver.”  How should I know?  All of my sentences should be read as questions.  I wonder how divergent questions or commands might be… as statements.


She said, “it falls between.  It has to go somewhere.”  I guess we pressed it there… were poietic… since we couldn’t find a name.  “Dis-appearance” might be one.  Like a guess that can’t be falsified.


We all hold a paper marker printed “You are here.”  Perhaps paper is too substantial.  But it still seems like an invitation I wish we had.


Maybe this is why Albahari inscribed “Words are something else.”  We leave it at that.  And are flummoxed as to what “that” refers to.


Still we look.


You move like flocks of birds that wheel.  I’ve never comprehended “swarm.”  Mathematics doesn’t cut it, though it certainly uncertainly tries.


The telephone Pictionary of ear-mouth-brain when we issue sound or gaze.  Don’t foibles equal actions?  Parts of us experience this as violence, as valence.


Relation as a struggle to balance victimhood and perpetration.  Uncertainly.


When or where does this infiltrate unknown?


He went on to say…


I thought (imagined?) your ankles, knees, elbows and knuckles as adroit sworls in swift mountain streams.


So also losing it in the fog, hoping to remember where the trees were.  Philosophy.  Or was it the forest?


Poetry as ocean surface between “known”/unknown?  So wavy, so heaving.  No one said that.


The richest respect he gave was his readiness to call me “Nobody.”  Or “Anybody.”  Carte blanche.


She said.


I can hardly perceive what’s in your head now.  Potentia?  An horizon of waves.  A place where words press images press events, the banal.  Perhaps.  Uncertain sphere of unknowing?  They say learning happens there.  Like a cell in a culture, animal in terrain.  Cacophony of dreams.


Each time we encounter.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
How, the Owl

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn Experience, Experimenctes, Language, Poetry, Questions, thinking, Writing2 Comments			

					


		

			
Who – would I listen to, be remade among today?


And where from a resistance?


We always know (somewhere in our bodies or bones) that ‘to begin’ was begun


long before what ‘begins.’


It is raining.


We say, “the rain has begun.”  How long ago?


We say, “I am here, now.”  For -?


Where are we?  How much?


We ask.


We are there.  Continuously outstripping a here.


When?  Why?


And how?  How?  How indeed.


So what is it – that we are seeing?


What is it we think we see?


How?  Why?  Why that and not other(s)?


Propensity.  Proprioception.  Perspective.


When?  Where?


Always already before or begun?


From which?


I’ve written before (again and again


when I take up the pen):


“I set out.”


From where?  Why?  When?  and whom?


Still how?  How?  How, indeed.


He looks in.


Into what?  And from where?


How indeed.


We set out.


per language, per feeling, per sensational thought,


per activity, movement, receipt.


We set out.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
A Tenure & Promotion Dossier

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn anxiety, creative writing, culture, Poetry, WritingLeave a comment			

					


		

			
To think.


To get done.


To be done.


To survive.


Get by.


Endure.


[what will feed and fuel us?


                                    how might we grow like errant plants?]


There is weight, great,


like words of Beckett,


terse and heavy


with ridiculous


mind


To go on.


In spite of.


Anyway.


[to round a bend, turn it in, be relieved


                                    to be accepted, acceptable, acknowledged.]


To count, to mean, to matter


Anyway.


Because


we happen


and go on…


[if I might vine, might drink the spoiled


                                    to live, to thrive, to weed]


To make the turn


into what grows


anyway, despite


out of joint, or time, or space,


terrorized


refusal


The flagrant


Remainder


Unmerited


Surplus


[as if we were another sort, not a same-seeded,


                                    same-growing, same-veined kind]


Even though at least one said:

“Everywhere


being is dancing”


and another


how alike are dancing and sex


And another


and another


the variety


the merited


surplus


 


We forgot.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Hold Lightly, Leave Be

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn change, creative writing, life, longing, love, Poetry, relation, Writing15 Comments			

					


		

			
 


Hold lightly, it said,


there are so many voices,


movements.


Hold lightly,


lest you repeat,


she said.


[the surfaces, and distance, beneaths]


I listened:


breezes, waves;


windiness and water;


the moon riding along,


each night so differently


the same.


 


Without repetition,


she said,


my hands open,


palms and whatever fingerprintings,


the bruising, barely,


again and again,


so differently.


 


How tides change,


or seasons:


things we’ve come to think of –


each you, each I,


each every –


quivering along


like leaves


 


through the years.


In other words:


over and over


without repeat


again, anew –


how ‘new’ requires reference


of similarity.


 


So love


hold lightly,


she said,


it says,


as wheat falls into ground


and suns set down, again,


as moons rise – (which, neither) – and


never the same.


 


Both-and


either-or


neither-nor


and so on


without repeat


within the like,


the long, the loving.


 


You come again.


I try to grip lightly –


the future never knows –


I’d like to leave it,


to gather you,


to hold…


you.  You.  You.


 


(Again, differently).


“Hold lightly”, you (she) says,


“lest you repeat 


and grow tired…”


My palms are open                                                                             (to touch, to pass by)


I am trying to read,


to listen.


 


To leave be.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Untitled

						

				On  By NW FilbertIn absence, being, Complexity, creative writing, death, Poetry, Writing4 Comments			

					


		

			
Then:


pregnant with fore and aft –


a jumbled detritus


of flotsam and jetsam


and chance.


.


Like now.


But where is the body


alive?


in what chances,


for whom –


all the whens,


all the wheres,


.


here:


nothing happening


but thought and a world;


what is: being some feeling of –


circumstance – small bubble,


same as there.


.


Go on,


take your rest


and escape…


you cannot leave it.


And then you do.