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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  10/25/2014 5:04:54 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 

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  1.     

Autumn Haiku

Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  2.     

It Is Like That, So Do Dreams Say - A Little Course On Dreams

for Gerald and Shirah Kober Zeller, a little gift written on Rosh Hashanah after a dream this New Year morning of a bird nest made of hair and fishing string. How can I not think of you and miss you now caught spinning, I pray, in the Smile and Fire beyond all eyes and voices. I dance here without you but soon we will be Fire together, together in the widening Smile.

'It does not suffice in all cases to elucidate only the conceptual context of a dream content...Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain.'
~ Carl Jung

'The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the psyche, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego-consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness may extend...' ~ C.G. Jung


Dear Karl, Just so you know, the dream groups still go on but only (smile) in dreams, but now we daily meet where I read aloud from The Book of Job and William Blake. I complain too much that my Interpreter's Robe and Vestment have been taken from me by higher authorities yet unknown. In order to disguise myself from the invisible powers so we may meet for dreams morning gathered, I have grown a beard gray and long down to my chest where my right hand, remember? the one without the index finger which was removed as punishment for my being too concrete about symbols? - presses the heart.

The Bael Shem Tov** says, 'The heart is always an open secret. Best to tread lightly if one treads there at all.'

Hafez, or one of his best students, says the same but with poetry:


in a shrub beneath

the golden window of

the Beloved you must

love in secret you

smile and recite Hafez


We invoke the company of all these known heavy ones and the many unknown ones and more to be present with us, to guide us. The Goat-Footed one leads them in playing a tune on his bone pipe.

Thus we begin.

One dreamer dreams she cannot find the beloved knife sharpener in the Medieval market, 'he's gone for days uncounted', all mirrors there covered in black cloth, the kindly butcher, blood and marrow smears upon his apron, coats his scarred hands, 'before rubber gloves, obviously', says he will sharpen them for me instead, returns them to me 3 days later, 'I so need my knives, darling heart', but they are now exquisite blades of bone made, honed to the finest edge, sharp, sharp, but they are not of ivory but of beef bones turned to other but related uses,

'art resembles life, purpose is cousin to need, so bleeds all things together' says the butcher.

I remove a fine pin formed from the bone of a large bird from my top knot of hair, down it falls. radiant, black, full, my pride and my joy, covering everything around me, flowing out the door, even covering a small already covered looking glass on the butcher's wall. The butcher may know where the sharpener has gone. I will mourn a little while longer, longing for the him, his amazing patience, his brilliant smile flashing teeth of metal made, like mirrors, little mirrors, smooth, polished, clear. I will see myself in that smile no longer. No longer. Will he return?

'Do not spurn any chance to mourn. Mourning is a kind of Return, ' says the butcher reaching for his silver cleaver, its handle made of bone.


Another dreams, 'I am an old man found in every village large and small, rich and poor, known and unknown, loved and despised, I am the knife sharpener with my faithful turning wheel to grind, sparks, never ashes, large and small, of many colors, fly out from my massive beard (gray like ashes) , I recite scripture in an unknown tongue, I throw metal shards to the children who watch me turn the wheel shouting to them,

'eat these that your days may be long, eat these that your words may live forever.

Black booted men daily arrive on time to arrest me and I throw shards to them too, saying,

'Gentlemen, eat these that your days may be long, that your words also may live forever'.

I know something about knives through the years, that knives are equal opportunity flayers of both the just and the unjust, of both the wise and the innocent. I also know that all are born to be cut, birth being the first of countless cuts. As I am led away from my wheel to the jail I retrieve a pan-pipe, of metal made, from my beard, I play a merry tune about return, the same tune everyday on my way to the judge, about burning villages the world over, their roofs forever ablaze, the wide Smile of G-d over all as far as the eye can see, even beyond seeing. I sing again, for it bears repeating to both the sharp and the dull, how all human tears distort that Smile, turn It to Fire. a kind of ecstasy, a kind of passionate pain, so again the black boots begin their daily dance in spite of themselves and their unending mission to dull all our days and nights. It is forbidden to dance. It is forbidden to complete anything with finality for finality ends all purpose else the entire world stops turning, then no more burning. They are compelled by the tune and to the words.

'Just a small incision then, Master' calls a booted one spinning hysterically, he cannot stop nor does he want to.

Another begs,

'Cut, take this covering away, reveal what is in that Smile, in that Fire that I may see G-d for real.'

He covers his eyes with hands stained from the taking of many lives. Pounds those knotted hands together. He cannot stop, shame being a kind of ecstasy when it dances. And it dances everyday.


The quiet young woman of the group shares in a whisper, we lean forward to hear, 'I am combing my red hair when the comb jams with long strands of blond hair tangled with light blue fishing string, this is not my hair, fiery red, at all but in this dream it somehow is my hair. It's a mystery. I comb and comb, remove the knots of hair, I wrap them in my right hand until the spool of matted hair and string is at least 3 hands larger and higher than my hand. It is so heavy. Very heavy. Now it is a bird's nest. A bird lands on it, the little gray bird is so heavy, she sits on a tiny light blue egg, also very heavy, heavier that the bird. So very heavy that egg. I am amazed at its weight. Suddenly I beg to be forgiven for I realize that I have abandoned both the nest and the egg. I am filled with remorse. I am shame itself. I have forgotten that I am to brood upon the egg until it hatches. My comb is now a blade. I use it to cut my hair, fistfuls of it, I angrily saw it all off very close to my scalp with a blunted blade,

'It repenteth me, it repenteth me, ' I repeat over and over until I am roughly, unevenly shorn, small cuts there do bleed.

I hold the nest. My arm is tired. I can feel my hand no longer. I must not drop the nest, the bird, the egg. The bird patiently gathers my cut hair all around me adding it to her now untangled delicately patterned nest, strand by strand, the heavier still, it takes hours, finally the bird says,

'Just be still. Hold. Hold. Hold until the fledgling hatches from the egg which will take months to peck its way out, then you will be free from the weight we bring, then you must carry your own. Such is life. Mine is the burden of flying and landing, flying and landing, which is why I sing of weighted joy and sorrow though I would be sky. I would be sky, yet I keep to the assigned work of my days and nights, my comings and goings. But not you. To each their own burden and duty. Find yours though perhaps you have found it now, Carrier? Bearer? ' I cry,

'O see that my once coal black eyes are now blue as your egg is blue, blue as the fishing string is blue, blue as the sky you want to be is blue. O give me wings, black ones will do, and the voice of a crow that I might fly and sing. Of muteness I will sing. Of deafness, of blindness too, of anything, anything, but please, this my fair skin is too too much to bear. And these tears.'

Sobs wake me, wondering, Where are my shears? Wondering is a kind of return.


We dreamers then notice that the woman has unevenly cut her hair, once long and fiery red. On her scalp are fresh scabs, on her face is dried blood. One hand is darkly bruised. A male dreamer, middle age, the one who is always falling in love with all things, which is a curse, says in rhyme, he always rhymes, which is a kind of curse too, says,

'Why, dearest, I could make a bed of thy red hair burning and forever in ardor stay there yearning. Nay, I am that way now, yea, I burn. I burn always, which is a kind of return. That I might die in that hair and in that Desire forever be burned away.'

One of the great teachers whom we have called to be among us, Hafez, smiles, points to his book, whispers to the man mad for red hair, mad for pain, his straining heart stitched together with light blue fishing string, says,

'See me after.'


Now we speak of some common themes, too many to point out here, between our shared dreams, of voices wise, of blades and cuts, of blood and bones, black boots and combs, shards, flayers, leavers, of their uses for transformation. We see tangles of hair - beards, scalp, and related fishing string, coverings, nests, a bed of hair to burn in, we speculate upon their uses for purpose and meaning so that each and every dreamer may live on with their roofs on fire, with each their black boots ready to dance, each to their chores not ignoring the wide Smile of the sky all around.

There is turning and spinning too, the sharpener's wheel, the daily and the nightly round, the going and returning to market, more black booted dancers dancing to the sharpener's repetitive tune, the spooling of hair and string, nest making, the twining of each strand in circular patterns, the round of the egg, the flying and landing,

'it repenteth me, it repenteth me, '

over and over again, the burn of desire for G-d, for the red haired girl, lust for all things. Repetition. Much repetition that we may bring the days and nights together into an common theme born of uncommon ones by daylight made visible - of return, perpetually yearning to know and unite with That which Smiles over all occurrences, that compulsion which compels all acts bad and good, black and white (while not forgetting the gray between, thus the gray bird, gray being the heavier of the three) , in all these acts and intentions made manifest the motivation is still the same for even blame and shame seek what is in the Smile, that Fire, that a G-d, Meaning, may be consciously known and nested in which is Return indeed.

We conclude together with only slight disagreements that Mystery, if That can be known even in part, is best revealed/imaged, at least for the moment of the course, as the Blade that cuts, that It is both the Cutter and the Cut and even that lowly thing unworthy of Cuts also being cut,

that we mourn the loss of the Sharpener, another variation of the Blade (aka G_d or Meaning) , that the Sharpener's Art (That One we so miss) and Smile shapes what can be perceived as Maker whose purpose appears to be parsing, cutting, endlessly separating things from themselves and others, from even the Sharpener for whom we consciously and compulsively (unconsciously) long. Such longing is Return, a kind of return.

It is then noted among us as the meeting ends:

Nothing that is cut, that is divided, in the end cannot be One at first, at the Beginning.

We then try the word 'Anything' for 'Nothing' to see if something different could be parsed into meaning. Which is a kind of learning, makes us sharper to nuance which is always the slightest of cuts and always the most meaningful. Such cuts stitch/bind ignorance into knowledge for each is not unless the other is and thus the entwining.

In benediction (meaning 'to speak well of, bless, ') we sing the Exile's Song compelled to sing, as the black booted ones, also compelled, beg - we are all beggars who may gain the banquet yet, which is a kind of feasting and arrival -

'Just a small incision then, Master'

and we are for some moments present, and pain, by Divine Infliction, is forgotten, a kind of return for it, forgetting, must, so far as can be gleaned (for gleaning needs a blade and we began this missive with blades) , make everything new.

So goes the cutting, same as always, freshness of all things, in all things,

that is, if one can embrace the Mystery though it is disguised as the Butcher whose every cut is Kindness Itself.


It is like that, so do the dreams say.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  3.     

Nicht-Gesicht/Not Face by Rainer Maria Rilke

From the German, translated by Priscilla Washburn Shaw:

Face, my face: whose are you; for what things are you face? How can you be face for such insides, whose something is beginning continually rolled together with dissolving? Has the forest a face? Does not the mountain basalt stand facelessly there? Does the sea not raise itself without face, up from the ocean-floor; is not the sky reflected within, without forehead, without mouth, without chin?

Do not animals come to us sometimes as if they were pleading: take my face. Their face is too heavy for them and because of it they hold their tiny little soul too far into life. And we, animals of the soul, confused by everything in us, not yet ready for nothing; we grazing souls: do we not implore the Allotter by night to grant us the not-face which belongs with our darkness-
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  4.     

What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda

for Jose - 'now he is with the Lamb'


translated from the Spanish of Raul Voz


'The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.' - Pablo Neruda

'Power at its best is love seeking justice.' - a radical priest


When love

finally came

two birds

one near

one far


each my eyes
saw

one cawed

one was still


waves below
shook the high

rock from which
my house was wrest


Making my bed,
that grand ship of
many seas, its feminine
sails billowing in
salt winds out of
season, soldiers,
young, false with
righteousness not
their own, blew
in and frightened
the birds away

they did not come close
they were afraid of
their own guns

But not me

fearless I faced
pale young faces

the bullets tore
them more than me

their flesh being
bread still fresh,
oven warm (white
flour smeared upon
their reckless cheeks
crushed too soon
by women's hands
to dutifully bake)

and mine - flesh - mine
of the mountain patch
formed of Woman's hands

far where my Mother
toiled with me safe
upon Her back, my first
keel, the bow upon which
I first learned to kneel
to earth, to sea

I rocked in Her motion
rowing the faithful Earth
the yielding softness of
She to me (shipwrecking
all my my future hardness
eventually) my boy hands
not yet bleeding with pens
and poems

She fed me Her workers'
songs, of earth, songs
of fragrant sweat, bitter
herbs beneath Her feet
of copper and jade,
the little potatoes
yellow and purple ones
flavored stones softened
by Her presence, Her
sure toil, lullabies wooing
endless sky into each
tuber-swell shaping
clouds for Her eyes to
see to shade Her from the
intemperate sun to cool
the hard soles of Her bare
feet, no pesetas, only
songs, for shoes

The rich cords, veins
of the sun and the moon,
conjoined in Her labor,
hardened into the lead
of my first pencil,

the lap of my first page

And conspiring late
within me ran the black ink
of Her relentless tenderness


Never then broken by
threat of oiled guns
shining, the radiant
beauty darkening before
me of a sparkling morning
born of soft woolen waves
shyly attended by youths
too frail, too dispirited
to know what bullets really
mean, their bare feet soft
with obedience, their
leather boots polished,
lined up at the General's
door, another morning's
cruel ablation


Never then by black
boots broken, but broken
only by the poor, my poor,
the mountain patch without
voice or even these
two last birds of
shattered brine


Only I could see
behind frightened
faces beneath their
soldiers' caps
tilted to lure
forgetfulness
and sleep never
to be confessed

that my hands
little birds too
were extended to
them in welcome

my words to them
only seconds to go
(the waves were
counting on their fingers)
fire and smoke fierce in
little round mouths,
perfect circles,
rehearsals, the
barrels opening
theirs to mine

'Lads, aim for the silver
pen, the Pole Star of my
shirt pocket where you may
always kindly find the
Heart'

that one bird
for each their
tearful eyes
was yellow and
the other red
half-closed to
aim well at the
weft of cloth woven
of my Mother's earth
Her relentless tenderness
almost freed


song
of sea
of stone

of my
house
violently
untethered
from noun
and verb

foundered at
last without
pen and ink

done with 'say'

little sheep
of childhood play
the toy
tiny wheels

rolling waves

for feet fade

when love

finally came

two birds

one near

one far

each my eyes
saw

one cawed

one was still

waves below
shook the high

rock from which
my house was wrest
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 

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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon