Home | Contact Us

Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/22/2014 12:26:51 PM
Search For Poems & Poets:


Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
<< prev. page

Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 30 40 50 60 65

next page >>



What Bells & Sex Have To Do With Each Other, A Mythic Rendering From Ancient Texts & Dreams, circa 1981

'The bells, I say, the bells outbreak their towers...
- Hart Crane, from 'The Broken Tower'

For Marianne Annur

...I will tell you of Fatima.

She is the bell,
The tintinabulum,
The veil and the will.

Then take me to her.
You can have the tapestry of streets,
The bowls of tint.

Shade the surface black
And she will emerge
The river,
The bead upon the throat,
The bread swelling,
Lifting up,

The Fertile Crescent...


Between the breasts and
Most of the moving parts
While she crossed the threshold
She was quite badly torn

Fatima had clusters
Mounted solidly of bronze

She said it hurt terribly


Fatima opened her dark eyes

...If they were with the tide
From top to lip...

She escorted me to an inner room
Where was an intricate carillon music
It is the inevitable accompaniment
She said pointing below
Come in here, my little eye
I did where she remembered, ululating
With plump cushions where it rotates
Of the tintinabulum
A change of waist
Iron or steel bars
To the edge of the lip

At the advent
I nibbled salted melon seeds
For this is the Lailet el Henna


In the towers are the reproducers

Within the clean bronze
Their walls were stood
Ready to receive her
And later became all
Of the intricate trills

She pushed her way through
The pivot points
A deep lactation
In the most ravishing shades

Simulate the Pleiades
The rich magenta

Running water is much the best
Whether she wept as she then drew out
Watering the date gardens

She stepped over warm spurting blood

You should have heard her cry
'Ya Ali' and her loud hell-hella


A sheep was slaughtered

The physical vibrating movements
For anything tinkling
On the palms and the fingernails
At the point of clapper impact

And on the pillow
She drew out
For the rhythmic accompaniment
And then put it while it was hot
Up inside

A folded piece of bread


What did she vow at the Saint's tomb?


The Henna Night was celebrated

Metal was added to the lip
Placenta and puella runs
And full harmony that are familiar to lovers

Before Fatima's face
A knife had been placed
Between the upper and
Lower big sprigs of myrtle

The waist almost became
Through the flattening of the crown
Similarly beautiful
And took out of the outside skin
Alone in thousands of towers
Between legs
A tiny triangle where several seams met
Variations in the walls thickness
When the bride's hands were hennaed
Had very slow pains
Prayers were said while the metal was
Poured into the molds
An opaque black veil over
The bells of Nimrud

This thickening of the lip
Straight and pot like
To the chanting
Gave it rhythm and balance


Fatima was propped up on pillows
On her big bed
She had a large round silver box
Heavily embossed
The shape of the bell
The same thickness
A push button that rings arpeggios

Carelessly she pulled out
Before I went into
...Joining in refrains...
Into the modern bell
Recast it for tuning again
Thick and ornamented with gold
Paint and Flowers
As it unfolded her pains
Delicately through the dark and silent
Just as the rope that swings
Scarely noticed


Did you have a hard time of it, Fatima?


The large brass bedstead

Lighted candles

Their walls were
All primitive forms
Although she put on the veil
A delight to the senses


Mohammad came
As fast as the
Vibrating bars that
Generate blows
I kept on my ornaments
I rubbed her abdomen with a knife
Tore in two a flap of bread
Pink gauze curtains

Wheat and salt were scattered
None has been found
Fatima had donned the veil

Iron, steel, gold
Silver, zinc and lead
Which is formed by the squaring
Of the shoulders

Small bells began
Were shortened
Reduced the muscular effort
Needed to swing...


And then went in to his bride
With mounds of henna paste
All from silver containers

Plus hundreds of single bells and peals
A time indicator
Anything set with precious stones
I put this on his navel
All with small finger loops on top

The idea of the clapper
To fall back into position
To crack
The thickness of the lip


A call to worship was lost
When rings were cast around
The hinges and locks
The soles of her feet
A beehive in shape
Close to the vibrating
Enveloped in a black coat

And my dear whispered
It must be completely consumed
Must be in the open
From the top

There bury it face up
With votive rags
Of the Tigris and Euphrates
The opal and the navel

Watched with deep
Or Henna Night


The only remedy is to melt it down

Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy lid

A naked sword was laid
Came into being

As a warning signal
There would be a loud burst of
The piercing, high pitched
Trilling ululation
Into tiny handle-less cups

A deep lactation
Fatima's milk

The gradually inward sloping sides

Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy box


It is the Henna Night


It is the parting of veils

She pointed downward,

Disrobing in the darkness,

The lantern light of the street

Rubbing against her

Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy box

...To dip your fingers in seven colors...

Fatima opened her dark eyes

Fatima to me

She lifted it up

The heavy hennaed night ringing



'Sympathizing with an experiment, we yet need not venerate the result.'
- Marianne Moore, The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore (Penguin,1987) , p.586

[This poem arrived literally out of a shoe box. Experimenting with cut-up poetic technique as propounded by William Burroughs, in the mid-1970's in my little cabin on Huckleberry Mountain in the North Carolina mountains I cut up phrases from several dreams I'd had along with xeroxed (photo copied) essays from an encyclopedia on the history of bells and bell making, and one on the rituals and traditions of Henna night in Islamic countries. My choices of essays were random. I just opened the encyclopedia and these were the essays I opened to. I cut up phrases from each, added them to the shoe box along with my dream fragments, and thoroughly shaken (not stirred) pulled out phrase by phrase what became this poem. This was my most successful attempt of many with this technique. What I found was that, especially when seized up in writer's block, the 'accidental' or chance juxtaposition of images, phrases, caesuras in content, contexts and voicings along with disparity of logical connection between topics (bells, metalurgy, Henna rituals for women, wedding nights, sexual attraction and consumation) sometimes created not only astonishing images and poetry but re-tuned my own consciousness to function in this non-linear associative way as a poet and now, importantly, in my creative work as a psychotherapeutic counselor with others. I recommend this technique for all poets or aspiring poets for much is to be learned with perhaps the greatest discovery being that there is another Mind/Hand/Source involved in the craft of poetry, of all writing, guiding the quotidian course of our lives, paying attention first and foremost with a willingness to leave known territory while not devaluing that territory at all. Immediate and tangible foundations are supported by unseen and assumed greater, deeper, older and stronger ones. From this rich arche-techtonic structure, hold and mold our lives and our creativity rise.]
Warren Falcon



What Can Be Said, This Day, Of Remorse

I live at the bottom of a hill near a
broken fence beside tracks of steel.

On the other side a stream moves upon itself
not confusing itself as ice for rocks alone.

A memory in the sound of water, a dazzle of
sky takes a silly surface tone from what runs

beneath outrunning rocks because it can;
desire that force which drives the sand.

The movement of water too is undeniable,
solid in its course though sand, as does water,

knows nothing of remorse.

At the fence I wait. No train yet
which will be a movement, too, beside
the wet, and these thoughts here.

That you are tissue essential and fabric
to my own particularity.

I send you a sound wonder, a welcome again
to that place you dwell here within,

Time the only disparity.

Snow on Telford gravestones, tall
houses on cupped hills in squared

parcels back lit with sunset's down-light,
juxtapose a Wyeth isolation and beauty

which is the dutiful image of you, heart
breaking through remembering our first meeting.


Which is the dutiful image of you?
Heart broken remembering the first meeting,

then the departing?

The distant gazebo of that small
town wears white lights garlanded

round, and snow. A boy without
gloves reads alone.

He is no fool who takes his time and
place to know.

I rediscover you a gift here still as
I have in good counsel curtsied and coughed

often enough, my own hand to my own groin,
to discover a fissure again, again to repeat,

that you are tissue essential still and
fabric to my own particularity upon a hill,

a house, one fence above a stream and rails,
a blinking boy turning wet pages knows that

you or someone similar, only a few years
ahead, already familiar, dwells inside,

compels his reading just before sunset
squinting at words beyond and past the

fence and the stream, the train late,
footprints dark blue in the patient drift.
Warren Falcon



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

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
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

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

of sea
of stone

of my
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

one cawed

one was still

waves below
shook the high

rock from which
my house was wrest
Warren Falcon



With Spring Arrives Blossoms, Bridges, And Old Kobayashi

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms. - Kobayashi Issa


From the roof tonight
sighing after Brooklyn Bridge
and that Other so
close beside

blue curves shape
city-glow orange into pink into

letting down their
girders they follow me to my little
room at last

the bare bulb astonished

after all the years they have
winked from tenement distances
over tar, over stoops, disturbing
only the prudish pigeons

through my open window
with their faithful light
they finally arrive

this night the wavering curtains
hold their breath


I recline then

stuporous on the

sag sofa beside

the black mirror

evening air heavy

from certain blossoms

a pungent semen smell

Kobayashi? can 'stain' rhyme with 'Spring'?

Will 'Spring' ever rhyme again with 'screen' or 'crane'?


One touches the other which touches me

I am become a massive bird
bent backwards

a wobbling kite of tallow and tin
a bruised three-blade fan

petroleum kisses over
massive cables between coiled

legs, those others, of mortar,
of hot metal glow

the handsome welder, masked, sings
into the retina of his dark glass

of a strange
thing breached

entwined with bridges
a bloated form of
tangled arcs, angles

how lips chafe
gently the many
necks curved
of alloy

a Balthus* mirror

drunk on blossoms


In my youth

I swayed

easily seduced

by bridges

nothing's changed

about me now

that ginkgoes

are surprised by

it is spring

the blossoms come

nothing to do Mr. Kobayashi

but to open the worn book with

your name upon it and try again,

like you, to be a mensch **

*Balthus - Balthasar Klossowski de Rola, best known as Balthus, was a Polish-French modern artist. Throughout his career, Balthus rejected the usual conventions of the art world. Some of his most well known paintings are of swooning young girls or women gazing into handheld mirrors in lonely, well-appointed interiors.

**mensch - a Yiddish word for a person of integrity and honor.
Warren Falcon
<< prev. page

Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 30 40 50 60 65

next page >>


BEST POEMS:  (Click on a topic to list and read the poems)
 angel poems
beautiful poems
death poems
friend poems
 girl poems
home poems
hope poems
kiss poems
 life poems
loss poems
love poems
music poems
 nature poems
rain poems
school poems
sex poems
 soldier poems
summer poems
sun poems
war poems
(c) Poems are the property of their respective owners.
All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge.. 
Contact Us | About Us | Copyright notice | Privacy statement

Poems By Poet Warren Falcon