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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/24/2014 3:01:15 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  77.     

Even Pretty Buddhas - Rumors Exist of Han Shan's Unfettered Inscriptions Of Wind

From a preface to earliest publication of Han Shan's poems 'Lu Ch'iu-Yin...claims to have personally met both Hanshan and Shide at the kitchen of the temple in Kuo-ch'ing, but they responded to his salutations with laughter then fled.' - Wikipedia on Han Shan

Red Pine poem 18:

I spur my horse past ruins;
ruins move a traveler's heart.
The old parapets high and low
the ancient graves great and small,
the shuddering shadow of a tumbleweed,
the steady sound of giant trees.
But what I lament are the common bones
unnamed in the records of immortals.

Dates of Han Shan's life are uncertain, anywhere from 5th to 9th century A.D.


'How strange is life in old age
- an old mountain waking up'

White haired, nearer now to
Yellow Spring**, a few teeth remain.
My humor with the world remains intact.
Toothlessness does not block endless
laughter, a small favor of the gods
perhaps. Perhaps not. A human virtue
at any rate. And a strong constitution.

Even alone I laugh out loud, a
victory over my enemies and those
frivolous, ill-tempered gods,
all my youth wasted given over
to their sly manipulations.

Useless it is to demand those lost
years back but suffice it now to
presently steal more boldly from
Kings, Lords, the 'Glorious State.'
Even the temples are not safe from
my pilfering. I kindly repay them
with a poem scrawled on the door
or wall or a nearby rock. It really
is enough recompense for what I
take, a root, some rice, a persimmom.
Nothing more than I need for a day
or two. If they do not know how
to spend my words then so be it.
They have been paid in full. My
conscience, silly thing it is,
is clear as is my mind. Blood
hot, I fear no god yet respect
most men for both good and
bad suffer alike.

My fight is with the gods.
These fickle powers control
mortals who fear invisible
things but I have seen through
them and I laugh and I am unfettered.
Look to your minds mortals and
there find the open sky, the full
land you seek. There are some
others like me who freely roam
without explanation or excuse,
without self rebuke. After so
much youthful, frivolous sanctity
I am an old fool emptied of all
that. I know the ways of those
who speak for the gods. Naivete
about them is especially
dangerous for men.

Still, I cry out time and again in
a dream where I am remaindered
to Silence. When awake I laugh
through tears and avenge nights
from hostile heaven's envious thieves,
their priestly minions mumbling on
robbing men of years on earth.

Even my cave is taxed!
and so is my sleep by such a dream.

Some real troubles come only in sleep.
Why should I be exempt?

A habit now, I sit at the Buddhas feet.
Their faces are convincing enough. I
ignore much evidence to the contrary.
Undergarments even of Buddhas reveal
a truth which does not flinch and I
may perhaps pinch my nose in disgust
even of holy stench all the while
celebrating my own for what else
am I here for? Odor is the Thing!

Even so, in spite of meditations long,
I am flung further into life's fray though
I sway charmed by chants up to the Eight
Celestial Flights, my steps light forgetting
their feet of dung.

Long in exile,
dizzy with The Path,
human beauty broken there beside,
in every field shy flowers want all
our windows and stoops to proudly
present themselves upon.

This only now but happy do I discover.

And I am old, my scent upon the wind
down human lanes where even dogs
take pleasure from the air, where
children play and narrow water flows
and petal by petal night and day the
joyous moon swoons in the liquor of
splash upon stones happy to be worn.

There, almost within reach, the blossoming
tree brightens between darker bricks to truly
dwell. It is for me a shy son of mists to see
in spite of big chunks missing, lost, wasted,
torn out, that the Celestial World is not as
it appears to most, It yearns for much needed
hardness for spirits without shoes still long
to be bread that they may dwell in our finitude.
To them then I am a daffodil dandy at a rusty
gate where heaven and hell conjoin. There
where the thinned road ends vague statues
sway out of focus lamenting their redaction
to stone, no river to move them petal by petal,
unable to move at all, for movement is not nothing.

Even pretty Buddhas pretending eternity
cannot move by themselves alone in need
of human feet and arms. In this way then
they become like me for I too will be
borne by men or wind to the grave no
longer able to move on my own.

Nothing to lose, this rag of selves.
With what glory remains of hungry pockets,
I skip forward singing, La La La, a willful
don, a lord of nothing-much, poems a'pocket,
knowing it's all a shell game but I'm clever
having learned something from all the dice
rolled knowing that here and there (Heaven)
weight matters and that there is more to here
than there. Wised up now I always pack a
change of draws, a piece of broken mirror in
my pocket to gaze within practicing my smiles
to fool the gullible gods who think they are
smiling at themselves.

If stopped and questioned at the Gate to
Yellow Spring, I'll blame you, old Ghost
of too many former selves, a meandering
rumor still muttering the old hymns, who
grants me permission the entrance to boldly storm.

Between what these final breaths remain and
the horizon closing in, my fingers still work.

On behalf of all sentient beings I will plead
the case.

I'll write until the quill is taken from my cold hand.

Even then I shall be dirty with righteous indigence,
only the gods to blame - they love a good
argument anyway. Why should I disappoint?

In dying I become human through and through
which comes from doing.

Be damned and done with mirrors and pockets,
a man can curse at the end having earned the
right to do so -

a wink and a
grin rehearsed,
then come the flies.
Whose hands shall
shoo them, whose
hands un-shoe him
and run quickly
into day?

I leave my poems just as they are.
When I'm gone let the worms correct
spelling and punctuation.

Meanwhile beneath willow tips
I will tease slowly the grasses to laughter
which is the only horizon I have known.


******

Footnote:

**Yellow Spring is a Chinese version of 'purgatory'
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  78.     

Evocation of River and Spirits

in this city

to guess

having no acumen with
numbers and math but
father's over there
in the cup tilted
over
spilling into

o endlessly
it's seams

it seems
from river bank
into memory which
is - already
over-said
overheard redundantly
as 'river
and time'

- this one
now recalled
to Mind, dad

dad
the cloud drift
and the flows
the tides beside
the city
(both sides)
is as ancient
as it always was
& is

as in the beginning
was darkness over deep
water & a word, any word
really would do it,
form something
out of deep, of
dark, of water
which shapes it-
self only by outer
circumstance,
in this case
a word
leading up to
this -




Palisades cliffs
above bridge tilt

toward, always,
currents,

the river
over-

flows north-
wards

tides rare defy-
ing the moon

that other pull,
you

live the other
side of

sand
the palm sewn

swaying adhered
to Mind

x 1

still, to pass the
time now

x 1

the sooty hand

x 1

over black
'mouth'
or word
allude perhaps
to river's at
city's start
up from water

the silver bay
capped, remembering
frigates

x countless

ferries torn

and Tories be-
tween seas
wars
vast to
the east

x duplicating

waves, stretches
the narrows,

the necks with
rocks strewn,

the lonely buoyless
waves over depths

their vespers
intone

once was laughter
spent

seeking out
between bodies

continents
valleys eternally

shifting eluding
rapture

x 1

whisper

contraction
of sentinel
bells against
each of each
reaching

x 2, the clappers

x 20,000

(of bells
anatomy there
is much to
say
(of the
elements,
zinc, copper,
tin, & more
while not for-
getting brass
more commonly
used)
of infusion
into cuppolas

the beating
the shaping
heat also to
be given account
amounts much into
bells conformed
gracefully out
in the end,

but only
as metal,
sharp tongues
blunted can of
bells then speak

tonally only

overtones inviolate

in violent swings
side to side the
hard knock shocks
into, quake into
belfry beyond
dance of iron
bronze overtaking
&
annunciant round
of hammers)

so many dawns

x so many goings

down of the sun


x fortune the lips

x myriad ones gone

before of murmurers

O lover

of thee

I adore

in timbre

thru the

window rings

the arms too

wring out

breath to

breath

x no more

embraces

into indolence




This, just to
reintroduce some
levity

for we (loves)
were many day-ed

x merry

we merrily played
harming no one,
not even the
mouse unmoved

perhaps, watching
perhaps, still,
still, from beneath
the god you insisted
be excluded from
all our nakedness

x 1 too many breaths

exchanged, groped

x many ropes all our

wanting




father loves
with his cup
his pipe songs
of love
of love will he
dance between
the violent fasts
from love,
our mother,
with,
fast around around
& around the danced
living room
phonograph brass
loud plays
where June
curtains sway
me and Mr. Miller

I stand behind
them the curtained
dancer entranced
entered into/
upon a mystery
how one could
be so, well,
swell, so
marvelous &
so cruel, (upon
one silver stem
hangs the metal
tin top jags
tears at
memory edge
opens facts

FACT

that there was love,
there was love after
all

I can see
it smell it
feel it there
dancing round
the living

one dropp Mr.
Maxwell holds,
hold on to &
upon goodness
brown pulled
from below down
& dark into deep
such this is
the riddle it is
all now become
since you
departed, love

since you
departed I shall
count backward by
3's then by 4's
these father
memories
torquing
the

door which once
embraced you now
never lets you

go

x brooms

or releases

now you, love
are new memory
hands emptier
sensitive finger-
tips filligreed
prints your
body hairs
sifted imprinted
touching softly
x all the x's
here accounted
for, listed,
besos as kisses
scribbles, notes,
letters,
no matter
the black or
blue tide

of thee
O lover

what
slips out
ebbs black
back into lapis

lapses into what
self is

uttered/poured,
scored trans-
parent upon
surfaces

faces which are
even
eyes which now
glaze with love/
loss

beside the flue

glaze upon the
pane

the black
mouse remains

stays,
is many,
a multitude
of petals

x 3

the jasmine
unspurned
at last

at last/least
O return
soft Junes
the lips of
which are
sometimes
pink, of
lavender
swollen, as if
to kiss

x memory

x Maxwell the

house the cup
O Mr. Miller
an O'Day serenade
plays close
...'Hi ho trailus
boot whip
boo boo daddy
floy floy'...

the late night
suppers of chops
the peeled onions
the laughter the
potatoes boil
& bubble in the
pot then
father
to dance
the butter in
the sizzle in
the cast iron
pan

their vespers
now descant,
descend
...'How high
the ocean, how
high the moon...


hungry
the
dish it has
all become
feast for
black 'mouth'

& mouse makes again

x 3 the antinomies

a string

of pearls

anemones

& thee O lover

bring all them

back, so many,

to me now

x Pennsylvania 6-500.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  79.     

Expostulations Of The Child-Man, The Pope In Italian Miniatures - A Mystery

The pope in Italian
exclaims, 'Bring me! '
and the echoes bring to him
his bounded wants.

The pope in Italian
twirls his fake mustache, hides behind curtains layered
thick, plots the Blessed Virgin tied upon the tracks, his
dramatic rescue of Her, the imagined headline, Greatest Of Popes.

The pope in Italian
embraces a Statue of St. Micheal when the
guards are not looking, whispers the hour of
the deed, pleads for advancement of the plot.

The pope in Italian
blesses conspiring shadows in mirrored tiles reflecting back, the
guards pretend not to notice his continual muttering, the halting gait,
the concealed silk handkerchief purposefully dropped, they wink at each other.

The pope in Italian
drunk with authority privately erases Sacred Texts with
a child's thick pencil, pardons his large fines for overdue books,
cancels the Vatican subscription to Mystery Magazine.

The pope in Italian
questions Michelangelo 'of hammers, of stone and nakedness,
the heart of the matter, ' whistles when the Artist answers,
and looks away, fingers crossed.

The pope in Italian
wears a black beret, feels his tragedy,
'another fig in hand, ' refills his goblet,
calls for a clean ashtray, another pack of Gauloises.*

The pope in Italian
feeling frisky, ice skates, holds high
his brocaded robes revealing the boyish legs, white,
they are so white, like necks of swans.

The pope in Italian
dreams again he is a young
bomber pilot dropping heavy kisses
backed up in the bomb-bay.

The pope in Italian
hides sullen behind the Golden Chair, carves his
initials there, the fateful date in Roman numerals, and
QUID EST QUOD OMNES PEGGY LEE (Is that all there is, Peggy Lee?) .

The pope in Italian
refusing all sherry before lunch, will not walk past the tapestries,
'The unicorns hate me, ' he whispers, suspicious, bitterly so,
reminds himself, 'Stop trying so hard.'

The pope in Italian
tries too hard, resets the Grandfather Clock of Ages, counts
the coins of childhood, forgets time, the ancient schemes, and dines
outside disguised as Saint Joan of Arc in Flames.

The pope in Italian
stands very still, Romanesque in Night's central fountain,
goes unnoticed but for the corners of his mouth
bleeding verdigris, and the faint smell of smoke.

The pope in Italian
practices his hands in the dark, genuflecting, blessing,
rehearses the pertinent Charlie Chaplin scene alone, the worn
piano roll in his head unraveling before the hastily scattered Host.

The pope in Italian
spies the 'end run, ' tries his hand at cards and whiskey,
bets the entire assembled Holy Guard in full dress 'all the
Church's gold and then some' on a run of Jacks.

The pope in Italian
turns the last page in the Papal Chapel, licks chapped, broken lips too long
at prayer, the votives sputtered at long last, feels his way out backwards,
steps upon the last crack and the Madonna's back is finally broken.

**Famous French unfiltered cigarettes known for their strong tobacco flavor.

***Venus of Eryx', from Sicily, brought to Rome, she embodies 'impure' love, and is the patron goddess of prostitutes
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  80.     

Extensiones de Accidente - Estrofas de Frieda Kahlo

Estrofa 1

No podía dejar allí,
tuvo que se ensanchan, se seca la pintura,
y la carne, secador de piel de abajo
a los huesos, un esqueleto sin sexo *,
cráneo ya no bigote,
** una calavera, nada más,
siempre de calcio dependientes de curvas
sobre lienzo, lo que se congela
no para avivar y quema,
una 'cola de pavonis' **.

* Skeleton
** Cráneo
*** Peacock Tail (una imagen en la alquimia)

Estrofa 2

Calavera, el futuro está
mano a la boca, los dedos a la frente
desarrollando ante formas aún instatic.
Mantener desesperadamente a cuadros antes
estas percepciones temblando.

Estrofa 3

Para llegar a un acuerdo
con lo que sucede
en repetidas ocasiones -

16 años de edad,
perforación de metal viola
carne recién mujer,
se convierte en algo
totalmente asombrado,

dolor furioso, implacable
quemaduras de vapor, sin embargo,
Sin embargo, cada lienzo,
siempre cayendo hacia atrás

dentro de la cruel alquimia
vas, astillas de vidrio
en los nervios implacable,
revestido de acero chapado en Virgen
tiene un cíclope de un amante.

Estrofa 4

Para vivir más en su mundo,
a vivir en su México
que no se niega
comodidad de hierro ni de la gracia,
Siempre es una sorpresa,
puesto / desplazados
marcar con una cicatriz junto
de carne y espíritu,
la humanidad,
un descuartizado y devorado
Cristo como encarnación sólo permite,
autonomía insistente argumento de la autonomía,
aceptación en bruto.

Estrofa 5

El descubrimiento de la cero siempre pesada,
el único absoluto de mérito -
de dar a luz a la multiplicidad, diversidad,
perversa, mucho más irascible aún
Embraceable, enloquecedoramente borrable
mientras que crece más allá de contar los brazos,
el mejor para llevar a las densidades implacable.

Regalo de Arabia, el cero no aleados
medidos en masa - un mejor nombre para Dios -
vector torcer la historia térmica, el espejismo fantasmal,

materia prima,

a pesar de, o dentro de la matriz metálica,
los martillos de herrero corazón cardenillo
cámaras, los ventrículos, en forma, de Newton
conjugaciones grave, el tiempo de vida solidificada,
Presencia endurecido, rigidez en diluir
representaciones de metal común

Estrofa 6

... Y Frieda casta,
telas de alambre persiguiendo el plutonio,
lleva el extremo romo de la Presencia,
final del Eón de los peces
apenas más allá de la Edad de Bronce es sólo
afilado bordes acanalados,
prefiriendo los de obsidiana
hackeado, astillas, raspado
en piedra dura.

Frieda, el volcán nacido,
se convierte en recipiente conyugal,
Pluma de quetzal, unidos a
Serpiente de la piel renacimiento extensiones de accidente,

un Dios que regresan, barco y el caballo
liberado de la barba roja de la
mar hinchado enfrenta todavía una más
deidad que requieren sangre.


Estrofa 7


Noche oscura en pleno día,
todas las apariencias
una deriva más allá del significado,

Sólo un autobús de vaivén
carena de nuevo
repetición de colisión
del himen de la Virgen,
Anfitrión amniótico siempre un
Amante divide una vez más,
Crepusculares Christi.

Y Kahlo, venerado ahora,
Mujer de varias imágenes de Cristo -
Un sufrimiento con los pechos,
oculta cornamenta útero

una mueca de dolor en anunciaciones anviled
verifica sólo en las creencias vacilante
como lloran las estatuas,
apariciones surrealistas Strung Out
en coniunctio,

Chica Getsemaní visto,
ya no se oculta
u ocultas a la vista,
Cristo-o-forma agonía, aislar,
enojado, furioso humanos, privados
confusión, despreciado, rechazado,

maldad dentro de nosotros
destinado a ver nuestras deidades
hasta el final, aunque
más allá de la capacidad para oler la necrosis,
para ver el orificio de salida del alma
coagular disfrazados de piel,
los músculos, tendones.

Estrofa 8

Esta ruptura le dice.

Somos
no sin amor
por eso,

que Rod,
y Presencia
Que conoce y

participa de lo que
Imágenes de Frida Kahlo
al igual que su
la vida vivida retratar.

No hay culpa.

Sólo manchas, existen,
exquisitos como el entierro
paños de la Una
Embistió a un árbol
sufrimiento Paternidad Divina.

Estrofa 9

Circulatio.

Kahlo llega a las puertas del bus
que se acaba, una vez más, se detuvo en su parada
para llevar hacia delante en la leyenda.

[Para leer en el Espanol busca aqui en este sitio:
'Extensions of Crash - Strophes for Frieda Kahlo'
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon