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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/25/2014 4:03:11 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  89.     

Fragments Beginning With A Line By Berryman

for Karthik


Childness let's have us honey

flame intended

name smeared

on the glass

an accidental

pane

x hands touching it

delicate

as trespass


what is allowed

lace of

vision

x want

= at last a sum

= at last a remorse

felt

a memory

sunk into

soft teas


steeps

turns

steaming

said window

said prints,

views obscured

of nothing

in particular,

or special,

troubles only,

only of passing

birds enamored

of

(their lighter

bones)

or

are they

cloud and shadow?

merely the steep

sun declining ashen

into the Jersey side?

O come lover

back

the floor where we

lay times upon boards

the cluttered

clothes the

depositions

x at least 3

and take me once

again one

x infinity

into your arms

x 2

leave me when

you/we are done doing

x 0

a mere cypher flown

sheer up the flue

into the blue ash

which now the sky is

where

(there is only one

sky)

a dove flies

into some possibility

of memory

or not

x 35 thousand

x plus the time it

takes for you to exit

shedding skins, shells

(am a shell,
water you?
you decide)

x infinity into

the one drain in-

to ocean reflecting

blue sky of ash

into what remains

of you on the beach

bathing soft Junes

the organ grinder

smiles/sings 'amor

fati' mellifluously

the boardwalk on

x planks from

many trees

x ants in the

roots lumber

their endless

burdens black

or red carapaces

shining as if

sand

x grains untold

as hairs their

bodies follicles

delicate when

under the glass

espied

over-spilling into

o endlessly

it's seams, it seems

into memory

which is, already

over-said

overheard redundantly

a river

and time,

this one

recalled,

the cloud drift

and the river

the tides beside

the city both sides

is as ancient

as it always was

& is

in the beginning

was darkness

over deep water

& a word, any word

really would do

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

contraction

of bellies

against

each

x 2, and legs

x 4, and lips

x myriad ones gone

before of murmurs

O lover

of thee

I adore

I am unkindly

left remembering

once was laughter

spent

seeking out

between bodies'

valleys eternally

shifting eluding

capture


this

just to re-

introduce some

levity for we

were many day-ed

x merry

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

the curtained

dancer entranced

entered into

upon a mystery

how one could

be so, well,

so marvelous

& so cruel too

as one wills

a silver stem

sharp the metal

top jags memory-

edge tears open

facts

that there was love,

there was love after

all

I could see

it smell it

feel it there

dancing round

the livingroom

one holds

on to & upon

goodness brown

pulled from below

down & dark & deep

such is so

this is the

riddle it is

all now become

since you

departed, love


since you

departed I shall

count backward by

3's then 4's the

door which once

embraced you now

never lets you

go

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

transparent upon

surfeit surface

faces

which are

even

eyes which now

glaze with love

lost

beside the flue

marked upon the

pane blue

the mouse

black remains

is many

a multitude

of petals

x 3

the jasmine

unspurned

at last at

last/least

return

soft Junes

the lips of

which are

sometimes

pink of

lavender

swollen as

if to kiss

x 3 the antinomies

a string of pearls

& thee O lover

back to me

playing

loud where the

curtains sway

I stand behind

them the curtained

dancer entranced

entered into

upon a mystery


the organ grinder

smiles/sings 'amor

fati' mellifluously on
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  90.     

from 'Ragas For Krishna'

A little boy waking up at dawn, asking his dear mama for an omelet to eat:

'Sleepy Bee, ' she called to him. 'Go, my Sleepy Bee, to the garden and be sure to smell the jasmine there, touch softly the spices in trembling rows, fetch then some chilies of many colors and I will prepare for you a dish as you wish. When the teacher makes you sleepy by noon reach then your fingers to your face, smell the spices there, remember the touch of smooth skinned chilies whispering of lingering liaisons to come, and you will brighten my Sleepy Bee.'

A chili omelet she would make, a side of yogurt to soothe the burn, and milk from the cow drawn before dawn's first udder swelled against the press of distant hills where even the Temple soundly sleeps so very full and pleased with itself. Mother, each morning as he stumbles, rubbing his eyes, into the garden, tells him,

You may shout if you wish to wake

the Temple for the cow cannot speak -

Wake up! Awake! Make haste!

Lord Indra comes! Prepare the wicks,

the incense sticks for His Holy Fire!

Hasten! Hurry! Quicken!

There beside Lord Indra's captured fire in the little grate her Bee awakens watching her slow movements, the slicing of chilies, the removal of seeds, the washing again of plump hands, the cracking of eggs, beating them with the whisk, spreading ghee upon the hot flat stone, the enchantment of liquid whites and yokes becoming firm, becoming food. She turns them in round rhythms as she rhythmically prays.

After eggs and chilies are eaten comes the rose oil poured upon his raven hair smoothly brushed back to reveal his shining face, his smile. She prepares him for school with kisses, his uniform freshly cleaned, ironed, smelling, too, of rose-flavored soap. Then off to school with a lunch, a string of chilies of all colors sewn together, sewn when he was still in a waking dream.

'The chilies may burn, ' he tells me, speaking slowly, enunciating each syllable, practicing through smiles, returning to my gaze. 'But not like the touch of my mother's hand. She is far away but I can feel her burning hands on me now.' He smiles. I stammer. How can one enunciate such wonder?

\Visionary company, Krishna, his mother, and me.

from 'Ragas For Krishna'
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  91.     

from 'Ragas For Krishna' - Part 3

from 'Ragas For Krishna'

Sleepy Bee, he is rising beneath me, the hidden god is pleased

Somniculosus Apis, Sleepy Bee
Ascendit infra me, He rises beneath me
Deus absconditus placet, The hidden God is pleased

He is busy preparing a repast of sacred chilies of his Mother's garden born. Who will hear him sing their praises but me present alone with him here?

Yesterday Krishna arrived more radiant than when we first met beside the cardamom and the ghee in the intoxicating basement of the Indian food and spice shop not easily hidden below the sidewalk, such aromas cannot to be tucked away like the shop is, beside and below the avenue, just as his radiance cannot, should not, be hidden.

Which flower should I adorn my table with? I ask, approaching shyly beside the spice bins. I buzz inside, a bee for the nectar.

If you serve, says he, If you serve with cardamom and ghee then flowers three are best, the jasmine, the oleander, the anthurium. But if choosing only one, he looks at me, something insistent, responding, in his eyes, I would choose for you the anthurium.

And so we begin our time together, the first demur approaches, the blushing papayas, the cooking lessons, then the fires, the chilies harvested, curtains drawn. One day perhaps I shall fall but in this way:

I shall fling
the curtains back
Open the window
Throw cut sleeves,
for years gathered,
hidden, to the street.
Shouting out names
of lovers, I shall then
leap openly out, into,
land softly upon ginkgo
leaves and, golden, kiss
every parked car leaving
lip traces upon hoods,
trunks, windshields and,
lustily, rear view mirrors
reviewing all yore's cut
sleeves of love, secret
no longer, newly in love
with all the world and
if not all the world then
all the grinning griddled
faces of chrome and a
fiddle dee dee for the
fall of me into he who
has become my home


How I had to teach him what lovers
give to each how to kiss how to touch
how love is fluctuate fluent in dirty
tongues entanglements with the world

Still I have fluttered mightily in long
tangles of hair black, black his darker
eyes shine his bottom lip petulant hungry
for mine and those his parts smooth rivaling
Everest always beckoning to be climbed

And surprises
tenderness on his part
graces unexpected quick disrobing

the easy nakedness the hunger so
clean the affection grown from early
flings to ring heart rosaries forged

toes fall down to tumbles
grasps and pressing flesh
its own alchemy merging
but let there be two solid
but encroachable objects
together crushed into each

He is soon departed
likelihood of similar rare
the room empties
late afternoon shadows
his leaving leaves
traces and I am full

yet

emptiness is never fuller but
for beloved's absence felt which
of course is

the mystic's launch
the desert dweller and the roof
the longing tooth gnawing

one claws inwardly through
layers to find that Name which
Holier Ones say is written on
the back of the Heart

Thus remain I here in monk cell
soon to be more the monk's than
once spunk monkey's boudoir
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  92.     

from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

I have been encouraging Krishna (which is a funny thing to say, Krishna being a bold, blue God) to find a language coach to help him with his accent, to tone it down while keeping the wonderful music/lilt of it...he complains of tilting his head as he talks 'as all Indians do' but I insist he merely speak and let his head and hands speak, too, in their own way. If he does more public events he will need to be understood clearly when he speaks while preparing his magnificent dishes from his country, his rich feasts of stories of the chilies from his mother's garden entwined by morning glories, the morning cock already at quarrel with the world just beyond the tin reaching in to take some spices too enticing to refuse...

I always feel as if he is, or will soon be, bored with me and my humble 'ministrations' but he sweeps into my little room like a Raj, a young prince beaming, brimming full of stories to tell me, usually some food spicy hot he has prepared for me offered with a grin. Then he strips instantly down, lays upon the down pallet in easy, unabashed nakedness - it catches my breath, I do want to see! I hurriedly 'hide' my Ganesha, the prominent statue of the god I have in front of my useless fireplace; this hiding I half understand...but still, naked, he has a fresh and beautifully made tattoo of Ganesha on his shoulder, he wears a Ganesha necklace, a Ganesha bracelet, and a Ganesha waist scapular, the image of which is just below his navel. So why, I ask only myself and Ganesha, never Krishna, why must I hide my large wooden Ganesha statue? But I do hide Him in deference to Krishna's wishes and meanwhile have intercourse with the god-in-miniature, scraping a necklace trunk with an ear, a tongue, receive a scapular kiss of the image upon my forehead as I trace those wonderful hairlines of the male body on my way to other deities.

Ah! give me all the cabbages in the world in all my poverty! Am I not, too, a Raj of floors and scented pillows, this beaming god beneath me thrusting utterly to reveal his secrets, his desires, his pleasures to me who am not, when all is done, a god?

Life, dear Valdosta, over all, is good, yes? I wish it no ill. But, agreeing with the cock, I will quarrel, even fight, with life when young men still leap too soon from bridges because I have learned (and relearn it hard lesson by hard lesson at a time) visionary company insists its tracings in many forms, man to man being but one holy expression, those sons, burning mother's hands upon them demanding, insisting to life that each her sons is a rajah, a Sleepy Bee.

So please the intemperate humanity, in the face of patient deities the burning ones are leaping still and I am ill with grief, with prayer, their dead bodies gone, their now emptier hands.

And he leaves me.

I return to my poems.

The room is filled with Krishna, aromas of rose oil in his hair, pungent spices in his sweat and upon his hands and skin, and sex.

I retrieve Lord Ganesha out from his little sanctuary of hiding (it seems I am always retrieving deities) and we both laugh richly. I remember to sprinkle some cologne upon Him, to pour out some milk into His votive bowl, to rub His belly, to light another candle (the other extinguished, panting, while we were busy bees exchanging knees and sighs, diffusing male spices into bracing air, fingers upon oily chilies thickening in always morning hunger) .

I light more incense and thank Lord Ganesha in all his forms, appearing both large and small, His adornment of Secrets, though one cannot easily hide an Elephant, man-love, and more in such a small universe whose toes I seek to tickle then gather for a shoe as tides shrink and swell, grow and diminish depending upon the worshipers, those who will do so in spite of those who would kill delicate or manly infidels whose worship, forever babies breath, is all the more meaningful.

Be damned the trellises. The petals shall reach, shall extend outward.

The violin's throat is cut.

'Do not ask me to see it! '
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon