Category Archives: Imagism

“So Easy to Feel”

“So Easy to Feel”

So easy to feel, to seem to be, to know at last propinquity
As if the light declares the coming glory of the sun at daybreak
Redundant. But as that disk cannot be seen for more than seconds, I take
That certainty of coming morning within me,
Knowing that midnight’s richest prize in ivory
Is forever fixed as is the station of the sun; the moon an intimate
In someone’s flight, perhaps, but even so, as she reveals herself in states
And phases never hers, agitation gains nothing in the motion save in memory
And affectations of the sea within me–force upon another force,
Measured consequence of a functionary that renders boundaries
Of continental pride and the ocean’s doors
Cast aside in the riot of the tides, a natural stampede, no more
Than thresholds of natural accident, the stream and river’s course
Now rising, now again a swelling to apostrophes, eternal inertia born of gravity.

“No Phoenix Dotes”


“No Phoenix Dotes”

No phoenix dotes, no albatross may linger long. The quail need fear
For nothing in the night, nor dove the eagles of the day
In precocious queues while the leaders speaking parables say
Whatever comes to mind, a finale of raw anticipation in arrears.
There are in any year those misnomer’d festivals, ferial seasons
Cut adrift by aimless circumstance and accidental chance,
A shameless perversion of the odds while a glance
To the right or left reveals clarity and reasons
Raised beyond the calculations of malicious minds.
Eagles discover indolence and periodic indifference outright.
When the winds gesture favourably in arcs of artificial light;
Above the here and now, pleasure ssurely seek its kind,
And well within the breech, parameters of careless joys soon
Dilute the fearsome images of bloodstained wolves and owls,
beneath a panoply of nocturnal props and playthings of the moon.

“How Soon?”

Nebraska Sand Hills Monster Supercell Storm“How Soon?”

How soon? I would be rid of rooms and paperweights
That cheat the scales and calculate the tales of whatever I’m about.
And when the last hour’s phatic pleasantries are made and I am  out
The door, I’ll be charging headlong for the fields beyond the artificial dates
Of screaming calendars to feed on endless smiles,
The natural harvests of grasslands stretched beneath my feet. I’ll greet
The memories and naked weathering winds on new-plowed yields to seed,
The freshly mined scores of sapphires, lavenders in wild-flowers though miles
Of crisp and fresher verse, the swelling pregnant soils between the harvest
And the husbandman.  For just so sweet a pause as this, oh, yes!
Nebraska’s wheaten seas sustain the subtle sirens of the shallow Platte and west
Beyond the borders of the sandhills; here, the meadowlarks nest
And little else. But, no, I’ll not hold the birthplace of these sonnets’ true rebuttal;
And labours at the loom, the weaver’s warp and woof that’s lost his shuttle.

“Stealing Glances”

Total Solar Eclipse

“Stealing Glances”

Stealing glances, yes! and desire overcomes
All common sense that says, “You cannot stare!”
Sensations pleased, and sure as hell with greatest care,
The opening and final shot above the knees, a loaded gun
Forevermore. It can blind you and you know it. Jealous suns
Make loans that can never be repaid. Still we yearn for nightmares,
Never-ending glories in eclipse that skip the stairs,
Traverse justice in arrears, forfeit choice and stun
The heart with lasting images of naked blasphemy no fig leaf ever covers.
Ponder this, that with that next eternal kiss, no holy lovers
Through lean and inner miles, no continent can bear the weight
Nor estimate the station of any other soul in any other rôle. We navigate
By day, apprise ourselves of little in the gloom
while nocturnal rainbows bleeding colours
In the blinding hours remind us that we need
no more than candles in the darkest room.




Humility–unwieldy companion to arrogance–speaks;
In time, longevity in the Philistine at last
Ignites a divine belated blessèd anger, a righteous task
Of inevitable cosmic correction, a conscious meeting
Of place, heart, and justice inward while but a fleeting
Moment entangles exponents with reality; the hour has passed;
Its purpose, certitude. Illumination in the glass
Reveals the cosign of beauty; a faith, sans gleaming
Spark leavens all and leaves no doubt wasting nothing in its evening
—A meagre point of knowledge as with a single atom addressed at last
Avoiding capture in the very act of viewing.
No substitute for misconstruing
Immortality for license, this thing must grasp
A certain concrete action plausible in similitude and innuendo
As all natural pains reverse themselves in their own crescendo.



“The Midnight Hymn”

by Friedrich Nietzsche
[ 1844 A.D. - 1910 A.D.]

Oh man!  Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
I slept!
I have awakened from a deep dream.

The world is deep.
And deeper than the day remembers.
Deep is its suffering.

Joy is deeper yet than heartache!

Suffering speaks:  Begone!

All joys want eternity,
Want deep, deep eternity.


Stanford University The Burghers of Calais by Auguste Rodin


Selflessness–flesh of arrogance–heeding, breeding
Longevity in philistines, reaching to the point of ennui at last
Ignites a fire in the blessèd, the righteous task
Of truth’s correction, potentials in a conscious meeting
Place—the heart—and outward while fleeting
Instruments presumed consume themselves in the the hour past
Its purpose, certitude. The catalyst—Illumination of the glass—
Reveals knowledge, faith, and prodigies of the gleaming
Arc that leaves no doubt, no time to delegate.
Discoveries addressing themselves as adagios
And like atoms terminate in the very act of viewing.
Markers, signs and metaphors are no substitute for misconstruing
Immortality for license; no laughing matter culminates
In action, nor in subterfuge beyond the grasp of simple innuendo.

“The Guests”


“The Guests”

The guests are sundry supine, but never mind.
Was it something I said? You’ll find so many walkers
So much weaker than yourself–stalkers
Loitering at the starlight dining room. So divine,
They think to be with me. They’ve asked to join
The wake, but these, my friend, have not been asked;
They brought no invitation. The door’s been trashed
The furniture, the dishes, all the silverware purloined.
Nothing says it quite as well as, “you’d be
Entirely welcome here beneath the sternum. Door’s unlocked
Because you know you may as well just walk
Right in and sign on the dotted line. Please
Feel free to tell me who you are. Bathroom’s down the hall and not far
Beyond, you’ll find the kitchen and some pomegranates–the door’s ajar.

“I Understand the Problem”

Gottfried Helnwein

“I Understand the Problem”

I understand the problem fairly well.
I am three-score years and more, I have one good eye
That still perceives albeit with an unpolished lens–skies
Are not more blue. Your eyes are young, you barely spell;
Your face is wrung with feigned abuse,
And when you write, you care nothing for the form,
The page, the colour of the ink. The cover of your book is worn
Not from age, even less from practicum of use,
But prominently, proudly displayed as if a medal, something won, someone’s gaff,
Proceeds from a raffle, a righteous rage inherited closer to a family door prize,
You’ve become a coupon, a rain check for some far-flung bold surprise.
“And what are your credentials?” you ask. Reply: “What is it makes you laugh?”
“I see no reason to give credit to the past, nor have I any need of laws!”
“‘Here am I’ should be enough; my life, my book, my word, my staff!”

…painting/photographs by Gottfried Helnwein…

“The Streets of Montréal”


“The Streets of Montréal”

The streets of Montréal are empty now.
The neighbouring labouring winter lingers as the bus stops sigh.
Procrastination signs in odd displays of petulance at what must come south
From colder, darker Hudson nights as ice rusts earlier every year in forests; as if reminding us of reasons for early thaw. North from sales
In Southern giveaways the multi-fronts wave greetings from so many hills away;
Flight lanes set by geese suggest a conscious prodigeous delay
As newscasts and conspiracy reports have some little to say of chemtrails
As heckling sunspots’ hour to hour display for weather wearied eyes
Not at all concerned with what’s for dinner but everything to gain as teams
Of salvage crews prey along New England’s ocean shores. Reams
Of information on the cable news hours’ finely honed cyclones surface lies
And cries of what’s in Gaia’s oven and what on earth is all that’s going down
As BP Oil’s politicians in shameless self-promotion make their
usual strident claims that bolster bookies and talk show hosts placing bets
on just exactly when, not if the Mississippi rises next
and what, not whom coastline levies drown.


“There’s Nothing in Neruda”

Blue Dawn

“There’s Nothing in Neruda”

There’s nothing in Neruda* that’s not been said,
No subtle hint, no helpful word, no turn
Of phrase, no bold assertion that to earn
A place beneath the skin one must be bled,
Detained, flattered in the stacks of libraries, betrayed,
A Caulfield** in search of what Bukowski***never found
in hopes of finding hidden pearls among
Unnatural grains of sand before the oyster’s song was ever sung,
And all before his cock crew thrice—You know he never paid
Beyond the going price.
Are we not forgetting something here?

The witnesses? Another round of hemlock, please! and as the academics cheer
the proceeds of yet another idle idyll, a second glass of wine, perhaps a clear
And unequivocable glance at the mirror sitting there to interpolate
the riddle loaves and fishes of enigma or the positive benefits of fear.
Ah, yes! Neruda may have told the tale, but who was he to give us hope,
And from what box he now quotes himself and never
gives a river’s damn about what it was he wrote?
Of course, I can’t be sure of it, but from here it looks
For all the world that in truth I am you
And you are me
and there’s the misery, the mystery, the view

That’s missing in the metaphors and similes, the clue refined from brooks
And seas, the bakers’ scales and finely tuned anomalies,
the national sport of news and fresh cacophanies, hooks
By which we are urgently define and hone  the truth askew
From certitude, and based in faith that  separates all from each, proved
Or unapproved in swarms of groups and nations, the accidental nooks
And crannies of every greatness, every generation, seminar, religion,
Clan and sanctified plan proposed, to accent ancient schools and families.
All experience expresses the inverse from Hammurabi to our beloved Ramses,
Seen as freaks and distant relatives and relegated to exceptions
With a shot of charisma or some other social clot, profusion
In the masses of exclusion throughout of all the spies of life that seek.
So much to say with so little time to speak,
Whether for the self or for the same in orderly confusion.
Still larger loans from banks of life’re sired from brothers,
Even greater obligations and demands from mountain peaks,
And beyond the heights, the snowy summons of the higher roads and streets.
The recreating lights that cut the edge of fear of sacrifice in grieving mothers
Leads the restive albatross to discover, possibly to smother
In the blasphemy of his own need and greener pastures elsewhere―
a weak and weaker Icarus―in search of tests that cannot keep
His lightnings’ glories save in darker South Georgian seas, blunders
To suspect within his breast and nothing when at last he sleeps:
He discovers little more than what the drop within the puddle seeks.

*Chilean poet and diplomat, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973]
**Character from the novel The Catcher in the Rye, a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
***German born American poet Charles Bukovski [August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994]

…Art at the top of this post, Liu Bolin 刘勃麟 – Photography of China