Yes, she's strange and different...but not THAT different.

02 March 2006

Open Source Poem - 6

(In addition to adding stanza 6, I have taken the liberty of shifting the numbering system from Roman to Arabic numerals. If this particular piece gets very large, Roman numerals could become very unwieldy. And I'm going to tag Jen Burke for the next stanza because I know she can do it.)

Open Source Poem

If every moment has a continued existence in the mind,
isn’t it kind to think that the medium,here before you,
his handlebar moustache marking him out as eccentric,
the tweed trousers a mistake for his years, only forty,
stands some suspect chance, admittedly, of revealing
to you, the seeker, some hint, a shadow of her heart?

To even have a shadow of a heart, one must first have had a heart,
Admitted the senses, the feelings of humanity to oneself,
Taken a part in that human game known as life, confessed their mortality.
How could I then be known to anyone else? How could he know me?
For him to truly know me, I would have to have knowledge of myself
And that mystery of self is hazier still to me than to he.

But that mystery is the reason, for being here
To try and understand, to learn which path to take
Entrusting ones life to the ethereal plane and its whims
Or is it to a showman, a flim-flam, a fake?
Taking your inner demons and twisting your soul for profit
Who is the eccentric now?

Rilke says, "Every angel is terrible." He means, Beauty
burns us down. Consider dusk. What does it mean?
Every day cows return to the barn. James Wright says,
"I have wasted my life." Anyone could say everything
and not live up to that. Cows in barn. Angels asleep.
The medium before you. Consider the dusk.

Consider the medium before you, the dusky
moment continued in the mind, a shadow the heart
throws over reason, its little mystery squeamish
at angles, at cowbells, at trousers, at veal
and its reveal, at game rules on boxtops on lazy
hazy Sundays. Whose innertube turns in foam below
the treatment plant?

The boiling medium of frothy toxic outfall
swallows whole the medium so recently before you,
yet his inner tube drifts on until stillness reflects
only rainbows and shadows. The prostitution of his
genuine eccentric talents has eroded reason and illusion
until his life dissolves. (yet ripples and echoes remain.)

  • On 3/02/2006 8:50 PM, Blogger Jen said…

    I'm honored and shall do. I was about to send you an email on this and other stuff. I was rejected FOUR times while trying. Sorry to put it here, but since I can't get to you via email...

    This message bounced back to me in my inbox:

    This is the Postfix program at host

    I'm sorry to have to inform you that your message could not
    be delivered to one or more recipients. It's attached below.

  • On 3/03/2006 6:29 AM, Anonymous Spicy Cauldron said…

    Cool. I love the way the poem is maintaining a consistency and it's become such a philosophical piece. I guess that comes from starting it with the idea of visiting a medium, and for what purpose... well, who knows right now? There are some wonderful stanzas, it's shaping up as something very special. I'm so pleased the idea is catching on and a big plus is the fact that it allows the readers and participants to discover other blogs they might like in a new way. I've been having lots of fun tracking forwards and backwards in the poem's lifeline. x

  • On 3/03/2006 11:34 AM, Blogger Jami said…

    Jen - try again. I think I fixed it.

    Spicy - (can I use your name or do you like being called "Spicy"?) I'm glad you like it. Once I started, it was hard to keep the stanza from running away from me. I want to get back in the chain but not until others have had their input.


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