It is not with the lyre of someone in love that I go seducing people. The rattle of the leper is what sings in my hands. Jane Kenyon
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
(Paper Batik Montage,Title "Philemon, The Muse")
On the second day.......
M U S I N G
"Philemon....brought home to me the crucial insight that
there are things in the psyche which I do not produce, but which
produce themselves and have their own life. Philemon
represented a force which was not myself.....I observed
clearly that it was he who spoke, not I."
C G Jung
What do I call you? Your names
are as many as the aliases
of a chameleon. Philemon, the Paranormal
Phenomenon. Ern Malley, the myth greater
than its makers. Muse, she who is An
Other. These names are flower-less bouquets
and you are no topiary in a botanical
garden, you are the jungle spirit whose rain-forest
leaves cannot be trimmed by human
shears. Your epithet is a multipennate
title but it does not tell us
whether you are the "white swan
that lies santified upon my trembling
intuitive arm or the peacock perched
on the sole Arabian tree."*
You are before the first name and beyond
all names. To name you is to imprison
you in the far country of my vocabulary.
The only way to set you free
into the Kingdom-at-hand that you
baptised me into is not
to christen you for no name
can contain that which my uner-
standing cannot evengelise!
*phrases borrowed from Ern Malley's poems
Saturday, October 21, 2006
ANOTHER KIND OF MAGICIAN
"Yet Long ago, there was another kind of magician.
His was not the magic of illusion, jugglery or
His arts were real and transformed reality.
His counter-sign was the spoken word, unravelled
from long study of ancient runes."
"Writing a poem is like pulling something out
of a hat, but with a difference - you may think
yourself the magician but not even you know
what you're going to get."
Lee Tzu Pheng
In the beginning darkness was on the face
of the deep. Then God said, "Let there
be poetry!" and there was poetry, making
light from darkness, shaping forms
from the void, creating the big bang
from the one hand clapping.
On the first day........
"In that it eludes definition, poetry is a mystery. That it is
so, comes from its having a common origin and source with dreams.
It is of the nature of dreams, constituted of a language of
symbols or signs and like dreams, is autonomous in that its
appearance is not subject to the will."
Wong Phui Nam
I know where you slumber, in clouds
reached by a Jacob's ladder.
I know where you awake, in ravine
darkness, the light of the mountain peak
only a retina away. I know where you
hide, a pterodactyl between the limestones
of my mind, the dry twigs of your skeleton
waiting to kindle a phoenix to life.
I know how you begin, you are
the pages of a book before the falling
of a tree. You are the words incarnated
on leaf before the thoughts puckered
the brow. You are the dream
of a dream!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Parody Of Healing
"When she thinks of home,/ the word home echoes
in her mouth / like the dead / echoes in the
mouth of the living." "Home" by Selima Hill
I like Selima Hill's poetry, here
are some lines that pair oddly
with her poem.
When I think of healing, the word
healing echoes in my mouth
like the word healing in the mouth
of a dead as he passes through
twelve pearl gates en route to a Paris
whose walls are adorned with twelve
types of precious stones
And suddenly I think healing