Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Luciferins

Dream, Poetry | Posted by jmoore
Feb 21 2010

jellyfish1

I was born into a culture
of nebulous phosphenes.
My eyes, from rubbing,
had built in floaters
specks of luminosity
electric sparks charging the visual battery.

I threw a rock into a purple lake

(memory recall recalls memories
distant faces distant past)

deep below the ground
clunking through a fissure
startling a jelly fish, it hung
perched with clenched tentacles.

It slinked & I followed
underneath black ice waves
past cave white crays
and blind shrimp

I wanted to reach bottom
touch the cracked stalactites
but my lungs ache
shivering from the undertow
ecstatic cold,
dreams of oblivion

screaming empty bubbles,
my bronchia filled with brine
then I saw the Kraken
sitting on a nest of jewels,
his glowing Luciferins shined.

-February 7th, 2010

Silk Milk Four

Dream, Magick, Musick, Poetry | Posted by jmoore
Feb 01 2010

I am pleased to announce that the long awaited S p o o l number Four of Silk Milk Magi-Zain from Inspiral Multimedia Press, edited and collated by Oryelle Defenestrate-Bascule, is available for pre-order. Set to launch on February 16th, the issue has become massive: 184 pages including the cover and pullout, 80 in colour. The DVD that contains around 2 hours of audio and 1 hour of video. I feel honored and blessed to be among the seventy plus contributors, having both a piece of visual art, based on a dream, and a poem, based on a dream included. I also think there will be a song from the forthcoming Order of Chaos global music project included, the song in question being a collaboration betwixt Mike Browning, Oryelle Defenestrate-Bascule, and myself.
Check out the table of contents and preorder here:
http://www.crossroads.wild.net.au/silkmilk4.htm

Tam Lin

Dream, Poetry | Posted by jmoore
Jan 21 2010

O all you ladies young of heart,
Who are so sweet of sound,
Do not go to Catherine’s wood,
where Tam Lin is found.

Fair Margret sat in her bonny bower,
sewing silver silken seams,
wishing to be in Catherine’s wood,
among the leaves so green.

She let her seam fall to her foot,
the needle to her toe,
for she has gone to Catherines’ wood,
as fast as she could go.

When she began to pull the flowers,
she pulled both red and green;
Tam Lin did come, and Tam Lin did go.
The Fair maid, “let me be.”

“O why pluck you the flowers, lady,
Why climb yonder tree?
Why have ye come to Catherine’s wood
whithout the leave of me?”

“O I will pull the flowers,” she said,
“I will break the tree,
For Catherine’s wood is my own,
I’ll not ask leave from thee.”

He took her by the milk-white hand,
And by the grass green sleeve,
And took her down on the flowers,
not asking for her leave.

The lady blushed, and sorely frowned,
to think upon her shame;
saying,  “If you we’re a gentleman,
at least you’d tell your name.”

“First they called me Jack,” he said,
“And then they called me John,
But since I’ve lived in the Fairy Court
Tam Lin has been my name.

So do not pluck the flower, lady,
that has those pimples gray;
for it would destroy the bonny babe
begotten in our play.”

“O tell me”, Tam Lin,” she said,
“tell me what you never told,                                                                                                                                                                                     are you an earthly man
a knight or baron bold?”

“O I’ll you my lady,
what I never did tell.
I am the Lord Foul’s son,
the heir of all this land.

But it fell once upon a time,
as hunting I did ride,
as I rode east and west yon hill
there woe did me betide.

O drowsy, drowsy I was!
Dead sleep upon me fell,
the Queen of Fairies she was there,
and she took me to herself.

The Elfins is a pretty place,
in which I love to dwell,
but at every seven years end
we pay a tithe to Hel.

And as I am of flesh and blood,
myself I greatly fear,
for the cleverest man in all our train
to Hel must go this year.

On this night of Halloween;
our fairy court will ride,
Through all the world so wide
And if ye would me borrow,
at Rides Cross you must bide.

You may go into the Miles Moss,
between twelve hours and one;
take holy well water in your hand,
and cast a compass round.”

“But how shall I know thee Tam Lin,
oh how my True Love know?
among so many uncouth knights
the likes I never saw?”

“The first court that comes along,
you’ll let them all pass by,
the next court that comes along,
salute them reverently.

The next court that comes along
is clad in robes of green,
and it’s the head court of them all,
for in it rides the queen.

And I upon a milk-white steed,
with a silver star in my crown;
because I am an earthly man
next to the queen in renown.

She rode down to Miles Cross,
between twelve hours and one,
with holy well water in her hand,
casting a compass round.

The first court that came along,
she let them all pass by;
the next court that came along
she saluted reverently.

The next court that came along
Were clad in robes of green,
with Tam Lin, on a milk-white steed,
she saw riding with the queen.

She seized him with a spring,
and to the ground did fall,
and then she heard a rueful cry
that Tam Lin is all.

He grew into her arms
like a savage beast so wild;
but she held him fast, let him not go,
for he’s the father of her child.

Then he grew in her two arms
like a snake or adder,
she held him fast, let him not go,
to be a worthy father.

He heated in her arms
like an iron in strong fire;
but she held him fast, let him not go,
he was her hearts desire

Then sounded out the Elfin court,
with a loud shout and cry,
That pretty maid of Catherine’s wood
That day had caught her prey.

“O stay, Tam Lin,” cried the Fairy Queen,
“Till I pay you your fee”
“His father has lands and rents enough,
He wants no fee from thee.”

“O had I known at early morn
Tam Lin from me’d be gone,
I would have taken his heart of flesh
and put in a heart of stone.”

But Fair Margaret held him in her arms
she held fast the naked knight
to take him home to her bonnie bower
to clothe in armour bright.

Note: This is a version I pieced together from the Francis Child ballads “39 D and J”, also changing the language slightly here and there.  I was compelled to do this after a synchronicity series that began on my honeymoon with Audrey in Maine.  For a full report on that please see the previous post “A Tam Lin Tale“.

A Tam Lin Tale

Dream, Musick, Poetry | Posted by jmoore
Nov 16 2009

What follows is a report of recent insights/experiences leading up to Samhain.

Tam Lin

As Samhain approached this year I was gradually and gently drawn to the ballad of Tam Lin, traditionally of Scottish origin. It started out on my honeymoon with my wife Audrey. We took two books to Maine with us to read to eachother during the long nights after days tramping around the forests and mountains of Acadia National Park. The one in question is “Fire and Hemlock” by Diana Wynn Jones. I picked it because it was said to be a romantic fantasy. While the action in this book is admittedly slow it carries with it the strong force of the otherworld. It is a retelling of the story of Tam Lin in a modern idiom. Admittedly, I have heard versions of the Tam Lin ballad before, most notably by Current 93 who are a favorite band of mine, but it was one of the few Current 93 songs I had never given much time to in their vast ouevre. So I was not altogether unfamiliar with it, but not very. During the second half of our trip we were staying with friends and family in Portland, Maine and progress on reading the book slowed until we got back home to Cincinnati. I hadn’t made the connection, until it came to that point in the story, that the final actions in the Tam Lin ballad take place on Halloween. It was the night before the vulgar, calendar Oct. 31st version of Halloween that we finished the book. It was a nice match up of events that was not planned at all, but was of course perfectly natural.

Now for a diversion, eventually returning us to the subject of the ballad:
On our last night in Maine I had a powerful dream:

Homecoming

I am walking out of the woods on a path I used to travel as a child. It is taking me into the Valley, a place of nature between two streets where I also used to play as a young child. As I walk into the Valley I feel the same sense of mystery and magic that I felt when playing there as a child. I see a house nestled in it and I go into it.  Inside I realize that I want to live here. But this house already belongs to someone, the poet Gary Snyder. Yet it still feels right that I am there. There is a pile of wood outside for the fires that will heat the hearth come winter.

In the past year I’d developed a moderate interest in the poetry of Gary Snyder, for his naturalist mysticism, his involvement with Eastern cultures, and his views on community, the environment, in the grounding of experience in a particular place. Having had this dream, part of the action I wanted to take on its behalf was to delve further into Snyder’s work.

The Magick Musick of the Moon

On my second day back at work at the main Library in Cincinnati, I read a nice article on Reality Sandwich about the ethnomusicologist, magician, filmmaker, and collector Harry Smith. As I read it I was thinking about how much the Beats have given to culture, the ways in which they shaped it, and how their own ideas were influenced by mysticism & magick. I was also thinking of how the Golden Dawn did this in a similar, seeding various ideas, concepts, and magick into the world. As I was thinking these things I felt the strong presence of the ancestors around me. This was all still leading up to Halloween, and so it seemed very natural that the ancestors would be near me. Maybe they are not my genetic ancestors, but are part & parcel of the spiritual of which I am a part. Among those whose presence I felt was that of Allen Ginsberg, and the next day, following intuitions lead, read “Kaddish” the long poem written for his mother. It seemed appropriate also that I would be reading a poem mourning the death of a mother, as my own Mom had passed away in the summer of 2008. She and I were very close, and indeed still are. In any case, by following these inner promptings I eventually wrote some new poetry inspired by Harry Smith’s conception of the Old Weird America and Allen Ginsbergs vision of a new America.

In the meantime I had started reading “Moon Magic” by Dion Fortune. All of the ideas from these various readings were cross pollinating in a wyrd brew. Various sections of Moon Magic seemed to be directly related to many of the motifs that we in the Hermaphroditic Chaorder of the Silver Dusk are working with. That shouldn’t be suprising really, but the actuality of it struck with new force, we being the Lunar Artistic counterpoint to the Golden Dawns Solar Science. Then a phrase leapt out of the book which was directly related to the way I had been thinking of the influence of the Golden Dawn and the Beats:

“We hold, we initiates, that we can bring a thing through from the Inner Planes into manifestation by acting it out symbolically. That is why ritual is used. Now if you and I were to work out together the particular problem I want to solve, it would be solved for the race, because we are part of the race, and whatever is realised in our minds becomes part of the group mind and spreads like ferment.”

I like this very much because what is a culture but a type of fermentation? And as my friend Oryelle said in an email, “maybe the beats were the Acidopholous.”

Full Circle

In the meantime I had looked up some audio files on the internet. Archive.org hosts a huge collection of recordings made at the Naropa Institute. I was very pleased to find recordings of Harry Smith talking about Pacific Northwest Indian ceremonies and a series of classes given by Gary Snyder. I was even more suprised, on the actual Full Moon day of Samhain, Nov. 2nd, to listen to his class, and lo and behold he begins to discuss the Ballad of Tam Lin.  He even played a version by Fairport Convention.  (a very different-textually & otherwise- C93 version here). His talks delved deep into shamanism, one of the most interesting parts being how a shaman (or poet) catches a song that can be used to heal the sick, and by extension the whole community.

Part of the way I honored these insights/experiences/etc. was by playing both versions (although there are countless more) on the radio. Today I decided that I am going to go a stop further and record my own version of the ballad, although I still have to decide on which version of the text to use. It will be more surreal and electronic than the other versions I’ve heard because that it is the way I am comfortable working musically, and I may re-write & synthesize various texts to produce my own version. Whatever I do I will be working to call forth the energies of the Otherworld and ground them further into this one.

The City Is A Dream

Poetry | Posted by jmoore
Jun 25 2009

Faces both familiar and strange,
curve through the mystic canopy
of skyline skylights.
Grey men move into mercantile ziggurats
holding hostage time,
sit in plush rooms, smoke cigars,
above the People’s marketplace
(a quaint breeding ground
for redneck carnivals,
a pulpit for clownish impresarios).

The City is a Dream
of a full moon, a blood moon
an invitation to a scarlet masquerade,
written on an old postcard
whose memory is never the same.
The City is yearning, desirous
exultant in the reckless passions
executed by youths,
(eased into
with wrinkled hands holding old age)
behind one hundred doors
soaked into the love stained sheets
of a thousand boudoirs,
a condom thrown from the shotgunned window
of a pimped out gangsta car.

The City is a Nightmare factory
of dripping chemicals bleaching ancient shells,
a bricked over canal covering ancient hells,
an underworld of secret pipes and drains,
graffitoed in the calligraphy of fire:
hash smoking sultans
hide harems in the sewers.

Paved over, the street tops are pock marked
like the faces of snout nosed politicians
who ride across in motorcades
their tongues crooked,
forged from broken blades.

The City is a Palimpsest
a lingering note on a musical score,
long forgotten, locked in a dusty drawer.
The City is a Cemetery
whose dead aren’t laid to rest
(children step off yellow school buses
into puddles splashing rain
not singing the cemetery song)
only the dirge is heard, struck at cathedrals
on clockwork hours, marking the beginnings
of endless rotework shifts,
sleepwalking, the grey men dead suits
drift into

dreams of invisible cities
where friendly dogs lick the coal ash
off the face of a chimney sweep.
Dreaming of internet cities
constructed from blinking lights
red lights inside the crackhouse parlors
where vapor trails of crystal smoke
vivisect the night;
consumed by sordid dreams
inside bickering brothels
of carnal pleasures and venereal spite,
where the puttanesca is as cold
as the John left to breathe
his last asphyxiated dream.

The City is a parking lot
built over your grandpas baseball field,
a meadow of screeching whales
as trains bleed into the harbor.
Incest knows the city
as does dishonor and Victorian disgrace
the City is a kingdom of illegitimate sons,
fallen princes,
a place where birds fashion nests
from old braided nylon weaves and fast food wrappers,
where sleeping bags are unfurled beneath the overpass.
The City is a jaundiced liver
fortified by wine,
a fecund blister, a conundrum
sticky as the bubblegum on the bottom of a shoe.

The amusement park is a City
waiting to be dumpster dived,
a menu whose restaurant is never the same
a library of babel whose voluptuous pages
electrify the fatigue of a fog smoked brain.

The City is a ruse,
a weary mirage enticing neon travelers.
The City is a sphinx
of many headed riddles,
a phantom trajectory
whose presence cannot be traced.

note: This poem was inspired by and written after reading the first half of Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities.