Author Topic: Poetry/prose/creative writing.  (Read 1639 times)

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Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #15 on: November 05, 2018, 09:29:20 AM »
It's great to see someone who appreciates good poetry.

I know good poetry well enough to know that I'm not very good at it yet, my poems are mere nursery rhymes in comparison to W. B. Yeats or William Blake, but I guess we all must start somewhere, right?

I actually have some really good writing and poetry, however, I am very hesitant to share my best works in a venue where just about anybody could claim them as their own. Don't get me wrong, I would be flattered if someone claimed my poetry as their own, it's just some of my better works are deeply personal and have deep meaning and personal significance to me, those works are severed pieces of my soul, and as a result I'm very protective over them. Also, I am very shy, I don't even tell anyone that I read or write poetry.

The incomplete poems I wrote here, not necessarily for the thread, but I pulled up the thread and just started typing, and the end result was what you see here. Really not great, but not the most horrible poetry, I think I'm slowly getting better. ...I think my poems are all emotion and no technique, and that if I sharpen my skills and techniques I might have the potential to be a decent poet.

Any way, I'm glad you are reading the poems here.

When I was a kid I would read terence McKenna, and I always loved the way he was able to interpret that Yeats poem as speaking about "turning yourself inside out" where the soul would become exteriorized as the UFO, or a flying golden disc made of Grecian gold and gold enameling...

...That the soul must be made manifest and eternal and the body must be incorporealized so that it is a freely commanded object in the imagination.
What I mean by that is something like what William Butler Yeats is getting at in his poem, Sailing to Byzantium.  Where he speaks of the artifice of eternity and talks about how beyond death, he would hope to be an enameled golden bird singing sweet songs to the lords and ladies of Byzantium.  In other words, it’s the image of the human body become an indestructible cybernetic object and yet within that indestructible cybernetic object, there is a holographic transform of the body and it is released into the dream.  In other words, the after death state is actually the compass of human history that we are attempting to undergo a complete death of the species.  As we struggle with this concrescence of Thanatos, there are problems like nuclear stockpiles and all these things arise, because the message we’re trying to read is the message that we most fear to hear, which is that you must die to experience eternal life essentially.  But what this death that we’re talking about is, is an understanding that the human dasein, the being of human beings desires to be released into the imagination and until we confront death with the attitude that it is the after death state that needs to enter history, there will be a great deal of anxiety.

It’s like a birth.  A birth is a death.  Everything you treasure, believe in, love and relate to is destroyed for you when you leave the room and you are launched into another modality.  A modality that you would not perhaps have chosen but that you cannot do anything about.  So I think these drugs anticipate this because I think time is a moving image of eternity, as Plato said, and these drugs place you outside of time.  Now the mechanism of how that’s done, you can invoke Bell’s theorem, or just call it pure magic, but it does happen in the here and now.  It is accessible and it is not something remote from us.  But somehow the clamor of the modern world and in search for answers, people have feared to place themselves on the line and to actually wrestle with life and death ‘out there’ in those strange bardo like dimensions - not realizing that there is no other way to win true knowledge.  It cannot be easily come by.  There is no knowledge without risk taking. -terence McKenna

Most of the poems I really like relate to death in one way or another, however I don't view death in the western since where death is something dark and morbid, but more in the sense that it's an essential part of the natural process of being alive. I'm more like "day of the dead" where others are more "Halloween" , you know?

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #16 on: November 05, 2018, 09:34:58 AM »
All you that faine philosophers would be,
And night and day in Geber's kitchen broyle,
Wasting the chips of ancient Hermes' Tree,
Weening to turn them to a precious oyle,
The more you work the more you loose and spoile;
To you, I say, how learned soever you be,
Go burne your Bookes and come and learn of me.
- Sir Edward Kelly, Metrical Treatise on Alchemy. Last stanza

This poem above has stuck with me since my youth. I have my own personal interpretation of this poem, however, my interpretation probably isn't that far off from Kelly's intended meaning behind the work. While there is no evidence that john Dee or Edward Kelley had any connection to actual psychedelics, their alchemical thought process and ethos is more psychedelic than most would realize.

Any way, great work of alchemical poetry.

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #17 on: November 05, 2018, 09:41:01 AM »
One of my all time favorite poems.

Auguries Of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus'd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf's & Lion's howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov'd by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by Woman lov'd.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider's enmity.
He who torments the Chafer's sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist's Jealousy.
The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return'd to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.
The poor Man's Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith
Triumph's over Hell & Death.
The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour's iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They'd immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.
The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.
-William Blake

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #18 on: November 05, 2018, 09:52:50 AM »
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
-William Blake

Realms of bliss, realms of light
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to the endless night
End of the night, end of the night
End of the night, end of the night
-Jim Morrison

You can really see a lot of William Blake's influence on Jim Morrison, I mean, Jim even decided to name his band after one of my favorite William Blake quotes: If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is: Infinite. -William Blake

...most people assumed that Jim took the name from aldous Huxley's work "the doors of perception", not knowing that Huxley took the name from Blake, as did Jim.

...any way, William Blake's influence on Morrison is obvious.

William Blake is my favorite poet, and I would say James Joyce and terence McKenna are at the top of my "favorite writers" list, but there are too many great writers to even list.

I almost consider "Finnegans Wake" by James Joyce to be a work of poetry, though I consider that work to be many, many, other things as well...

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #19 on: November 05, 2018, 10:01:51 AM »
The Clod and the Pebble

‘Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

‘Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’

-William Blake

Offline judih

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Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #20 on: November 05, 2018, 10:51:03 PM »
warning - this thread to be read gently and with self-compassion.
breathe periodically. take a few mindful breaths. then, when ready, proceed.
a human heart is a delicate receptacle.  Wide spacey thoughts may open one's brain. Not to be read while driving or operating heavy machinery.

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #21 on: November 06, 2018, 09:15:33 AM »
Spacey thoughts? Here? Not likely.

This is higher functioning on an intellectual and a conscious level, however, the invalidation of such functioning and thoughts is an inimical part of it's structure...

Back to poetry:

I actually think that William Blake's 'clod and the pebble" is a perfect juxtaposition of the two forms that love tends to take, you have the clod which represents selfless love and the pebble which represents selfish love.

I could spend days analyzing these poems, but for the sake of this thread will keep things short, all though I'm probably the only person besides you who is reading any if this...

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #22 on: November 06, 2018, 09:21:43 AM »
Mind of psilocybin
by lucid optics
Observe and interpret
Up from the core to the surface
We are tenuous flicks of scintillation
Given an invitation to take a position in this pulsation
Life is death's vacation
As a child I was a vagrant
Learned every home held it's own fragrance
Differing versions of sacred decorate each person's faces
They complicate the basics till the common ground is evasive
Is it strange
Who take the cake weighs most?
And swallows hope of the masses
To live lavishly
Lay low
Found our way around this molecule
If we can scrape by in solitude
We'll climb grape vines when all of you
Shape this world how you wanted to
I'd like to eat well and to
Keep companions closer than the common recluse
Spewing seclusion in conclusion

Good leaders are no different than their followers
However elitists breed the fetus like it's Jesus...
Fucking... christ!
Dictated its life
Without realizing that your mind is yours for finding
Close your eyes and dive in privacy

We treat each other like garbage
Are we mimicking our surroundings?

Are we parrots with what we found
Or parasitic?
Killing our grounding

Astound I wither toward the grave
My fire flickers
As this unrelenting winter turns fingers to decrepit splinters
My voice in different locations
I'm a neutrino to Lucid adjacent
Communicating statements without leaving my current placement
Even when your will to be awake plummets and breaks
Don't be so distant and faceless
Just perforate the stasis
And represent yourself
Not your enemies and demons
Represent your self
Not your enemies and demons
It can be easy to grudge on autopilot for awhile
But you can probably cut some slack to people when
They can't make you smile
Free yourself from your own grip
Start to make some of your own shit

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #23 on: November 06, 2018, 09:28:05 AM »
Misanthropic drugged up loner
by Whitney Flynn & Jesse Sendejas

My breakfast is straight out the medicine cabinet
A remedy for the aftermath of my habits
Sometimes it's the ones who try to help
That hurt the most
I feel like we're playing tug of war and I'm the rope
And I'm stretched to the limit
But you keep on pulling me
And I'm gonna lose my goddamn mind, I'm gonna lose my mind

I want to hide away in the back of a cave
At the top of a mountain
Where no one can hear me and no one can see me
So I don't have to deal with them
And they don't have to deal with me
'Cause relationships are overrated
Maybe I'm just tired and jaded
But I'm sorry I just like myself more than I like you

So call me anti-social, call it masturbation
Either way it's a solo operation
I'm just far more comfortable alone

It appears that apathy
Has gotten the best of me
'Cause I'm so tired of you talking my ear off
About all your problems I just can't fix
I don't appreciate this unwanted company
And your constant chatter
Reminds me why I'd rather you leave me be

Offline judih

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Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #24 on: November 06, 2018, 10:50:18 PM »
there's a time to fill up the bucket
and a time to empty it.
(astrologer, Toronto, 1984)

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #25 on: November 07, 2018, 09:23:31 AM »
Ode 2180
By Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi, or Rumi for short

From these depths depart towards heaven;
may your soul be happy, journey joyfully.
You have escaped from the city full of fear and trembling;
happily become a resident of the Abode of Security
If the body’s image has gone, await the image-maker; if the
body is utterly ruined, become all soul.
If your face has become saffron pale through death, become a
dweller among tulip beds and Judas trees.
If the doors of repose have been barred to you, come, depart
by way of the roof and the ladder.
If you are alone from Friends and companions, by the help of
God become a saheb-qeran [lord of happy circumstance].
If you have been secluded from water and bread, like bread
become the food of the souls, and so become!

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #26 on: November 07, 2018, 09:33:36 AM »
Il Penseroso

Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain, [ 5 ]
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in som high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold


But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose Saintly visage is too bright
To hit the Sense of human sight;
And therfore to our weaker view, [ 15 ]
Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnons sister might beseem,
Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that strove
To set her beauties praise above [ 20 ]
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright- hair'd Vesta long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturns raign, [ 25 ]
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #27 on: November 07, 2018, 09:39:55 AM »

‘When the doors of perception are cleansed
Things will appear as they are:

—William Blake

‘There are things known
and there are things unknown,
and in between are the doors.’
—Jim Morrison

the doors
by Jim Morrison
Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus’d searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars, leaders
To give life form.
A child’s sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war. Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships
Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert
Tribal needs and memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family and the
safety magic of childhood

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.

An angel runs
Thru the sudden light
Thru the room
A ghost precedes us
A shadow follows us
And each time we stop
We fall

The Endless quest a vigil
of watchtowers and fortresses
against the sea and time.
Have they won? Perhaps.
They still stand and in
their silent rooms still wander
the souls of the dead,
who keep their watch on the living.
Soon enough we shall join them.
Soon enough we shall walk
the walls of time. We shall
miss nothing
except each other.

No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward

The Crossroads
a place where ghosts
reside to whisper into
the ears of travelers &
interest them in their fate
Hitchhiker drinks:
“I call again on the dark
hidden gods of blood”
—Why do you call us?
You know our price. It
never changes. Death of
you will give you life
& free you from a vile
fate. But it is getting late.
—If I could see you again
& talk w/ you, & walk a
short while in your company,
& drink the heady brew
of your conversations,
I thought
—to rescue a soul already
ruined. To achieve respite.
To plunder green gold
on a pirate raid & bring
to camp the glory of old.
—As the capesman faces
poisoned horns & drinks
red victory; the soldier,
too, w/ his trophy, a
pierced helmet; & the
ledge-walker shuddering
his way into inward grace
—(laughter) Well, then. Would
you mock yourself?
—Soon our voices must become
one, or one must leave.

There was preserved
in her
The fresh miracle

The Night is young
& full of rest
I can’t describe
the way she’s dress’d
She’ll pander to some strange
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #28 on: November 07, 2018, 09:42:52 AM »
Stoned Immaculate
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
-Jim morrison

Re: Poetry/prose/creative writing.
« Reply #29 on: November 08, 2018, 09:06:02 AM »
“To make this trivial world sublime, take half a gram of phanerothyme.” -Aldous Huxley

"To fathom Hell or soar angelic, just take a pinch of psychedelic" -Osmond
To fall in Hell or soar angelic / You'll need a pinch of psychedelic -Humphry Osmond

Some background on these rhymes:

The term psychedelic, which means “mind-manifesting,” was coined by Humphry Osmond and suggested to his peers in 1957 at a meeting of the New York Academy of Sciences. He borrowed ancient Greek to give the word “psychedelic” meaning, using the Greek words psyche (mind) and delos (manifest). Aldous Huxley, in a letter to Osmond, came up with his own term, “phanerothyme,” which he suggested to Osmond in the rhyme. “To make this trivial world sublime, take half a gram of phanerothyme.” Osmond replied with his own rhyme, “To fathom Hell or soar angelic, just take a pinch of psychedelic.” Osmond’s term was adopted, giving these unique substances their distinct identity and classification.