Tag Archives: bliss

Damocles

If you would have me write of bliss,
exclaiming art mere artifice,
a simple sham designed to fool
the ignorant who fill our schools
with some vain hope of what might be:
quite useless, a mad symphony
that holds no tune, does not inspire,
I say: I will not be your liar.

I cannot speak except my truth.
To turn the curse of misspent youth
from years of folly into gold,
to cower where I should be bold,
to silent, watch your fabric wind
its cloak of death upon the mind;
these things I cannot, will not do,
and call it art to forgive you.

Unless it strains against the mold
to whisper secrets long thought cold
and buried to the modern soul,
unleashes furies thought controlled,
and births the questions best unasked,
there is no meaning in art’s tasks;
despite its pompous, highbrow claims,
it is a cripple: blind and lame.

What madness you would have me fake
to shield from view such a mistake
may fool the senses for a while
with clever tricks, a knowing smile;
and on such palimpsest you may
suppose to write of one true way
by which the world is formed and doomed:
its genesis, its prime, its tomb,

But know true art will prove you false
and throw odd beats into your waltz,
unloose and snap your well-tuned strings
and turn to rust your well-oiled springs.
And then, what good mere words of bliss
to serve you? I can tell you this:
Art’s sword, that you would make a plow,
is cultivating those seeds now.

03 OCT 2006

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There are no words

There are no words to capture this
exquisite moment of pure bliss
between the grasp and letting go
between the thought and need to know

There are no words that can express
the soft caressing tenderness
of just a second’s quiet peace
between holding and just released

Drowned out by a heartbeat,
its low murmur barely heard
below the gentle cry of stones
that wish to become birds

There are no words that can relate
the edge of time, the end of fate,
between the lines the phrases flow
and not yet sentenced, fade and go.

There are no words to ponder on
from hallowed texts, their marrow gone;
between each page, a film of dust
speaks what it can, to whom it must.

20 DEC 2004

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Ananda: a colgyrnach

The question that I have is this:
If ignorance is such great bliss,
then why are we sad,
dwelling on the bad
in a mad state of pissed?

It seems to me we are confusing
bliss with something we are using
that’s in small supply
or is hard to buy,
that you try not losing.

But bliss is not in forgetting;
It is in knowing and letting
go of each desire,
to cease to require,
quench the fire that’s upsetting.

Each of us seeks this kind of peace,
but our reason bids us to cease
and busy our days
with productive ways;
When souls play, they find ease.

09 APR 2004

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