Writing Section > Poems
Doug Pinson, Four poems (EN)
Winds Beyond the Howl
The furthering of the snow
The snowing of the snow
As it covers the earth
With a white wind and nothing gentle
Nothing hesitant
It flies berserk and vociferous
Plummets left to right
Unholy and obdurate
Like Genghis Khan in the spring
And I count down the numbers
The ten numbers of my own legend
As I wait for the white to rise
From the Earth and fall
From the pregnant gray
I can no longer see
Covered in that white
Hidden from that view
From the farms and churches and mountains
Topped with my deliverance
It is the night of the day
Our circle cracked
Our band of merciless friends once linked
By knowledge and risk and alchemical
Delirium like mages on intellectual parade
The break came with the revelation
That one of us wanted happiness
Wanted calm and love and warmth
Not perpetual self-destruction
Or destruction of other selves
Cast out that other self
Is here
In the furthering whiteness
Closer
Closer to that nothingness
Stevens imagined he heard
Traffic Baby Says
Four thought in the ozone
Dreams are more than dreams if we
Mix them with salmon and parmesan
Liza was green with envy and love
She was blue and dark red on Thursday
Just before the lake and the river and the ocean
Met
There were sorrows washed away
There were wine songs
And preordained
Polygraphs
Among us
There were wine songs and buckets
Of memory left fallen on the strand
Just listen
She said
Just listen
The water froths
Like a perturbed queen
Zing it
Hestia Throws a Slumber Party
The shower brought on by the moon
Through the moon’s brown eyes
As if the silver slanting was
My wakeup call
And alchemy lesson of the week
Directly I said into the phone
That she should come over
To be with me
As the rain was with me
And the moon’s brown eyes
She said No
Your metaphors are a hint
A playing at gross misdirection
And pathetic mendacity
But I protested this and fought like lions in the sand
Like hawks for new mates
Doing love-patterns in the air
Making soft wind all night long
She answered she might loosen her dress for me
Some other time
But tonight was moonless cloudy misted eroding
Like the onset of chaos or nihilist bacchanals!
And I thought and said she was strangling
The in-seams of poetic license
But agreed to wait for the red-nights
And the blue-hours
Giving her room in the forest to do
What was deer to my hart
Two weeks later I found myself
Covered in leaves branches pine-needles and flowers
With Suzy the priestess ready to vivisect
My poems of moons and stars and mountains
Art: Take 3
Death of death
Rings out and in
Rings before me and beyond me
Because I will it
Like a stone
Hurled between two trees
Like a canvas that sees me
Only me
You said the focused blue moment moved
Once in church
You said the somnambulant hills faded
Because she wept
You know why she weeps
You know why he stares
Because the Sun eats the Moon
And drinks the wind
And laughs inside the halls of galleries
Watching and listening to art snobs
And wannabes posing by the wall
As if they
Could
Escape
Themselves
Then the Sun smiles like a child's kiss
As it finds an artist with a heart
That beats for lives formed
Inside squalls and tempests and infernos
Beats once for these
Beats again for love like
Two colors juxtaposed
To form a third reason to crash
Symphonies embrace
Moan for a beauty trapped in the eye
And again for the soul that bleeds
Orgies of Truth
I know the morning is never blind
(About the author)
Douglas Pinson is the editor and publisher of Spinozablue, an eclectic journal of the arts. He has published poetry in Gargoyle, Pembroke Magazine, Cold Mountain Review and Other Voices International Project. Douglas lives in the Unites States and is currently working on revising a novel. An avid reader of mythology, especially Irish and Greek, he hopes someday to be a constellation.
Winds Beyond the Howl
The furthering of the snow
The snowing of the snow
As it covers the earth
With a white wind and nothing gentle
Nothing hesitant
It flies berserk and vociferous
Plummets left to right
Unholy and obdurate
Like Genghis Khan in the spring
And I count down the numbers
The ten numbers of my own legend
As I wait for the white to rise
From the Earth and fall
From the pregnant gray
I can no longer see
Covered in that white
Hidden from that view
From the farms and churches and mountains
Topped with my deliverance
It is the night of the day
Our circle cracked
Our band of merciless friends once linked
By knowledge and risk and alchemical
Delirium like mages on intellectual parade
The break came with the revelation
That one of us wanted happiness
Wanted calm and love and warmth
Not perpetual self-destruction
Or destruction of other selves
Cast out that other self
Is here
In the furthering whiteness
Closer
Closer to that nothingness
Stevens imagined he heard
Traffic Baby Says
Four thought in the ozone
Dreams are more than dreams if we
Mix them with salmon and parmesan
Liza was green with envy and love
She was blue and dark red on Thursday
Just before the lake and the river and the ocean
Met
There were sorrows washed away
There were wine songs
And preordained
Polygraphs
Among us
There were wine songs and buckets
Of memory left fallen on the strand
Just listen
She said
Just listen
The water froths
Like a perturbed queen
Zing it
Hestia Throws a Slumber Party
The shower brought on by the moon
Through the moon’s brown eyes
As if the silver slanting was
My wakeup call
And alchemy lesson of the week
Directly I said into the phone
That she should come over
To be with me
As the rain was with me
And the moon’s brown eyes
She said No
Your metaphors are a hint
A playing at gross misdirection
And pathetic mendacity
But I protested this and fought like lions in the sand
Like hawks for new mates
Doing love-patterns in the air
Making soft wind all night long
She answered she might loosen her dress for me
Some other time
But tonight was moonless cloudy misted eroding
Like the onset of chaos or nihilist bacchanals!
And I thought and said she was strangling
The in-seams of poetic license
But agreed to wait for the red-nights
And the blue-hours
Giving her room in the forest to do
What was deer to my hart
Two weeks later I found myself
Covered in leaves branches pine-needles and flowers
With Suzy the priestess ready to vivisect
My poems of moons and stars and mountains
Art: Take 3
Death of death
Rings out and in
Rings before me and beyond me
Because I will it
Like a stone
Hurled between two trees
Like a canvas that sees me
Only me
You said the focused blue moment moved
Once in church
You said the somnambulant hills faded
Because she wept
You know why she weeps
You know why he stares
Because the Sun eats the Moon
And drinks the wind
And laughs inside the halls of galleries
Watching and listening to art snobs
And wannabes posing by the wall
As if they
Could
Escape
Themselves
Then the Sun smiles like a child's kiss
As it finds an artist with a heart
That beats for lives formed
Inside squalls and tempests and infernos
Beats once for these
Beats again for love like
Two colors juxtaposed
To form a third reason to crash
Symphonies embrace
Moan for a beauty trapped in the eye
And again for the soul that bleeds
Orgies of Truth
I know the morning is never blind
(About the author)
Douglas Pinson is the editor and publisher of Spinozablue, an eclectic journal of the arts. He has published poetry in Gargoyle, Pembroke Magazine, Cold Mountain Review and Other Voices International Project. Douglas lives in the Unites States and is currently working on revising a novel. An avid reader of mythology, especially Irish and Greek, he hopes someday to be a constellation.
