Toast of the Morning (2)
Ocean seen
in swoosh scene, these
Chickadees and me
poetry on balcony; there
their music charms. They
break the night yoke
with tweety foam
sweet sunrise eggs over easy,
tea with cream of the morning
I wave at the day
like a splash
— Douglas Gilbert
Toast of the Morning
Chickadees and me
poetry on ocean balcony; there
their music charms. They
break the night yoke
with tweety foam
sunrise eggs over easy,
tea with cream of the morning
I wave at the day
like a splash
— Douglas Gilbert
Sage
Reply to Sharmishtha Basu in the Thursday Post which quotes translation of Sanskrit:
“When the sage becomes aware that his goal is getting God not collecting wealth and luxury items and keeps that awareness alive his wisdom is called stable.”– translation by Sharmishtha Basu.
etherealheights July 26, 2012
The sage’s appetite mushrooms.
He has shallots, mushrooms, hazelnuts
and has bread and beard trimmed
He has parsley, but
he is starving to death
waiting for God, because
he will not eat
when the sage is missing
— Douglas Gilbert
If You’re Going Off
Have you flown on
like a feather in a whisper?
Maybe you’ve gone off.
If you’ve gone to seek a beach,
take the care road to the shells
and toe in the water to
listen for an ocean sound, but
if there’d be rain, let it be musical:
a pitter-clap and applause.
If be there sun
let it not burn though
if there be fog
let the fog horn be
triumphant like a fanfare, but
I’m not sure what do about the grasshoppers —
maybe chocolate.
(not sure if grasshoppers like chocolate)
For every whisper, a breeze;
for every breeze, a sail;
for every sail, a ship;
for every ship, a destination.
For a destination
me and a tickle.
— Douglas Gilbert
Going Off (Draft 1)
If you’ve gone off to seek a beach
take the care road to the shells
and toe in the water
listen for an ocean sound, but
if there be rain, let it be musical:
a pitter-clap and applause.
If be there sun
let it not burn though
if there be fog
let the fog horn be
triumphant like a fanfare, but
I’m not sure what do about the grasshoppers —
maybe chocolate.
(not sure if grasshoppers like chocolate)
For every breeze, a sail;
for every sail, a ship;
for every ship, a destination.
For a destination
me
— Douglas Gilbert
Where is Damascus?
Damascenes can welcome
tourists of many shades,
many kinds of refuge for
adventurous palettes, a
taste of freedom perhaps for
foreign and countryside tourists
From many places
people seek refuge
or adventure in Damascus
Shelling in Idlib, Homs and Hama.
None of our business. People
seek refuge in Damascus. OK.
Shabiha intimidate those
neighborhoods now nearby.
Soon violence may come to
our narrow alleys
mingle among tourists
wrapping up a night wandering
Seems a friend is accused —
disappeared by glass fronts and by street stalls
where walk-by tourists are stalled along narrow ways
on Midan street, and eye the high towers of
baklawa and night-market syrups on
pistachio-and-walnut secrets wrapped in
phyllo dough wrappings and raptured night
Are we to be tourists too
who will mingle with darker nights,
pack up and wrap up the day
flee too when the last
of the grilled meat
oozes lamb scented oil
seeming no time for
sfouf cake, sesame cookies
or crumbly mamoul
going now without tea perhaps
making our way quietly
off the record, secular
and I’d deny I’d ever said that
religion is superstition. Say that
family were kind merchants
who made money honestly
obeyed the state of affairs
What are we to do
with the art works in our house?
Saying that perhaps
Damascenes never mention
chic addresses again
where honey-pistachio pastries
seemed to entice
a palette of fantasy tolerance
bought with elite education, where
no one could know
we were pet dogs
and happy to eat until
the countryside wolf
became a tourist
— Douglas Gilbert
Hmmm, I’ve never heard of that country, “Permission Denied”. Odd that they don’t want to be seen on the World Map. I don’t think I’ve ever applied for a passport to go to the country of “Permission Denied”. And I don’t think I’ve ever insulted the country of “Permission Denied”. Well, OK, if I did insult them, I’d be curious to hear their side of the story. They might be quite charming. Though considering the mystery and intrigue I think I should interview possible candidates for ambassdor to “Permission Denied”. I need a very skilled diplomat because I’ll admit that I sometimes lose my temper, but I’m sure my new ambassador will not. I’m not sure where to start. But I don’t think it’ll be anywhere near as difficult as negotiating with the Martians. Now that was hard….
Where is Damascus?
What is there to write when so much is unclear and every outcome is frought with the possibility of introducing a new problem. One tyranny replaced with another — not known. Many mixed motives, and many groups. Assad must go and then who will take charge. No one knows. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/18/world/middleeast/syria-hardens-response-to-clashes-in-damascus.htmlI rushed ahead with something but don’t know how to refine anything. Maybe next week I can get a better focus. I don’t know where to go with this. I’ve fallen into polemics and I don’t know how to do something poetic, but anyway, I’m putting down some scrap notes. Maybe I’ll do something else next week. I don’t know. I should think of some metaphors or something. I don’t know.
Where Is Damascus?
Shelling in Idlib, Homs and Hama.
None of our business. People
seek refuge in Damascus. OK.
Shabiha intimidate those
neighborhoods now nearby.
Soon they come to
our narrow alleys
with the violence
we thought was foreign to us.
A friend accused
disappeared.
Where are we to go now.
We have made our way quietly
perhaps, off the record, secular
and I’d deny I’d ever said that
religion is superstition.
I think our family has
high moral standards:
we are kind merchants
who have made money honestly
under the dictator who kept
the barbarians under control, but
as what we thought were fanatics
infiltrate our neighborhood
we wonder about the brutality
of our defense. Can this be
our choice: slaughter outside
goes into old stone houses, and
the bustling Jazmateyeh food market,
packed with food shops, and
chic addresses
for Damascenes where
honey-pistachio pastries entice
a palette of tolerance
imagined in the fantasy
bought by a silence
of prosperity and education
that allows the efficient silence of the elite
who little know they are the pet dog happy to eat
while the wolf must fight.
What to do about
the two kinds of savages?
Each has its irrationality, and
each is devine in intention
Each can be savage
in the anger of application.
What belief is safe
while a revolution explodes
Is it safe to cry
without an allegiance
to helicopter gunships
What are we to do
with the art works in our house?
Are we more foolish than
the 300 United Nations monitors,
trapped in their hotel rooms?
My children have been to London.
— Douglas Gilbert
Fans of the Tiger (Draft 1)
I’m reading about yet another former subject of the Soviet empire that is struggling after its independence to become democratic and prosperous. The struggles show how evil the empire was. Many of these places were never heard from until after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Many millions were killed from the formation until the collapse. The Cold War made it all invisible in a balance of terror and silence, a dance of graceful diplomacy and double talk — most of the clients too difficult to help. I had forgotten, for example, about Mongolia, and couldn’t even remember whose satellite it was — was it Russia or China. Rarely heard its name.
Mongolia’s Boom Town Hope and Fear
But anyway, I started a very vague and general thing. I don’t know if I can refine and finish it. It really doesn’t seem that charming that over the years that both Russia and China killed millions. And yet, over the years, many in the West admired their “Culture” and would go ga-ga over their writings and artifacts etc. Maybe it’s never good to be seduced by the relativity of cultures. Maybe some are not good however charming they may appear. Advanced in Science and War, Art, etc. but primitive in morals. No? Beating and torturing dissidents doesn’t seem like high culture; does it?
Fans of the Tiger (First Draft)
The Tyrant Tigers have their own cultural heritage:
they’re charming with their ferocious cuteness,
beautiful fur looking to be petted, but
so many fools dream to hug a tiger
who seems endangered. They love
puppy dogs and tiger cubs like
the early Bolsheviks, or
a young ideal Mao:
share the wealth and Love
In theory,
the tiger cub is cute.
When tigers are angry
it is instinct.
When humans become tigers
they are deranged with chic fur
admired by stuffy intellectuals who
Love fantasy and ideals on thesis papers
making stuffed animals real and harmless
as if you could jump into a cage with a tiger.
And what did the cute Soviet tiger
do to the world?
When the tiger died
did not the prey flourish?
Who remembers all the dead
of Ukraine exiled and starved
of Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia,
East Germany, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia
Mongolia and the huh-istans that
few tiger lovers, who hug their teddy bears,
can name at a cocktail party devoted to
tolerance for tigers.
Once in awhile at a zoo
someone jumps into the tiger cage, and
gets mauled to death, because
they Love cuteness, and the
cultural beauty of the tiger.
Yet still many wish to
open the doors of the cultural cages
and let the animals run free, because
they think predators must eat,
and the lamb needs no claws
and tastes delicious as long as
they can be the chef with
the cute puffy pompous hat.
— Douglas Gilbert
My Fair Particle
Just you wait, Professor Higgs, just you wait!
it’ll be 125 or 126 years and then too late.
You’ll be profound, and I’ll be weighty;
Will I help you? Don’t think vainly!
Just you wait, Peter ‘iggs Sir, just you wait!
Just you wait, Peter ‘iggs Sir, till conCERNed,
and you disCERN the field or go quick off to mass
I’ll be gone a prayer second later and won’t even tip the waiter
Oh ho ho, Santa ‘iggs Sir, just you wait!
Ooooooh ‘eter ‘iggs Sir!
Just you wait when swimmin’ in the ether fine!
Ooooooh ‘eter ‘iggs Sir!
and you glitch in particle splash not far from me!
If you feel you’ll drown in soup I’ll get dressed
and reveal dark towns! Oh ho ho, ‘eter ‘iggs Sir!
Oh ho ho, ‘eter ‘iggs Sir! Just you wait!
One day I’ll be notorious! I’ll be complex and so dim;
Go to St. CERN so frequent I’ll name him Gadzooks!
One evening the queen will say:
“Oh, Boson, odd thing,
I command all the world your strangeness to sing.
Next week on the 4th of July
I proclaim Higgs Boson’s dark Day!
All the masses will tango in the dance of you
And in whatever demand you tangle me in I will do.”
“Merci beaucoup, Queeny” says I, with dark manners said;
But all me wants is ‘eters ‘iggs Sir’s ‘ead!”
“Let it be,” says the Queen like a joke.
“Guards, fetch and carry in the bloke!”
Then they’ll parade you, ‘eter ‘iggs Sir to the wall;
And the Queen’ll whisper darkly, “Boson, sound the call.”
As they charge their magnets higher, I’ll yell:
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Oh ho ho, ‘eter ‘iggs Sir,
astounded, ‘eter ‘iggs Sir!
Just you wait!
— Douglas Gilbert
Poetry and Stuff 