A soul composed of courage seeks redemption through faith in life.
Contents
. dispose . despair . denigrate . denounce
Dispose
to give a tendency to
to come to terms with
to settle in a final manner
GOODBYE SEASONS
Which seasons are those
that go by four names
when there were civilisations that know
spring often sees more snow than sun
in more hemispheres than one
as the growth of green
not quite ready to be shone
becomes routed through
temperamental zones
sweetened nibs of time
bits from our bones
in an aching damp
from moulded souls
reaching deeply
to make hard to breathe
flow more readily
squeezed forced exhale
pressed out-of-bodily
a consciousness of
the finality of stories
the many that came before
or have yet to come beyond
swirl as idealogical stories
comforting seasonally bound minds
the great mystery
undressed before us everyday
and yet who has not seen the great figure
who bestowed great moments of richness
despite becoming an ocular object
desiring eternal summer
never arriving for only you.
ASSIGNMENT OF MEANING
On meandering walks I wonder
what the world would be
if we could come to
some sort of bereavement agreement
about letting go of age old ideas
about life beyond control
How very well can there be
peace on any planet
when populations believe
others are going to hell?
Or that one man deserves a plight
bent on self-convicted right
due to his insatiable appetite
for money, power, control or fame-
while another is pitied for begging
just the same.
We surmise such beliefs about life
as beyond theory
when theory motivates the body
philosophizing facts
into some kind of make believe glory
where only a few take trophies home-
competition or compassion run a fair game
with each other
but the limits are goalied
not by heart but with our minds.
Isn’t it time we see each facet of life
holds some kind of story
where meaning is made up
as we go along?
In ways responses are conjured
from feelings as forever
ideas tickle
with the promise of clever
accumulating a mighty sum of self-esteem
no one I know can cash in on…
but just right there, between you and me
we fantasise how much better
it could be, to dissolve the whole thing
due to our limitations with words
I reach for imagery
to find myself amidst the all and nothing still the same
whether life gets called
meaningful, poetic, challenging, or just a game
forever life remains a mystery
for those limited by sensory perceptions of body.
Our signs are hinting at a home everywhere
for whatever you want to hold
will tend to be become held up
in another person’s memory.
And to the stars we look to read,
systems of numbers and constellations
to repeat
theories to test
with their own rules to uphold-
yet might we face our follies
as attempts to trick mortality
due to that which we may find
much as a prism refracts
the kaleidoscope delights
the light
may temporary be blinding
and yet enterally inspiring.
A CHORD AS AN ODE
How quickly these months depart us
Time as pages-some crumpled, or torn
folded and scorned-circled and adored.
Love likes to scent the air
with a springtime sort of perfume
blasting through, remnants of autumnal nostalgia
melting a slumbering soil
a wet madness so deafening
the din of holiday idealistic dystopia
finally forgotten until next year.
We shift through, unto, paired down lives
the shirked responsibilities of brilliance
resound through the bellows of accordion waves
often such frequencies begged to stop
street performers with such melancholic rot
struck joy in a few
as angelic animal howls
biding the beg and cry for reprieve
of such warped mortal domains
yet strung between passageways
and between memories of I or you
brings the span of time here into view.
The witness transition relative to
individual positions catching glimpses
of invite wonder beauty in expanded awareness
cascades as a splendour fall of water from our eyes
the bestowed gifts unspeakable
slowly ripped as droplets in larger bodies
of currents making wake.
DYING LIFE
While all who know I have a hard time lying
I always still feel words are falsifying
existence as my intentions are clouded
by the inter-dialoguing
positive overpasses bind fate up from getting past
those monoliths of why’s standing in the way
since there’s no sense elaborating what’s known
hollers already pose an impasse
You must not ask to do as so pleased
for such is the dying life
to arrive to fight instead of breath a little into the
truth be damned so simple and how funny
the illusionists proclaim it dark and scary
for they cannot see but only feel into
where they place a seed they believe is theirs.
Owing lives to tragedy are for those subject to
the illusion of pretty words getting past such lips
or hips cast by petty phone tricks
I don’t need a sunrise to guide my way back
as I already forged a way through the night
forgiving the hurts I took upon myself
to make other people feel alright.
That was a saying life. To arrive to hear for a fight.
He got too close to breath his little lie into me
tried to dictate my heart and woo a world over.
The simple turret is always full of plenty
So oh what a waste, a dying life
There’s rich beyond such ways of strife.
I rip free from torn branches
scratches whip no sharper than ice storms
for long have I been free from
the suffocation of night terrors
attempting to own my own form.
So expected from the addicts
expecting my smile to sooth
and surprised by the weather when I decide to choose —
Of course it will all be alright
tears give us the clarity dried eyes feign
for the densities of life remain
suspended in forms of liquefaction
This need not be our dying life.
We can come here and forget the fight.
Sing a little truth into thee
losing the world over real smiles
damning the complexity
for the sweetness of simplicity
the freedom of truth wages waste your time prying
so funny they’re here
like I am for you
to keep you from the dying life.
As tides shift as seasons
sifting weights and binding roots
the reaching for new ground expands the plausible
there’s no going back even I you say you won’t
so there’s only everything ahead now awaiting.
TWO LANES
This comes out sounding a little strange
as unspeakable things do in written metaphor
that’s what people claim artists are here for
so the plumbers get down to their jobs
while others can get seen driving down a one-way smiling
I see that man making sure the waste is flushed away
I see the woman ensuring ever invisible emotion tended
I see the invisible labor
that inspired bored leaders to have a hobby
And for the love of hope beyond which they lobby
I’ve built explanation in rhythm, rhyme and reasons
my interpretations of astrological manifestations
as a means to speak in mythological presentations
our affectations unionised by a source
to which we can all point with different meanings.
While science claims to have discovered dark matter
we all know it was really there
so who’s destiny is rewarded for pointing out the obvious
when the poet says the same thing?
We are each creating our own energy
owing something up or rather out through our fingertips
what power above, or below knows it’s compounding
through the heartbeat within each of us—
the seeking for gurus and metaphorical indignation
who insistently point back to that source we all point to.
Each of our byways resides the alchemizing
of power residing within
perhaps scary and so the fear to claim
ownership of such a thing—
be not misled
by the owning such a might
the burden of such responsibility
of carrying such resplendent light.
While each situation
in every moment of existence
appears mind blowingly simple
the pearl divers see deeper still
by their mind dissolved by the weight of which
the solidarity of each of our existence
begs us not to lose a sense of who or what is
but remember in context
freedom comes with it a paralysis
to the conditions that which we are around.
Here the mind focuses
either overriding the sense or rising within them
revealed in the need for air is a two way street my friend.
Whether you drive in your lane or flow through streams
of etheric or sea water currents
we each have at least a vehicle to set courses on
paths connected to sources or headed
straight for a course in collision.
May we awake to strive to make the drive
a bit smoother with diligence to our shared spaces
of truth and forgiveness
in the places where mind ends our healing begins—
for there is not end to such delights
delivered by experiences
between objected oriented ontologies
or the things we once thought were you, and me
were always some form of we, the same thing
rotating in axial dimensionality —
Though I keep trying here with all rigour
I know no vigour shines through words themselves
for love —
For when we speak of the mind
to what do we allude?
Mass? words? the entanglement of communications? any notions on of time?
Such matters
make comprehension…
all the more complex.
So when we speak in terms such as these
Let our voices offer souls food to their bodies healing
their soul arms, legs and heartbeats —
For voices sung from the heart
affects the chemistry of our bodies
and alleviating the eternal struggle for balance
resulted in more strife; a pain wrought existence
disjointed and fighting for truth.
At this juncture you’re invited to
find the hope inviting you— to wonder
how incredible Love-holds life’s greatest power.
And in this sense, if we pause, we hear
the breath love answers those fearful hearts
which held themselves from,
more than long enough.
QUIET
flipped the last page of that month
never to see them again
things move only forward
even for flakes who think
or believe downward could be
taken as a right turn
such directions are relative
my friend as where you are
somewhere between lines
of melody strung
as if you had just begun
to lead on from scratch
no end in sight
instead of from
a lineage with a lot of fight
conscience existence is never given enough credit
somehow those who fall victim to allowing
others to detail their stories
slipped through some cracks
of blindly run lengths
between the imaginary you or me or we
let this loud sound of anything but quiet
hold us all in a sort of embrace
a howl we can always secretly confide in.
© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.
Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL II.
First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.
The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.
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