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Who Is that Sing in me!

All the time listen to that great singer,
The great song, great lyrics sung with great melody,
Someone sings in me and everyone,
' I am you and you are me,
Come and see, we are one! '

But how in this turbulent flow of life,
Is it true, everyone listen this?
Some say caged bird sings,
Some say it is song of soul,
Some say it has a song and it sings,
some try to listen it, some say, when I have my own song how can I listen it?

Fantastic song it is, it the song of the divine,
Song of a dreamer, song of the captain of life,
some listen to it and forget what they are,
Some listen to it and follow the singer,
Some only try to find,
who is the singer,
Only a few can see the singer,

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poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Your Face Was A Moon I Haunted

Your face was a moon I haunted, and your body
twisted me into agonies of sexual driftwood
that wanted to burn at midnight under the stars
like the last signal fire of an isolated survivor
high up on your affluent shores.
I wanted to do dark things with you
in the shadow of eclipses that put their hands over
the eyes of the flowers and sent the birds to bed.

With you, I would have asked for closure
from the spring constellations swarming overhead
like free radicals paroled to the wind
tuning up the larnyx of the birch-trees,
I would have lain down with you in the bedlam
of a thousand cares and zirconium delusions
and lived beside you like an island and a telescope
drunk on the wine of your circus mirrors
that crash before they talk; all night, all night,
wave after wave, I would have caressed
the famous reflection of you in black carnation panties,

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poem by Patrick White
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If I Were To Give You A Black Shawl Of Woven Rivers

If I were to give you a black lace shawl of woven rivers
would you wear it over the moonlit hills
of your bare shoulders like a spell I cast
to keep you as warm as a firefly on a cold night?

Or would you mistake it for a bird net or a spider web
or think I'm fishing in the depths for the black pearl
of a new moon to hold in an old moon's arms?
Or milk your last crescent as an antidote to your charms?

If I were to show you a back road out of hell
as Orpheus did Eurydice, would you look back again
at the long path that came to this and think
you'd rather drink black cool aid in Jonestown

than follow a goated footed sherpa up
into the mountains of the moon that cast their spells
like the shadows of sundials in a flowerless garden?
Would the stars that are flowing between us

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poem by Patrick White
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Nightmare Number Three

We had expected everything but revolt
And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--
But there’s no dice in that now.
I’ve heard fellow say
They must have planned it for years and maybe they did.
Looking back, you can find little incidents here and there,
Like the concrete-mixer in Jersey eating the wop
Or the roto press that printed 'Fiddle-dee-dee!'
In a three-color process all over Senator Sloop,
Just as he was making a speech. The thing about that
Was, how could it walk upstairs? But it was upstairs,
Clicking and mumbling in the Senate Chamber.
They had to knock out the wall to take it away
And the wrecking-crew said it grinned.
It was only the best
Machines, of course, the superhuman machines,
The ones we’d built to be better than flesh and bone,
But the cars were in it, of course . . .
and they hunted us
Like rabbits through the cramped streets on that Bloody Monday,

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poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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The Moon Isn't Renewing Her Virginity

The moon isn't renewing her virginity
in the snakepits of the hypocrites
faking the wavelengths of their radiance
like the black dwarf of an imploding commune
that flared out like graverobbers in the dark
desecrating a cemetery of rainbows.

I've watched the silver shovel of your tongue
go through all phases of the moon, from full
to new, as if you were laying your Tarot cards
out on the table for an autopsy on the Hanged Man.
This one's suspended by one leg with a real rope
around his neck. You're decked out in dreamcatchers
and spider silk like the butterfly bling of a pimp.
What are you selling? Peace, love, and happiness
at the expense of all else? You chirp you love everyone
but you've never loved people enough to learn
how to hate them honestly. There heretics burn

but you're attuned to harmony like a snaketongue

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poem by Patrick White
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Populist Manifesto No. 1

Poets, come out of your closets,
Open your windows, open your doors,
You have been holed-up too long
in your closed worlds.
Come down, come down
from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
down from your foothills and mountains,
out of your teepees and domes.
The trees are still falling
and we’ll to the woods no more.
No time now for sitting in them
As man burns down his own house
to roast his pig
No more chanting Hare Krishna
while Rome burns.
San Francisco’s burning,
Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning
the fossil-fuels of life.

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poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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I See You In The Eyes Of The Rain

I see you in the eyes of the rain
and in the broken aspirations of the swallow
that hit the windowpane dead on.
Fire that no longer burns.
Water that no longer drowns.
Earth that no longer receives.
A gust of air that no one breathes.

I see you in the tender, green tendrils
of the wild grapevines clinging to life
like the last plank of a shipwrecked lifeboat
washed up on the shore of the moon.
The most bitter farewells are those
compelled by understanding
to cry a little in the open doorway
and leave as if there were nothing more to say.

Words lightyears beyond communication.
Metaphors like burning bridges
that never quite make it to the other side.

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poem by Patrick White
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Endimion and Phoebe (excerpts)

In Ionia whence sprang old poets' fame,
From whom that sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,
Whence Archelaus, whom times historify,
First unto Athens brought philosophy:
In this fair region on a goodly plain,
Stretching her bounds unto the bord'ring main,
The mountain Latmus overlooks the sea,
Smiling to see the ocean billows play:
Latmus, where young Endymion used to keep
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
To whom Silvanus often would resort,
At barley-brake to see the Satyrs sport;
And when rude Pan his tabret list to sound,
To see the fair Nymphs foot it in a round,
Under the trees which on this mountain grew,
As yet the like Arabia never knew;
For all the pleasures Nature could devise
Within this plot she did imparadise;

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poem by Michael Drayton
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The Grave Up Ahead Hasn't Chastened My Longings

The grave up ahead hasn't chastened my longings,
nor joy become an offence to the probity of death.
Life's not a protocol I'm trying to master
to approach the eternal orthodoxy in good form.
It's important to bow up once and awhile to keep
your gratitude from growing reflexive. Time
might be the shedding serpent that was generated
like a wavelength out of my flashbulb of a skull,
but I've always kept a good enough grip on its head
to feed it its tail with no fear of being bit. Besides,
who's ever known from the very beginning
whose hour this is for anyone though we blithely assume
we're all living co-terminously. The Pre-Cambrian
just as it is now existed in the Renaissance
or the Middle Ages among the Pre-Raphaelites.
Cosimo Medici greets Dante Gabriel Rossetti
passing through the bus station, eras striating their minds
like glaciers, Viking runes on the back of the mirror.

I analyze my lust sometimes when I think of you.

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poem by Patrick White
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You May. You May Not Come. Maybe Tonight. Or Not

You may. You may not come. Maybe tonight. Or not.
When it's not cooking cosmic eggs, boiling heretics
in the hot oil of bubbling cauldrons, the hourglass
is sandpainting sidereal mandalas with stars
to empower the wind to blow them away,
bones of grey chalk watergilding my flesh in ash.

What did I say? What did I say that was so unorthodox
all the bells of your body were left speechless
at the sight of so many grails trashed like empties
from a car window like a litter of roadkill
along the side of the highway? Did I transit
the zenith of the burning bridge of your last loveletter,
or should I have jumped, or fell, or cannonballed in
to make a bigger splash in the blood vats of your heart?
Maybe a meteor to render your old lovers extinct?

I watch the cold windows until they begin to percolate
in an unexpected thaw of disciplined sorrows.
It's getting late. Your absence, a glacial waterclock

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poem by Patrick White
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