I wrote most of these poems in 1975-1976. I have written poetry since then, and may include other poems on this web page in the future, but have never written so many in one time period as this. Worth noting, is that I wrote these poems shortly before my coming out of the closet. Perhaps that will help those who wish
to analyse them. Personally I don't see the connection, except perhaps that the poems were an escape valve for much of the energy these issues produced. I have given these poems titles so that you can better remember which one you liked (or didn't like) but the titles are something I just did now.
Wild blazing golden fires in the vast cold black of space Through a blue sky splashed bright yellow gently warm the green Earth's face
Standing in the shade of a tree There I stood. Pleasant life. On a hot day. Under the tree Cool -- a breeze floated by and brushed my cheek Then the thunder rumbled and life was a struggle
2. And sometimes when the sunshine broke into a thousand dancing droplets on the water And the prism into a hundred bands of light, a thousand smiling children
3.
Words on Stage Perform Happily, Gladly, Joyfully, Gleefully They Dance. Poetry in Motion. Words are Falling Leaves Gracefully Downward Drifting Gently Lightly To the Earth The Earth is warm
Moonlight on a path. a branch cracks in the darkness. a cat runs away.
Trembling pools of light. Shimmering on the dry ground. The sun through green leaves.
ESCAPE!
Green forests
Blue skies
White clouds
The river comes from the wild land.
Glistening waves
Muddy waves
Blanketing waves.
The waves spread aimlessly.
Shifting mass
Perfect form
Endless form
The river never leaves
Blending colors
Solid masses
People awed
Scene of ideal joy.Cold Blanket White Cloud. The morning mist nips the land and the warm yellow sun shining in the treetops is only a distant runner while the unseen queen clothed in milk-white splendor reigns in her hour. The soil, the trees even the river itself wear her silver robes.
The blazing sun has burned the tired earth The sundrops have nourished the flourishing leaves And the flowers have bloomed been spent and all died. When the wind returns and turns the wheel and the cycle, not a circle, starts again. Life moves, and the languid tableau of summer turns to a quicker step. In the middle world of sun and air it turns to a quicker step and the wind blows through Diana's hair.
Leaves float on the breeze. Don't be deceived. In the leaves is all creation. And in the leaves in every graceful curve, in crumbling red and brown is the eternal riddle Leaves float not indifferently. What's unknown to you and me they hold in silent mystery The Dance is life.
I never knew who you were but I have known you always. I have never seen your face but I have seen the purple sunset the green grass the snow white mountain and the blue------explosion. the blue, the fiery blue, the ice-cold blue, the sky, the sea the thousand shades and moods of blue the colors, yes. and I have seen in the seasons falling leaves, the morning's eye the drifting flakes and life. The spring! and yet... I have known you in a different way You are you. Sparkling eyes, sad eyes, laughing, crying eyes. A pair of eye, eyes alone but eyes. like seas. And through your eyes I see To the depths of yourself. It is known.
Blue, beyond gray, beyond green. Extension of myself. in Jungle-forest Try to run thorough the grass, man knows not what it is, only thorough definition you destroy me. What is the wind?
The dance, the dance pick it up again. the dance is not always a quick-stepping reel. Sometimes we dance we dance alone I've danced to dirges and to the cries of the damned as into the Pit they fell. If the Dance is life the life is the Dance the Dance is acceptance of every sad moment and every wretched tear.
Books and ashes, leaves fall down Sprightly and singly they fall Twirling and spinning 'round the old oak. Children released from the tree. Where is their life? Where do they go? What can they do? Can you tell me? Myriads of leaves twirling and spinning sprightly and singly they fall.
What is memory but an abstraction of an abstraction? How can we know and do we be, or are we only God's imagination? I often wonder if we are real or if we are we or if I am me. Myself -- in the word is all the world the world full of ideas, passions, feelings and hopes the body, the mind, the spirit, the soul is it a word full of all that or is it meaningless, empty, a void?
Charter member six to five it is ever is it live? Knowst thou hooo? Roses bloom and die (Death's the secret, death's release Hush! We must not know.) In snow in roses, overgrow, roses in the snow, in driven dust-white purity everlasting ever green ever color. See the top, spinning bright, who will be a bride tonight? Darkness descends upon the house. Can you live with it or must you die? Into the cold fire, ice cold.
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory with desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain -- from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot On Shakespeare's stage From on his throne An English kind intones: "This is the season of our discontent" Indeed. December's branches creak, leaves long gone And I tread empty amid the ruins on a dead earth. A vision, a summer breeze and memories flow (Neva, Neva) into my mind (guilded river) Ah, Leningrad! My lips, ghost moved, speak and almost chant the word -- Byelie Nochi -- Mysterious and delicate Midsummer nights are gone so far away I have left the summer in another land
