Archive for June, 2007

Everyday Transformation

Wednesday, June 20th, 2007

Poem:  Morning Music

Listen: [audio:01-June-20-Everyday-Transformation.mp3]

Morning Music

Wednesday, June 20th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/28/07

It was a blue bird that sat in the top of a red tree.
His tail bobbled up and down as he squawked
And the midmorning air was hot.  The sky was white.
Little clicking sounds nicked the air from unseen
Insects hidden in the foliage, and old thoughts,
Desires whose colossal and ancient edifices
We have inhabited for many millennia
Began to creak dangerously in preparation —
In preparation for what?  A collapse?
A disintegration?  A powdering of steel
And concrete into the microdust of white skies
Where a blue bird sits in the top of a red tree,
Etcetera, and squawks of a new day
Being born right out of the slippery egg
Of the old one?  The air is warm, but a slight breeze
Cools us as we sit in the new world,
Happy amidst the swirl of wings
And the clicking sounds of millions of hidden angels.

The Gardener’s Redemption

Wednesday, June 13th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 3/3/07

These mutations are fully dramatized
In places that the busy eyes neglect.
For example, this morning, in his garden,
The stockbroker is conditioned by his search
For commissions, and these concerns alter
His photoreceptors, so that he neither
Sees nor wonders at the marvel of this
Hawthorne swarmed by creatures heavier than
Air, making paths of poesy in the manner
Of their flight, these many moving as one,
Clothed in fantastic stripes, satcheled with nectar,
Making honey, living in perfect three-
Dimensional models, which explicate
The mystery of that commodity
The broker has never had enough of.
His spreadsheets are busy blossoming ink.
Redundancies crawl over them,
As if they were the heartless bells of flowers,
Made black by the potencies of a lightless sun.
Now the broker’s gaze, cyclopean, single-minded,
Lands heavily in the Hawthorne,
Where, guided by eyes as numerous as stars,
He thrashes, stung, in the white, deep billowy pillows
Of that exuberance
He has so diligently, so fruitlessly, tried to shun.

Relationship With Our Parents

Wednesday, June 6th, 2007

Poem: Master Stroke

Listen: [audio:01-June_6_Relationship_with_Our_Parents.mp3]

Master Stroke

Wednesday, June 6th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 6/4/07

On the southeast side of the peak, there drifts
A puff of fog. Its ephemeral lavender
Makes an arresting contrast to the starker
Dark greens of the pine and fir, the mountain’s point
Of hardness rising into space, shredding the sea-born
Atmospheres. Someone in the neighborhood
Is hammering against metal, building, perhaps,
Another railroad to heaven. This may be
An entity trapped in the anachronism
Of thought, who occupies a mind, which is,
As usual, trying to find a way out of its shanty-town
Of self-afflictions. The lavender cloud
Turns gray, as a little Naples yellow
Anneals its unraveling edges, the mountain, too,
Along with its trees, changing color in response
To the call of emptiness.

Inside both cloud
And mountain, moving regally through a dawn,
Which is, as usual, the dawn of time, we become
Aware of a personage without the anachronism
Of mind, a personage who has no need of rails
Or travel, being already situated in all the paradise
That there is. This being, ephemeral as air, enduring
As stone, looks down upon a personage looking up
At it. There is an apperception of kinship,
The father, the mother, knows well its wayward child,
And the giant, void of thought, takes up its hammer,
And without compassion delivers a saving blow.