Archive for January, 2008

More Faith

Wednesday, January 30th, 2008

Poem: Morsel

Morsel

Wednesday, January 30th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/29/08

Because the light has to be coming from somewhere,
The sky being evenly spread with a pallid overcast
And dawn two hours distant, and everything
Slightly a-pulse with an inner glow.
Could it be that this hour is an entity,
Like one of those self-illuminating oddities
Who live in the Benthal realms of the deepest seas,
Our thoughts the drifting detritus of its food?
Its wondrous precision of movement reminds us
Of these. The hour is alive, and we have awakened
Inside of its aliveness as eccentrics being digested
In its belly, the cilia of our breathing a locomotion
That moves us deeper, but deeper into what?
Now we realize that every hour has been leading
Down to this one, and that our whole lives
Have been a dive into a physicality of experience
That can never resolve its struggles in any sleep,
And that here, here alone, in this aberration’s gut,
In a lightless trench on the floor of this frigid ocean,
We have come upon the completely alien angel:
Imagination, and it is this awakening into strangeness
That we have been striving incessantly to attain,
As if our disappearance was all that we’d ever desired.

Archaic Recovery

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/22/08

Our apotheosis was not what we expected.
The dormant volcanic cones of our familiar
Mountains did not erupt, and the white
Vagaries rising from their tops were not
Steam, but mist, as the day breathed softly,
Out, in, out, in, expressing the nuzzling
Greeneries of rain: gentleness, a soft fading
Of grey light into a night of faintly polished
Dun and maroon pastels, a sleep that is like
The warmth of embracing lovers, which has
Not quite tapered into dream. The old anxieties
Did not flare out in paroxysms of catastrophe,
Worry was simply blanketed, like a belovéd child,
Who is touchingly wrapped in wool. Yes, before
We knew it, we were underground. Darkness
Wound round and down, our ecstatic torches
Providing just enough light to keep the fantastic
Shadows a bit at bay, until, al last, to the cool
Drip-drop of soothing, unseen waters,
We found ourselves in the chamber.
Here, we place our hands on the wall
And outline them with ochre. Here, the great
Animals in our hearts revive their wondrous
Migrations. Here, our apotheosis,
Torn from our savage, innocent voices,
Echoes the honey of song among the crystals,
As the blessings of peace are magically reborn.

Prayer

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008

Poem: Archaic Recovery

Stillness

Wednesday, January 16th, 2008

Listen Here: [audio:01-Jan.16-Stillness.mp3]

Download mp3

Poem: Re-entering

Journey to the East

Wednesday, January 9th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/9/08

Someone noticed that the ship was moving,
And the stars, which a moment before had seemed
Almost stationary, began tilting westward.
It was then, then, that the world was divided,
And the sleepless ones on deck knew that night
Had a limit. We were bearing east towards dawn.
Even in mid-ocean, we could smell the essential
Difference. The salt air, our history of tears,
Began to give way to a subtle weaving of perfumes,
As if rocks and trees and green things were
Breathing spring even in the icy corridors of winter.
The air on deck at the prow began to fill
With dreams. It was then, then, that the dead began
To stir from their slumbers. It was then they began to sing.

Re-entering

Sunday, January 6th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/6/08

A few stars blinking with awed astonishment
Under the rolling citadels of imposing clouds,
Lights seeping up from the eastern horizons
That are not the lights of dawn, but of a city,
Quenching the monstrosity of a typical
Saturday night with the typical sobriety
Of a Sunday not-quite dawn —
Certainly a birth is being announced,
A name propitiated, but it is a hidden name,
A name, which has perhaps been devised
To remain forever hidden, so that a few
Sober, alert inhabitants of that somnambulant
City will stay awake night after night
To ponder such a mystery. It has been raining now
For days, and even if the insomniacs
Would report tomorrow on the briefly appearing stars
And upon the mystery of the hidden name
And upon the announcement of the birth,
No one would believe them. Because even
On Sunday morning, the denizens of this city,
Perhaps of every city since time began,
Are seekers after a loud certitude,
And not an ambiguous silence.
The citadels are moving and the stars
Disappear beneath their massive porticoes,
Like tiny vassals devoured by their Lord.
And yet it is here, it is now, when fatigue
Tugs at the brain with its greatest heaviness
That the mind of the insomniac,
Although it is the tiniest light of them all,
Blinks its signal reply to the vast unknown.
And the name, not its sound, but its silent power,
Exerts its mighty influence, like a love
That beckons into deeper darkness.

New Year’s Day Voyage

Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/1/08

What has happened to the attention of that one,
So much like ourselves, but calmer, more
Involved in gazing? When the light crumbles down
Through the layers of evergreen branches,
Spangling the ridged bark red, how is it that he hears those hues
Sigh “forest.” That one sees everything as birth,
And erects no myth of utility
Between himself and the candied ice in the road ruts.
In the rush of birds, he succumbs to virginity’s thrall,
As fecund and as boundless as the ocean’s surge.
That one, so much like ourselves, so achingly near,
So terribly absent when we try to touch him,
Seems always to be preoccupied, engaged,
So that others, too much like ourselves,
Those who excavate layers of light
To make use of them, comment sardonically,
“That one seems always lost in the middle of something,”
As if from his world to ours was the dangerous distance
Between the closest center and the farthest verge.
Mists rise into serpents from the forest valleys
And coil like questions from the city’s pavements,
The peaks and the building-tops drifting on golden clouds,
So that that one, at the prow of an elegantly gilded sloop,
Climbs up, slides down through billows of vaporous jewels.
Calm, on the deck, alone, though surrounded by others,
Those like ourselves, whose hearts would drown to be near him,
He is showered with sun spray as he plunges forward,
Sailing through boisterous time, with no thought of steering.

Faith

Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008

Listen Here: [audio:01-Jan_2_08_Fatih.mp3]

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Poem: New Year’s Day Voyage