Archive for May, 2008

The Blessing of the Blessing

Wednesday, May 28th, 2008

Uncertain Weather

Uncertain Weather

Wednesday, May 28th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/24/08

“I was born already old, naked,
Except for a large, soft hat, my eyes,
Cat-acute to a point beyond the domains
Of the four elements, being comprised,
As the best Bestiaries assure us,
Of lynx urine hardened into gems.”
The skies today, arrayed in innumerable
Translucencies of gray, say things like that,
Their outlandish quasi monotones
Bearing crotchety testimony of the blesséd
Fissure where reason is engulfed by revelation.
Perhaps it will rain, and our dry thoughts,
Like an old king awaiting death’s ransom,
Will dine happily again on silence and water.
Perhaps we will stop trying to number
The six million million million molecules
Of hemoglobin replicating
Syllables throughout our stormy bodies.
The old man cries: “Did you think that these skies
Were only grey with a chance of unseasonable showers?
Did you think that the twenty-thousand atoms
Emitting each molecule of blood,
Each one’s intricate thornbush structure
Perfected in every twisted thistle,
Would average out to average?
Did you think that the miracle of reading,
That tossing of tears into the air, to touch,
Each one, its particular drop of rain,
Would be but another mist made bland by thinking?”
The lynx cat peers at the sky, and marks his rock.
While we, amazed, now read the grey anew,
Finding the poem, because we have found it before,
Not spoken or written by any human being,
But by those skies, like these that hang above us,
Alive with both water and blood, and promising rain.

Getting in the Field

Wednesday, May 21st, 2008



Wednesday, May 21st, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/15/08

The reds of this ornamental Maple’s
Wavering leaves might as well have acquired
Their pigmentation from the morning’s
Rising heat as from their manipulated genome —
Deep blaze being the feel of the day
As well as its color. The Mullahs warn
That somewhere it is written, perhaps
In the Collar of Pearls, that our cooler,
More nocturnal devotions can always
Be brought to a boil. Thus they urge us
To ignore these swarmings of gnats
Winding up the infernal columns of the day’s façade,
And to confine our attentions to architectural
Dogmas whose vertical divisions are fixed
Forever in mosiaced bits, things we have seen before,
Not things that bob and hum in the morning’s sparkle.
The Mullahs may be adamant, but they are in trouble.
The spine disease of the fundamentalists’ usual
Neuropathy is making an unprecedented demand
For gratification. Luminous beings are flying
Through the Porch and in spite of those cylindrical
Mechanisms attempting to ratchet closed the port to our ecstasy,
Our ears are abuzz with the gossips of golden retainers,
And our sight adrift in a sheen of fiery leaves.


Wednesday, May 21st, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/9/08

Spring bloom has shoved the last of autumn’s leaves
From their retentive branches, and when one
Of these stunted exiles is crushed underfoot
On the patio’s flagstones, startle stimuli
Come cascading down from the vault of our
Spidery skulls. Thus, the abandoned choirs bring
Us a wondrous presentiment of our
Next night’s dream. The voice of the dwarf says, “Go
To the woods and build a fire.” Then, the
Melancholy banker gets out of bed,
And saunters listlessly through blasted trees,
The damp, dead leaves under slippered, shuffling
Feet, making whispery post-mortem
Murmurings with each impoverished step.
The banker has a pasty face, imprinted
With the metahistory of a funereal climate,
The effect of too many hours
Responding to the random numbers generator.
The banker arrives, and the dwarf tells him
To stop. But, he has brought no matches. The dwarf flies
Into a rage, breaks sticks, bashes trees, bites bark,
Stomps and kicks the moldering, black leaves,
Lofts catastrophic curses through the choirs.
This, then, is when the final music starts,
When the doddering organist, fingering
Obscure keys, is suddenly joined by the
Breath of the organ blower. The flaccid bellows
Of the lungs puff out, and activate a motley,
Mad parade of soothing inner, and angry outer voices.
We wake. We shout. We pull out all the stops.
Polyphony riots through the golden vault,
New-minted money sprouting from the trees.


Wednesday, May 14th, 2008

Dry Roses

Dry Roses

Wednesday, May 14th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/8/08

Like stiff hoses, which hold and transport
Water for a long time, even in drought,
The leggy stems of the roses, stressed,
Squeeze out multitudes of blossoms
As big as human heads and as frilly-full as peonies.
Add their pinks to the soft blue mists
Of morning and we experience that lesion
Which Xes out the rules governing
Latin nomenclature and brings about
The autistic’s exquisite dream music
Pulsed from a total wakefulness. Thus,
The universal language of dialectic
Plunges into a howling gulf noosed
To a thunderbolt. The baby we, up there,
Experiences this, while our many replicated
Castings crack to bits under beauteous hammers.
We take note now of the moral and mental chasm
Separating insentient from sentient surfaces,
Sight as bludgeon or sight as sweet caress.
Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit. “Tooral,
Looral, kick the Pope, hang him with a tarry rope.”
A child will sing as a child skips,
Touching the rose on its hose with praises due.


Wednesday, May 14th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/7/08

An olive leaf with red fringes and red veins
Has been incised by an insect with sharp
Mandibles. The resultant irregularly
Fashioned slits allow the vision to enter
A shimmering distance. Ah, finally: satiation!
True, any eight-year old could fabricate
This trick. It is only the willingness to let
Your eyes be deceived by a red-caped magus.
Suppose, however, that the wind hums through the slits,
So that the Science of Keys becomes operational,
Spin-orbit, total angular momentum,
The application of the spectra-interval rule —
Those quivering things that set the mind at ease.
No bodies to flagellate. No souls to damn.
No complicated theories to deceive.
Only this child a-bulge beneath the veil,
Repeating his one enigma in a stream:
“I will insert you here. This place that is
Everywhere and nowhere, this riot
Of crimson among the dourest leaves.”
Is this when the artifact is opened by the breeze?
Is this when we suddenly enter the hidden maze,
Where we find, that like roses, or any of love’s effects,
That all of our solemn vows are but brief gusts
Of the subtlest scent that lasts for as long it lasts?


Wednesday, May 7th, 2008



Wednesday, May 7th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/1/08

In spite of the rigid dominion
Of our agendas, it has not proved possible
To excise the blink reflex, so the trembling
Of our manicured shrubberies’ leaves,
Or the shadows of crows’ wings sliding
Overhead, or the cup and crest of water
As it shimmers, can still disrupt
Our orderly circuitries. Even with eyes
Sewn shut, strange lights invade us.
And the clocks dissolve once more into fluid hours.
The neon of haloes, of stars, of crosses,
Of weavings keeps undulating through
Our inner landscapes, obliterating
Our fragile exterior structures.
Whenever the flicker-mania seizes us,
We wallow in archetypal memories,
In spherical visions, in dioramic movies.
What good is it that our officialese
Has condemned the phenomenon
As a useless vestige, the inflamed appendix
Of our degenerate brains,
An ecstasy that cannot removed?
Of what use are decrees that we open our eyes?
The leaves go a-flutter and the bird wings flap,
And we slither above the floor of a sun-shot ocean,
Where giant mollusks open their lustrous traps.