Archive for September, 2008

Lost in the Chop

Wednesday, September 10th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 9/7/08

For eight miles across the narrow neck of the bay,
This spidery steel bridge serpentines gracefully
Over waters whose brigtnesses jubilantly toss
Silvers into silver, liquefy countless sky mirrors,
Slip mercurial messages from wave crown
To wave dip, and exhaust every effort that the eyes
Can expend to track their unceasing exuberance.
Even the machines, here, shrink to beetling insignificance,
And while traveling a mile a minute, seem to be moving
Slowly though an expanding envelope of blue space,
Which appears to desire a deviation from the what is
Of the city and its vast and intricate feats of engineering
To establish, if not for the defeated eyesight,
For the exalted vision, a what could be of the imagination.
We humans, subsumed in slippery silvers and mercurial
Swampings are now embraced by something more revolutionary
Than engineering, something that touches areas of living
Outside of the body, and scatters us sweetly through this blue.
If in this traversal, this bridge, these cars, the what is
Of the city take on certain entity-, perhaps even human-like
Characteristics, the steel smiling, as it snakes across
The happy bay, will the spirit, inhabiting this new
Amalgamation, move into the glow palace, where the chamber
Of sapphire awaits it? And having escaped finally
From the realm of mechanical separations, will it
Establish, at least for a moment, a movement for the body,
Which stretches miles and miles into hours and hours, as we dive and leap
From trough to crest, a hundred and a hundred thousand times?
Your treasured, people.”

Soaring

Wednesday, September 10th, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 9/5/08

After another restless night, at our preoccupied
Approach, suddenly, a score of songbirds scatters,
Like ascending, living confetti, returning to an apex
Of greens and blues, their flurries of twitterings
Chiming together, then splitting apart, each note
Carrying one of the many thorns whose sharpness
Galls us. For a moment, weightless, the ruins
Fall away in the rapidly receding distance,
As far below, the undulations of the surface
Reveal larger and larger vistas of earth and sea,
All the needling fragments reassembling into
Something cohesive and luminous,
Something indomitably living, who contains
In her being both flight and singing, plus
That indefinable quality of light that always
Effaces ruins. She is the angel who speaks
In the water’s voice, in the scattering clatter
Of hurried feathered pinions, in the sigh
Released from the hovel of the body,
To mate with the wind and dally with the leaves.
And how high she makes us feel, free in the depths
Of her soundings: how high, how whole, how strong!

Divine Order

Wednesday, September 10th, 2008

Poems:
Soaring
Lost in the Chop

Holocaust

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
From A Monument of Wonders
12/24/00 www.amonumentofwonders.com

We dream, in our mountainous accumulations
Of kindling, of a cauldron of ultimate fat,
Of a throne raised high with the skulls of our enemies,
Of a knowledge derived from sacrificial lambs,
Of a permanent bliss enclosed by a circle of stones.

These dreams weave scorching labyrinths of fire
With filaments of violence stretched as skin
Across an eye blind to the infinite. The stone
Is in the bag. The power is in the title.
The warmth of the hearth is in the death of another.
The dream is a nightmare of conflicted longings.

But there is a second, a brighter dream within us,
Not scattered through the hills as warring fires,
But centered, like a light within a jewel.
This is the I that calms us in its pool,
Ints infinite diamond cleansing every victim.

We slept in many bodies, but wake in one.

Diaspora

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008

By Roy Dean Doughty
From A Monument of Wonders
12/23/00 www.amonumentofwonders.com

The face is a labyrinth of stone on stone,
Durable, but not infinitely so,
And in the end, its mask falls into ruins.
Then one of the fragments — each fragment is a mask —
Cracks into speech, breaks into realization:
“The Mask is a history of illnesses,
Mistaken paths to the center, which somehow hardened,
Gouging these twisted tunnels with agony.”

Mice run through the ruins twittering hungrily;
Snakes coil in the blues of the smoother stone alcoves;
Ants cart away the crumbled grains of sand;
Eventually, the center stands exposed.

The cure is strange, and not what we supposed.
A faceless vesicle of swarming lights
Swirls at the center of our twisted plight,
And each light burns to play a separate role.
Here is the clown, whose infinite delights
Unite us with the vortex of the soul.
Speak, and the mask is changed. Speak, and the pain unscrolls.

A Monument of Wonders

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008

Poems:
Diaspora
Holocaust