lensday entry Movement
Try to Praise the Mutilated World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtains fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
excerpt from 'A Shotgun to the Head'~John Saul
have you ever been? are you experienced? have you ever been to electric lady land?
did you drink from her fountain? did you bask in her molten core? did she call your name and guide you to her peak?
did you feel her quake and tremble? did you feel the need to restrain her? did she unmask her loving fury? did she frighten you?
did you question what it felt like to have someone inside of you? to swallow life and incubate a world to come?
did you ask her how it felt to be God incarnate? to be the daughter of the moon bearing the sun?
excerpt from ' The Way' ~William Bronk
There is the world, we say, and mean a kind of mechanism, big machine that stands there mornings when we come on. We check the gauge and pull the lever we learned to pull, and wait, and stuff comes out. We put stuff in. And wait. Nights, we go home and rest. After awhile of this, we stop; and, mornings, someone else comes on.