Initiation, Or The Mystery Of The House Of God

 

a poem by a Faust: 

Initiation 

or, the Mystery of the House of God 

& when at last i hold the key 

after searching, & searching, & feeling lost 

i wonder was it wrong of me 

to value thresholds never crossed 

& when at last i try the lock 

without once stopping thinking twice 

i find i barely had to knock 

in fact a whisper would suffice 

& when — at last — an opened door — 

no more of would or could or might 

i wonder what i waited for 

Time is & always has been right 

& when, at last, my steps are through 

no failing -- no trying -- 

no fear 

no fear 

i find i only needed to 

to see a thing familiar here. 

written over the course of more than a decade, 

beginning circa 1991 

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐟 𝐀 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 (𝑶𝒓, 𝑰𝒔 𝑭𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝑰𝒇 𝑰𝒔) : 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑏𝑦 𝑎 𝐹𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑡

 

Song Of A Moonday Child Called

(Or, Is Faire If Is)

a fair etail by a Faust

 

Alone 

We must dream as we're waiting

Alone 

But we live as we're dreaming

Alone 

All one day after living

Alone 

Do we live as we dream

Child of the Night, 

Daughter of the Moon, 

Wandering all alone, 

Growing up too soon

She learns how to feel, how spaces exquisite unfold

Just between your eyes, or down around your heart,

Catches when too shallow breathing is caught up in your throat 

Half-lost she listens for where thunder's expected

She fast hears that all-zu-menschliches rhythm detected

But transposed strangely has stranger & stranger become

It makes her own heart beat colder

Alone 

She once left to be leaving

Alone 

She has been into being

Alone 

She is seen to be seeming

Alone 

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

& so by this Imagination, measure well 

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

By how much it echoes fainter

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

By that much feel it stronger

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

Should she rest for a while 

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

At the side in your heat

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

Could confessions beguile

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

(held fast she'll confide, 

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

Let loose she'll retreat)

(Iamoknowhereshow)

Child of the Night, 

Daughter of the Moon, 

Wandering all alone, 

Growing up too soon 

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

Because your world is round, 

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

or still, it notices 

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

her turning & returning

(Iamoknowhereshow)  

advises her vices

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

Tossed before them, hurled, 

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

it will have her

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

Perhaps conceal 

(Iamoknowhereshow) 

but what concerns her

Sometimes return 

but what reveals her

Alone 

She once left to be leaving

Alone 

She has been into being

Alone 

She is seen to be seeming

Alone 

Child of the Night, 

Daughter of the Moon, 

Wandering all alone, 

Growing up too soon

Alone 

We must dream as we're waiting

Alone 

But we live as we're dreaming

Alone 

All one day after living

Alone 

Do we live as we dream

Do we live as we dream

Do we live as we dream

Alone

To A Sweet Youth, Or, You Have No Idea

 

To A Sweet Young Man 

Or, You Have No Idea

How things seem changed to me

Contexts conspire, rearrange the way i see 

the things i saw not them but i 

have been redrawn, prioritized, & i 

- i do not think myself (thank God) unwilling 

Like some grown up Wendy Darling, 

to question why, but wonder — comparable?

I ask the opened window — am I able? 

Peter, neither cruel nor heartless, wonders why

I think I’m too stiff & weak & heavy to fly

Be seeing you.

I Replicant, Or, Like Tears In Rain

(original image view here)

…Be seeing you.

For My Godmother Revised, With Roses — A Sonnet By A Faust

 

Sonnet for my Godmother (perhaps unfinished)

Neither, itself, perfection impossible (proving me, perhaps, passably wise)

would this seem, to me, surely, were it meant for just any one --

this, that I am compelled, yet again, (yet again!) to revise --

no, nor, if’t seemed even half so literally incapable of being done.

Knowing this is no help at all, notwithstanding my knowing it well;

that-and-a-phone-call is calling you; you who first proved to me someone could care,

could love, without twisting that love to force, or defraud, or compel,

that Love is in fact not about proof at all ;  love is about being there --

-- & about patience, & listening. Well. Because this verse but begins what I would you are due;

Because would I could wield for my own godchildren my Love with your skill;

Because intention emulates the there whose first being I learned through you,

or should I say, thought I had learned — or "wanted to”? — or  "am still”?

-------------------------------   & maybe, just maybe -- is it really so much?

I might — finally — have learned about — staying — in touch.

Tolling, Or, Self Portrait With Recent Death

 

Occasioned by another death due to medical error of someone close to me.

Wishing I could cry.