Song For The People Of The Middle East, All Of Them (feat. Ebony Anpu)

Right click and view in new tab to enlarge.  Original is 32.38x48.18  
The original artwork, is of course no longer extant.

Proxy Invitation (To Mephistophelis): A Poem By This Faust

 

Upon Being Given My Choice Of Gift:

(& Presented With Two Rare Editions Of Goethe's Faust)

Often when we want to show our love's Extant

And of course also do preserve our own selves well 

When we aim wisely we care not so much how money's spent

As we do to preserve our freedoms well as we can tell

And so the rarer items We come to think show more

(The more uncommon things we think are better),

But what we think the symbols chosen – for –

May turn out to be far too much like debt or debtor

So I ask that you consider a different kind of present

And if you wish it not or wish it also that is fine

In that case from the pool of choices you present 

From which you'd have me choose, the first edition's mine

But far away what I would fancy most, consider, please:

On some occasions – for a few conversations – be my Mephistopheles

Waiting For You - an exercise in verse

 

To The Swan: A Poem Without Poetry

(Or, Get Well Soon, Please, Thank You) 

To The Swan: Get Well Soon,

(a poem without poetry, hopefully a fragment)

by johanna Faust

i want to write a sonnet gleaming 

but heart in my mouth, i keep holding my breath

it has been so hard for me, to do any good thinking

hard for me to breathe, to get breath

excuse me, hard for who?

um, me, um, i am breathing fine actually, that was, um

meant as a metaphor.  seems a bit out of touch

the meaning when literal,  seems apt, not so much

when its literal you stay in touch 

with the anchors to this world in the here now beauty

where you feel sick & feel happy & laugh & cry

feel tired and weak & i hope not often, alone

i hope someone is there with me

like i want to be there for you

i hope that someone could even possibly be

because then you’d still be around, even you

machines beepingly dripping, they keep my friend breathing

they keep his heart beating as he is reading my verse.

The Palestinian Problem, 2023 (revised from The Palestinian Question, 2014) - a poem by a female Faust

 

The Palestinian Problem

Or, even as Gaza is being bombed again, like some Polish ghetto

to, when and no matter how frightening,

abandon that civilized ruth --

(useful obviously not whatsoever)

and see their Solution in all of its truth;

to see in all the reporting how they invent,

slightly rephrased the same and I quote

Problem end quote ever brought;

to it all the World taught responses, wrong, right;

now tricked and now treated this manufactured consent

will rest assured soon again have this horror be wrought;

observe before you react.

sometimes you will be called

(coarse, too biased, or slight)

but stand up and witness, think, plan, and act

tell what you know

teach how to speak truth —  not to fight —

how by paying closest attention —

how by citing your sources —

how it is Truth may be made to come into the light:

the overweening pride, the sheer vengeance, the power

of a people let it please not repent me are mine

of Zion, a cancerous ill:

the horror

of a father's cries in Palestine

if his child

 this final

Solution

will kill.

by a female Faust; 

written 08/2014 revised 12/23

To They Who Run When No Muse Chaseth -- a warning by a Faust

 

Nothing That I Less Willingly Part Withal — Except

Or, To They Who Run When No Muse Chaseth

a warning by a Faust

A bird is preening: & the likelihood,

all things weighable of course considered,

that it would read this, even if it could,

may be in fact too small to be conjectured —

yet — in my near absolute certainty

that, given my verse for a chance inspiration,,

the bird, if it could, would enjoy this, & happily,

I find, somehow, a fit consolation —

one I doubt can be found, now, or ever

by any who call themselves ‘Poet’ by theft;

their wit finds no thing with which to be clever

because of authenticity — bereft —

The experienced Sacred, made tangible, real:

Nevermore felt deserved by motherfvckers who steal.

the poem

that you stole from me

I too had stolen

from a wood thrush

preening in a sand pine

@sagestone_ 22 Oct 2017

Ourselves We Do Not Owe, Or, On Expectation Wielded (revised & completed)

 

(a revision & completion)

Ourselves, We Do Not Owe

(Or, On Expectation Wielded)

Like a prophesy recursive, the present condition will frame future chance

with a dependence most sensitive upon the initial, same, unknowns

So my projected, misinterpreted, sometime wrong exquisite dance

may be damning me as surely as were I Dylan's Mr. Jones --

--- at least didn't know.  Or did he? The heart confident & loyal

may  all-too-human be, perverse, perfection find in such;

but: he damns himself who thinks it curst, yet watches water boil -- 

for watching changes nothing --- if, in fact, you watch.

& Watch I did, & watch I have, for days it seemed I stared

Alone,  in twos, in crowds, indeed — within, without, withal —

Never found a  present perfect I could prove for certain shared

But always found my means of observation at the center of it all.

Character is Fate, born of the quotidian, perforce;

To True My Self  I conjure my True Will anew: O Fate! Show me thy force.

"...Fate show thy force

Ourselves we do not owe

What is decreed will be

& be this so..."

William Shakespeare 

Twelfth Night, or, What You Will

Finding Mine, Or, Lengths Versus Distance, Part Two

Finding Mine

Or, Lengths Come From Versus Distance Out

a poem by a Faust

I have jumped from the twentieth floor.

I have walked weeping, alone, to get lost in the rain:

In unison derided, have not hidden my pain;

among the indifferent, the diffident, have been different, sane. 

Taught to pray fearful, taught myself to pray grateful.  Over, over again,

out there before God & everyone, have caught myself, all along,

-- & if one day I know better, let this verse be my song --

deciding for no good enough reason to decide myself wrong

when sometimes some things just need to be looked at some more.

Lest fœtid perfidy sidle up to me, wetly grinning for its due,

peremptorily I'll leave -- & forcédly -- any Face of me unsaved: to follow, or lead, or,

better understand than demand when I'm needed as leader.

No flaunting nor hiding. No leveraging either.

Because becoming the person I'd very much rather

the thing worth all this working, & working, & working until

-- will at least -- surely -- have to have -- gotten easier still --

if I thought I could tell if I knew what I will

won't or can't do when I need me to.

Which I will when I won't when I want what I will.

The which one of me's me, then, surely being the kicker,

if I stand up too fast, could I be even quicker?

if I'm shock proof, determined, however pricey the sticker,

camelback then unbroken, chaining patience to care

to remember to begin to follow on up out of where

so ever through valley from shadow it leadeth, to dare

to find out one day maybe soon -- myself -- already there,

maybe to find myself soon out there already still.

Finding My Religion, Or, Lengths Vs Distance — Part One

Finding My Religion 

(Part One of ?)

some philosophizing by a Faust

"The lengths that I would go to, 

the distance in your eyes"

—— Michael Stipe, "Losing My Religion," R.E.M.

you know, it's just like the chance interaction

to — just in time — remind you — and by you i mean me —

to hold off — for a moment — that too reflex reaction —

that one that if you saw how it looked —  you'd agree

as if knowing the what meant any knowing of how

only true for a handful of cases, a fraction

so small I would think myself wise to allow

as much room wide as deep — to see — my reflection

but just getting ahead of that knee jerk redaction

just not settling again for some impromptu show

takes on all my risk averse dealing in action

risks again taking in what i'd keen disavow

if such lengths served me like measure of real world success

to even greater i'd go — much more often — than less

all of me to All Of You — a poem by a young Faust

all of me (to All of You

reflected in the eyes you see i

live forever Now & never

once the same)

as Gods we walk as mortals dream

alone together fear

(the Secret in the game(

i find i give you All -- of me -- 

& you

i know you know

that Beauty is a dare)

for what you see you merely seem

though everything is) here

i am (a mirror)

stare

a female faust

nyc 1983

Unless The Spirit Wakes In Us We'll Drown (revised)

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Unless Our Spirit Wakes In Us We'll Drown

(Or, On This All Too Near but Most Unnecessary Apocalypse) 

We all of us together living dream alone,

& when all is (almost) said, & some of it is done, 

stand (if we are lucky) on the shoulders of those peers 

made expert by experiment, 

if not enough by years. 

It's like that story with the garden, you know, the chick, the snake:

They struggle to sedate us;

We struggle to awake. 

This 'They' is a neither unified nor organized assault,

 is powerful, relentless, one-pointed to a fault. 

Despite its seeming gentleness, we find tsunami threatening:

So should we recognize the enemies 

of dreamer, set, & setting…

...even if within our Selves. Especially. Could be that part deciding!

(What?) (When?)(What if?) 

The questions overpower — our innocence — confiding — 

as bright of eye & bushy tailed as government recruits

set up to be knocked down

by once trusted men in suits.

 

Where — this metaphor... does not 'do justice,' is also where — the Law... 

ius, iura may be both, my Friend,

but in the end, l'Etat c'est Moi.

So... 'let us go then, you & I,' indeed, this time to make a vow 

as holy & as sacred as any we know how 

as serious as if our hearts hung in some balance otherwise 

to do a little more each day to extirpate their lies.

 

If all of us (imagine!) at once withheld informed consent 

TPTB would find their hands were forced — most fully — to relent —

(& not in empty word alone!) Although, so difficult a vision 

hinges more upon our accuracy than it does upon precision:

for it must vanquish at long last the forces of stagnation, 

of corporate indifference, of fascist machination…

that in this foreboding pre-apocalypse seems to me sine qua non 

of all the creeping evil that we, together, face, 

& all of us, right here, right now, must choose to carry on: 

must create anew this broken World,

must save the Human Race. 

by a female Faust, revised slightly this October 26, 2023

Master Key

 

Master Key

Or, Why You Should Say Yes

(A poem by a Faust)

“A prison becomes a home when you have the key.”

- George Sterling

Sometimes the still possible’s yet rumored unlikely

but considering sources means going back over the scene

of some still secret crime against pleasure —  conspiracy

of the sort one finds looking into what painful has been

May my words fly & be free, such that you, so that we

 all can & do take, get to take, this most wonderful chance —

So that, since you know what I know, & see what I see,

we all get to go trip & frolic, sing, play, & dance

Some things are just too real 

Some times are just so sweet

Some things you have to feel

Some people you should meet

All this to say: please if you would — well consider, unboxed

Because that which sustains us looks askance at all locks.

To Those Once My Classmates

I fell unfortunately too ill to attend my reunion...

the box

the box

we live as we dream, alone

we dream about what we are shown

we see what we’re taught to expect

expect what we think we should get

& while some get what they think they deserve

that’s often less Fate & more nerve

a few get so much more than they need

they think it means they get to lead

give everyone reasons to follow

mere excuses, inspected, and hollow

designed with more take and less give

to keep us apart while we live

The Gift (The World Is Beautiful Again)

Inspired by Katabatik's Ceremonial Abyss, experienced live at Cone Shape Top, Oakland, 2/25/23.

The Gift 

a fragment 

by a female Faust 

The world is beautiful again. 

It was given to me yesterday as a gift 

It was actually given a long time ago 

the first time 

& several times after that 

but only yesterday did I get it 

did I finally understand. 

The world is beautiful, again, 

like it was when I was very young & it was new 

like it was when I was still young & it renewed 

like it was before I learned 

before I set out to teach it 

how it should've been when I was older. 

I learned things because I thought I was supposed to 

the things I thought I had to learn to grow stronger 

I needed to prove that they didn't kill me 

These things that did not make me stronger, 

I don't think they ever will, but if they do not make me stronger,

I'm afraid they might make me dead. 

Beauty makes me stronger 

the impossible beautiful coalescence of 

this now 

this small room 

filled with records & ciphers & pictures & drawings 

all of them imbued with specific familiar particulars 

with spirits, for me, 

& not just for me, 

ghosts of a coming of age 

of paths traveled & not traveled: 

records, relics, recipes, replicas, 

& maps & magazines & magick, 

& people, the people, my people, 

less than kin but all most kind 

crowded in & listening close, intently 

to a dense rich music delicate & profound 

as motes dance in the warm yellow light 

in honor of this beautiful World.