purposeless solitude (free poetry e-book)

8/9/2019 Purposeless Solitude (Free Poetry E-Book)

1/24

POETRY E-BOOK CRA 4/13/10

Purposeless Solitude

Selected Poems by Lethe Bashar


2/24

I sat in my garageand listened to my neighbors'children playthe sun held its last

bending light

andI

smoked my first cigarettesince I had woken up;the day was ending

but brilliant for thatlast unspeakable hour and the children ranindoors for brownies with fudge sauce--

I am often remindedof how my lifeis so different from theirs

they seem to live in contentmenton the other side of the fenceunwitting, perhaps, the peacein that last light which falls on me,a remnant of whatI 've missed, or didn't bother to know enough about, I feelthe placid breeze, the sunlight

before it crawls away.


3/24

on this flight you will missmost of everything

girlfriends, jobs,even holidays with family

you'll awaken to an unforgivinglandscape

the wind will speak in dribbleslike an oracle

you'll know the absence by its charmed face

many of us flying into the same

blankets of cloudswill show no fear--I believe that we are

recalled, perhaps memorized

by thosewho have notdisappeared.


4/24

every passion I ownedhas lost its flavor except one

where am I headed

on this wave of indolencewhere does it lead?

we can stay friendsand I will continueto entertain you

my thoughtsare so purposelessyet I rely on them

a glimmer of emptinessis what I seein the sky tonight

it keeps me awake,with no time or too much time

I suppose thatit's a good thingnight erases doubt.


5/24

here I am, enjoying a moment practicing the artthat gives me most pleasureand I wonder why I makemy life so incompatible

with joy

destiny corrects the livingin a way only the gods will ever know

as if I 'm divided intotwo people with opposing agendasI must make concessionsto each of them

I 'm the arbitrator of two

separate omenstheir nagging obsessions requireI split the share of my life

without the whisperingor the shouting of the other interested party, this simple pleasure of writing poetrywould gladly be mine.


6/24

the pleasures are fleeting,on some days you're wonderingif they even exist

but in the slow stationof all our lives, a moment of being

comes and goes, lingers for awhileout of a plateau, pleasures risethis wondrous hot springfills you with momentary delightand even the thoughts you are thinkingecho with reason and brillianceand even the coffee tastes incredibly richso you want more of the experienceand less of the waiting, I suggesta simple remedy, I suggest

breathing, maybe taking a break with me

on the pier, we'll sit and listen tothe waves crash


7/24

I dreamed of a womanseveral feet from my bed,her long torso leanedagainst the doorway, her coral skin blended with the lightand my eyes were neither open

nor closed thoughI

felta vague intimacy between us,there was no exchangeonly a mutual feelingwe were together, like a couplelike lovers or close friends.

I don't usually sleep during the day, but today I slept and dreamedof her again, I wonder why I never see her face

only her long torso rising upinto half-hidden arms,she's completely nakedstanding there in my bedroomsteady against the doorwaylike an echo that can't be reached

but only heard.


8/24

the coil of my existencewill eventually unravelso I can see the whole thing at once

my useless pangs,

the hopeful whispersand many many lies

one day I 'll understandmy grief

a purposeless solitude is mineneither here nor there

wandering ecstatically intothe snow at night

to unbury my car gigantic flames burstout

it never moves, my fixed self I can't stay here, I 'll freezehelp me out of this snowthe car seems stuck

when did I bury myself?

I 'll wait here forever the dusk is dusty tonightI 'll wait under these starsI 'm sure you'll come


9/24

I go down into the cool basement where the open foundation peers out of the walls upstairs she's sleeping, beautiful and uncomplicated, in a dream I 'll never know my cats want to know what happened

what canI

say to them? I 'm sorry, I went back to smoking . . . don't come down here, I want to be alone my work is fulfilling but there is something the size of a needle it rents a hole inside my brain, a tunnel of worry air escapes and makes things cold I used to have that control things to keep me busy, a goal, some bright idea countless directions and possibilities the reason why I came down here tonight I

had a meaning, a strong sense of knowing but now I just shiver from the dropping temperatures and wait for the old spirit of wonder to make me feel better the basement is a blunt place to awaken the soul so what was it I came down here for? the future has no home, it looms like a pendulum, moving from desire to desire, and back to love, time-honored my teeth sink deeper into a bed of gums I 'm growing old, and in my house like guests, they come and go they smile, nod, give encouragement I return to this rhythm of exhaustion.


10/24

the memory of disappointment looms over every lover's head, the pain of longing is

protracted

extending into future lives, the world turns

in a continuous way

nothing is permanent and that makes me dream again


11/24

the people we dream about are enigmas and they have overwhelming powers with their words, with their ideas

how could a few words produce a bright little dragon of hope?

still the experience is inchoate not finished yet, it conceals the final result

this state is more like a dream than a perpetual longing-- the hope which

alters your reality will most likely fly away on butterfly wings

and yet I live for the chances, how encouraging when she wakes me out of bed and dips me into a bath of possibility

not impotent fantasy but real hope-- the kind that promises

an ultimate end.


12/24

surprises--what are surprises? looking back they lose their glow

wishes may be granted if my wishes are granted

thenI

will breathe easily

dreams, fantasies, terrors the cat meowing at the shut door

purposeless I drift in my cocoon of wonder

my story is so old, so repetitive by now not even you would like to hear it

my humdrum life, the wheel

of it turning--with only vivid fantasies to keep me alive

I ache with wonder at the slow action of my self growth and maturity are not quick enough for me

I need a dream to hang on I need an opium pipe to suck in clouds of happiness

there is nothing, not even anger anymore

just the longing

a lake of separation between us.


13/24

I don't know if I can ever satisfy my longings with any person or thing, my outward gaze sees a paradise of fleeting figures some lost, others connected by

a rift-- I invite this shape shifting desire into my life, I call it forward, only to turn it down and my adventures I 'd never give them up, I live for change, transformation, renewal

but how dark it is to exist in a

pool of longing and astonishment.


14/24

Beatles musicchorus of ironic hopeFriday night invitationto solitude

Boy, you're going tocarry that weighta long time


15/24

the moth approached me like a blinking eye,I was having a cigarette in the garage.the birds squeaked in the far off darkness,a menacing sound disrupting the night.

Ipressed the moth to give me her reasonsfor staying up as late as she did--

she continued to blink, and I awaited her answer, but nothing came.

the birds heckled the darkness and the darknessheckled back--the chaos persisted butremained subdued and the neighborsstayed in bed.

the children, in their warm beds,

were dreaming of magical places,and I bemoaned my conditionwhile having my cigarette in the garage.

I thought of summer, which was expectedto come, maybe tomorrow or never,I figured I 'd be sleeping when it did.I thought of the hours I 'd missed.

the moth returned after awhile,she blinked her wings again and again,she seemed to know I had a mild fever,she seemed to know my memories too.

Let me go, I said. Be off. I want to sleep.


16/24

my cats are eager to knowwhat I do in my garageand so is my father--

I write poetry at dawn

rebellion ended some time agodestructed me into flamesall I have now is a little

cigarette to burn before daybreak the birds to call my namethe echoes in the empty backyards

I 'm not suffering heremaybe I was yesterday,

early this hour I

m brightshimmering with silence

a trap I once stuck my foot innow has no power to containthe knots don't fit anymoreand rebellion is a word for children

but I 'm a manterribly aware of my freedomto do destructive things


17/24

out of the cloudy liquidcomes joy--a pure, admirable feeling

then there is the gravelyturn of the wheel

over the restless, buried dead

you're led down that familiar pathfrom your childhood,to the end of the cul de sac

a retreat into a lonely,reassuring place.

we're blessed with everything

but everything is never enoughand how do we explainregression?

the drink on the tableempty--go fill another glass

cigarettes in the new jacket pocketfive more until daybreak


18/24

W hitman was rightI want to be a childliving on the couch all daylife in front of the fireplacedreaming

dreaming of fame but also dreamingof light and fictional landsof becoming another personin another century

the clean sun spots on wintry fields outside my doorstep branches swayingI have no control over this eruption of feelingI will write when I writeand hold silence in empty seasonsI too am paralyzed

to be myself I stopped writing poetry for a whole year you can't explain the museI tried to control my hand

but my hand rebelled

winter is a saber from the root a river flowscutting the morning with these lazy thoughtsgrown into little childrensad wayfarersthe open rosewinter lavish in cold innocence


19/24

I am full of hopeanticipationand wine

but curling on the edge like a burnt napkin

despair, dread, the memoriesof failurewhat a cold bunch of phrases and yetthat's what it feels like

I 'm not drifting away tonight just typingand I 'll go to bed acceptingknowing when I wake upa new day will be there

radiantly reminding me of this possibilityanother reason to desire things.

the inevitable pattern is a blessing and aconundrumwe look back on the whole lot

but I doubt that this is the end of sufferingmaybe resolution will crown our lonely headsone daymaybe strangers will greet us in the morningand know who we are

I doubt anything in this world will change twiceif anything were to happenit would overwhelm the mind

this mad quest of life


20/24

so many scratchesso many lines scrawled here and there;I carry this old notebook,forgetting it often, though it lay there

peruse your lifelook at the groovesthat one

I am no seeker no spiritual manthe seeking stopped once I realized discontentlike repeating chords

scraps of daysendless bits of things

attracting and repulsing me in quivers just one endless loop into tomorrowliving without a clue:

that's me

my dumb innocenceI used to look back and read what I wroteand linger on it because it was raw and young

today I think I 'm old


21/24

the anxious child beating in my heartis youfurious whirling child of discontent and loveyou disentangle with gracenever losing touch with unmistakable anguish

you fall belatedlyto the bottom of the world

a cycle will remake youas a cycle

broke you downand all your thoughts about the worldwon't matter

I m young again with youI

m blind and naked and undefeatedanxious child come dance with me

what are you afraid of only lovers speak this waywhat are you running fromtimid infant on a wave

the dark engulfing worldwill cower

behind you and me


22/24

I relish these dayseven the smoke that pours from my lipsis sweeteven the stranger makes me secretly smile

I relish these days of quick, intense painthe arresting hours of doubtand the wild, bright future that just breaks in

I relish the moon that keeps me companywhile I write these poemsto a forgotten son

I relish conversations in the dark with my cats

the playful gestures of their pawsI relish a meal with a new friend

parmesan shards on my lipsas nervous laughter erupts

I relish my whole uninterrupted self the silos of pain and the exclamatoryYes coming from nowhere and never

I relish giant moments like thesewhich embrace me

could this life be anymore unknown?


23/24

W e walked through the cold, granite park that day,ice-skaters breezed by in merry furies, loops upon loops,maddened by the wind,with bright shining faces and bright shining eyes,and everywhere I looked

couples burrowed in each others

arms.I suggested the museum,the first floor was emptyexcept for two high school kids who played hookyand jested beside the glass of Renaissance art;I stared at them meekly, as if I envied their sweetadolescent rebellion. They were drenched inwhatever I wanted.

You lingered in the early art periods;I

approached a Grecian bust, once perfect,now broken,scuffed forehead, damaged nose and some dust.A security guard paced the length of a wall,I asked what exhibit was showing,de Kooning just left, said the Chicago accent.

On the second floor, Munch s bedroom girl,we both agreed, a mystery of emotion,haunting, beautiful, a dream . . .That brief instant was gone forever, like the day,and the next, dominated by a hunchbacked curator who lectured to the floor about floating blocks and cubes,both subject and

object moving, (a preacher went to see his lover, a dancer in a midnight club)amorous obsessions, I thought.

Van Gogh s Self-Portrait : the room full of spectators.I stood there in a trance

beneath the fixed stare of triumph or terror, beneath the weary beard of jagged lines,inchoate strokes . . .

Later in bed, you grieved.I said what I lovedabout the portraitthe sheer incompletenessas if the colors were still dripping, and the artistsomewhere near.


24/24

purposeless solitude (free poetry e-book)

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