The Harvesting

I fell into a mortal sleep
Alone the other day

And waking found that I was reaped
Like wheat that sickles slay

The new realm was a threshing floor
That drew out inner grain

The me, the I, the self, the core
The mental of the brain

It cleared away the weevils too
While winnowing the hull

And as the chaff through cool air blew
There came to view my soul

My husk now thoroughly was purged
And all that stood was me

A naked core made pure emerged
Into eternity

-jwm

For the Rally

Bless the World

Rally, poets! - bless the world
With words the Muse might have you use:
All have won by doing so-
By doing so … you never lose.

Spring

Because the morning sun is gold
Because the smell of loam is bold
Because there’s warmth within the cold
I know that I am Spring

Because the aspen boasts her leaves
Because upon me warm air cleaves
Because the red squirrel ‘round me weaves
I know that I am Spring

Because the zenith sun’s aflame
Because the lake is clear and tame
Because the larkspur knows my name
I know that I am Spring

Because the crows above have scoffed
Because the dragonfly’s aloft
Because the mossy rocks are soft
I know that I am Spring

-jwm

Bob Kaufman

Bob Kaufman, born this day in 1925, is one of the more jazzier of the beat poets. It was in the 40s when he came to the attention of some of the Beat movement’s founders- namely, Ginsberg, Corso, and Kerouac.

One of the things that I like about him is that he was sort of a street-side poet (reciting his poetry aloud to passersby much like a street-side preacher).

An interesting fact about this guy is that, after Kennedy was assassinated in 63, he took a Buddhist vow of silence that lasted all the way up to 75 when the Vietnam War ended (impressive).

Impressive still is his ability to employ a dense plethora of vivid imagery in very short poems … his poetry and use of imagery reminds me of Hilda Dolittle and Robert Hayden. Check him out:


Jazz Chick

Music from her breast, vibrating
Soundseared into burnished velvet.
Silent hips deceiving fools.
Rivulets of trickling ecstacy
From the alabaster pools of Jazz
Where music cools hot souls.
Eyes more articulately silent
Than Medusa's thousand tongues.
A bridge of eyes, consenting smiles
reveal her presence singing
Of cool remembrance, happy balls
Wrapped in swinging
Jazz
Her music...
Jazz.