Uncrowd my heart, oh God
Until Silence speaks
in your still small voice;
turn me from the hearing of words,
and the making of words,
and the confusion of much speaking,
to listening
waiting
stillness
silence.

Thomas Merton

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Transformative power,
Within the lacking of power,
Wind and fire,
Being consumed,
Self-consciousness,
Imperfection acting out,
Treading upon one’s self,
Others denounced,
While being denounced,
Conflict, contrast, and seediness,
Left alone in doubt,
In crowds alone,
Observing, watching out,
Protecting, unable to move,
Quiet based upon words,
A breath is taken,
A heart beats.

What do you want?
Authenticity,
A roaring silence,
Cessation,
A distance not so great,
Vastness
The acceptance of sorrow.

I am posting something different, a poet I struggle with. Charles Bukowski, for me, is a seminal post-modern American poet. An alcoholic who celebrated his alcoholism, an outcast, a man who rejected intellectualism and academia; his perseverance and dedication to his poetry produced a body of work that could not be ignored. A relevant persona representing the post-WW II American artistic, Pop Culture, rock-n-roll mind—indulgent and crass; decadently reveling in failure and the mundane, able to reject reputation and conformity. He possessed the courage to stand alone, rejecting the shoulders of giants, prolific with his pen. However, the man ventured into the grotesque, the sensual, the crude, while unable to master discipline, peace, obedience, or a quiet voice. Stillness was unknown. Refinement blocked. Appetites mastered him. Insatiable and pleasure seeking.  Clairvoyant to a degree, his poetry is the foolish voice of the court jester. The fool is a vital psychological element, a call to go beyond normality, the willingness to turn everything upon its head, the bravery to be disdained, the ability to endure suffering in order to gain something greater.  I recall a medieval axiom regarding a court jester: it’s an easy job to attain, yet a hard one in which to keep one’s head.  The idea being that a court jester could quickly entertain the king with his penetrating humor, however it would not be long before the king wearied of the fool’s humor, removed his head.  Bukowski possessed a dangerous mind. Dangerous minds are dangerous. Pandora’s box once opened cannot be closed. Uzzah was struck dead for thoughtlessly touching the Ark of the Covenant. Certain things should not be touched. Life is serious even if the court jester is a funny wise fool. Bukowski wrote a short story that paralyzed me with its corruptness. The overwhelming reality that he went too far, drowned himself in the evil influence of alcohol—demonic, forced me to close him off. He could be observed as an example, his words at times striking the profound, yet the reality of defeat must also register. I came across this poem online, and felt called to share it.

The Genius of the Crowd

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

Lying in bed at night, alone in the darkness,
The darkness is enough, divesting details,
Images, infatuations, appetites, and entrapments,
Rewards no longer necessary, darkness is enough,
No rewards, no pleasure, no consolation,
No sweetness, no saltiness, northing sour,
Deprivation, disassociation, the emptiness is enough,
Dreams, aspirations, conceptions of significance,
Brilliance and distractions wasting time and space,
A fire burning through emotion and experience,
Individuality abandoned within totality, being,
A reference point, darkness is enough,
Philosophies, thoughts, feelings decimated,
Darkness is enough, darkness is enough.