Journal of the Poet's Eye

Cyber Oasis!

Some writ things
Night Thoughts
The Upper Falls
Poets Eye
Poets Heart
Political Meditations
Current events
Writers Notebook
Owls flow through the density
the mist of fallen water cools
the bodies of lovers/

met high on converging paths
above the fallen pine, in a 
moment, grasping the happiness
of destiny!

'The beginning of all movement,'
says the mighty I Ching.

Sympathy for the life of breathing
things; wonder of beauty under wings.

'And why arent' you looking after
the child. You aren't a man when you
act like a spoiled child.'

They kidnapped rich girls and threw
a party for the poor; baseball falls
from grace; it is useless, overfed,
and a bore.

Government bankrupt!
CIA bankrupt!
NY City bankrupt!
Northrup bankrupt!
Lockheed bankrupt!

There ain't no humor in this year
but for the stumbling President;
no one raises the possibility
that he is incompetant.

There are the tensions. He counsels himself
against the intellectual business. It was
brought into being in relation to the great
powers of the world; it has cut its teeth 
there. It wants to construct models in harmony
with the desires of the heart. It can not
sacralize; it can not give value. It can only
master the tools and processes of the world
as-it-is. So, poet, what is it? Is it going
to be to maintain the tools and processes,
to reform them, to overcome them, or to create
the conditions which frees the spirit contained
in the solidity of the world?

Redmen of the imagination
who are and never were
give stength to the sinking
mind/grey with offal. Where's
the Chief? The Chief would never
allow a people to lose their way.

He is dancing in entanglements at 
ground zero/he is a raw sense buried
by the raw mind. 

So, he spreads a newspaper in front of him. It
has a decided slant familiar in university towns.
His mind is filled with argument. He can not fit
into the wafer thin shadow of the protesting brain.
You are not gods, only fools who have yet to meet
your own failures. An angel pursing intellectaul goals
can become a devil very quickly. On the way to hell is
the taste of power. And the descending spirit sees the
world and all its people play-acting for the benefit of his
plans. Where is the playfullness of the intelligent ones?
You bury yourself in the earth and breathe through a straw.

The open heart on the open sea
dreaming on eternity; it is falling
from our vision as terrible clouds

In the guise of our romantic interlude
we burled to the dense underbelly of
coldest regions of the ocean. Hailed

old foes who boarded at night while we,
half-sleep ridden, thought of the love
of women. Fought them off in the still
night. Fought them and chased them to 
islands they had sailed from.

Rumination on the mountain that formed
the center of the island revealed wonders
I had heard whispered about; special things
to find in the sea.

Ah, intellect ashamed of itself as it
watches the ruin around it. Go intellect,
mind, into the intuitive baths and freely
surrender even as the dream submits freely
to your scrutiny. Spirit, spirit; become
whole or not at all! 

The soul takes itself to the river
when the world withers and dies; a
forrest rushes forward to claim the
desicated soul; in the sun too long/
pampered by the women too long.

And in the river there are falls
and from the rocks the falls look
as intricate as a spiders web/

profound as a trigram from the I Ching.

The emerging of all life/
movement toward the light
as tree shadow overtakes us.

And after/woman come down
from the mountain/to the
cabin/she fulsome as white
owl/she lit the fires/she
sang songs of hidden gold.

'I have no compassion,' she
say, 'only knowledge.' So I
listened to her tales of 
living in the mountains.

All of this return to the atavistic has
the poet losing sleep. What are institutions,
weapons, tools, art but the power of nature
in its original aspect? When the making classes
fear what they have made know that great change
is occuring. 

There is precision
in the dance of elements/
they leap to mountains
and shout to be heard.

The fire of the world is all;
the crowds that taunt the captive
from fearful wars is all;
the putrid and cancerous weeds
are all. 

David Eide
copyright 1998
June 8, 1998