the revisionist

In this age of blossom, age of Bloom, reflecting,

Always astonished how it is between

The acts under Western eyes: 

The good soldier to the lighthouse; or

The good apprentice waiting for godot (in paranthesis); or 

The burning oracle… But O nothing, nothing like

The sun, loving the wheel of fire, the sense

Of an ending, is this fool-- a son saved! 

For it’s my homecoming, Amerika, 

Like the sleepwalker (a man without qualities) 

In the last days of mankind, in the storm of roses. 

O illuminations! parables! fragments! aphorisms! 

O the trial! the unbearable lightness of being

Guide to the underworld-- the cancer ward, the gulag 

Archipelago, the foundation pit, shadow lands… 

And during this visit a part of speech, hunger,

Tremor, guilt, exile …until 

The prophesied return later? …much later, the nightingale 

Perched on nothing’s branch, 

At war with the newts…

…A slow homecoming, yes, to

What I love in the past continuous, in traveling 

In my fathers’ court—(Barabas? his daughter?), 

In the fountain and tomb—a dress of fire 

At the stone of losses, a perfect peace 

Like the future in the present  (see under: love),

Or like the lost steps, labyrinths, the music

Of human flesh, dreamtigers, men 

Of maize, Paradiso! (the obscene bird of night) 

Or Like a change 

Of skin… O on and on! Traveling

In the family, now at a bend in the river,  

Now a dance in the forest. …Yet… No longer

At ease… For the harder they come 

--Arrows of god!— so come the

Casualties, things falling apart… 

Didn’t you know? …My foe 

My ‘brilliant career,’ an imaginary life

Now the professor’s house, the necessary 

Angel surfacing under the volcano 

With midnight’s children (in heat and dust…), 

My fables of identity a fringe of leaves,

Tender buttons (spring and all!).

An American tragedy? It can’t happen

Here, here in the palm at the end

Of the mind, here at the house of

Mirth—three lives (Lazarus laughed!). 

The garden of Eden? (Call it sleep).

In other words, world enough and

Time, time for the ponder heart working a vein of iron… 

Barren ground? a rhetoric of motives? or 

A cool million in cold blood? The price 

Of the ticket-- Seasons 

Of earth while bending the bow…

O seize the day invisible man! 

Make straw for the fire (pale fire), 

For wise blood, ancient evenings, for the second skin where

I’m calling from-- advertisements for myself

As the fixer, writing by the left hand of

Darkness, by my life as a man, as 

The moviegoer, child of god, a running dog 

In love and sleep-- with dog soldiers 

The central motion, the counterlife of 

My mumbo jumbo, of the little disturbances of man.

Time remaining? On wings of song the form

Of a motion, the dead father (speed-the-plow),

And the stars (were) shining, living together from

The first, findings, as the one day dimensions of 

History. Still, the continuous life, streamers

In the world of ten thousand things. Westward!

-- No nature?—River writing 

The rest of the way (earthly measures), a call 

In the midst of the crowd. The old and new 

Dark harbor.






Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist dive

In over your head remembering the dead? 

Fear is not an option plunging to the limits and 

Putting legacy on the line for big payday.

In order to sound the depths (no chance to cash in

On these angels), you must go 

To the verge of identity all your own, raising risk 

Of pressure (could mean trouble). But when disheartened, hang on. 

You’re not trying to invent utopias. 

Rather, “It’s a test to see how far you can go, 

If you grow on the earth in different ways.” 

These are great depths of yours, currently 

Being plumbed, whose proceeds will go 

To fund growth…until reaching bottom, 

Where the dead tell you:

Don’t damn the old money before ensuring

There exists sufficient supplies of the new.

But time now to come back up for air, for a crowded world,

As you make a beeline for the surface

To (scientifically) determine which states of being

Truly belong, knowing as you do now

There are mysteries you’ll never know,

Mysteries that stay hidden in nature’s darkness,

Like a light.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist pact

The dark is raising questions from the dead 

Among us, for justice done 

To the pain of the living, their spirit none 

The wiser or quickened by 

The answering stars in the sky… 

For darkness does its deed 

Out of need 

Of silence, whose desire-quelled heat limns-- 

Shimmering off the rock of the moon, round 

And round the earth-- and swims 

In the bath of space, then 

Plunges past all human time toward globes 

Where, emerging in the other world, earth disrobes

In unexpected tenderness, and shines there,

All eyes upon her, 

Before stepping back in the warm

Shadows where sleep, like a friend, will accompany 

Her for the duration, until personally

Summoned by dawn for the day’s intricate details 

(there are too many), there to form 

A new pact, honored in the making, between 

Tracks left in the road and the imagined journey

Made, true and awful, in obeyance as if to charms, 

From solemn start to joyous finish, that the dead, 

In having crossed this world,

Would be alive and well in the living’s 

Outstretched and welcoming arms.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist quick study

I’ve dug deep to bring light to the surface

But am no shining example myself.

Natural beauty casts its spell over me

Like a kindred spirit, while each artifice

I make makes short-lived eternal, seemingly.

I’ve sought milk from stone and half

Of me has thought, What if I poured

Shadows through a sieve? Could I hoard

The flow and pattern of its coherence?

But true to life my nirvana eyed

Its reflection like a tiger of nonchalance,

And what I could behold (before it died),

I would, and did--immortal as a glance.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

learning from nature

turn your attention, fledgling,

to the living structure

--the sea, where

life began--the untold potential all around you,

in you, all that's not for sale,

that would not entice hunters of bio-treasure...

now--imagine a strong ally beside you,

one who's got your attention

even when you're dreaming,

especially when you're dreaming...

and imagine you have more privacy in a big space

than you ever dreamed of,

where you read everything in a second language

and pass it on

even if you're proud to be, say, an American, or a Japanese,

you’d still want a priority seat for this play?

what difference does it make where you stand

when watching the starry firmament?

supposing we did have one language.

we couldn't express everything

in it we wanted to, even if we wanted to-- 

that's the good news.

lost between two shores,

you're searching for yourself wherever 'Mr. O.K. Walkabout'

meets 'Ms. Hot Dog Spa' at the door 

above which is written "COMIN"—

that’s the bad news.

next time you question the universe and feel

the answer at the tip of your tongue, look 

and you'll see in your field of vision,

your frame of reference, a person like yourself being 

led, being led… into the gray areas,

knowing there that where the light shines brightest

the shadow is deadliest

meanwhile I'm watching you like a star

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist confession

how can one be proud of one's need of recognition?

yet one must needs recognize this need

and be proud of it, that it may lead 

eventually to a deeper recognition, to where recognition

is authorized, to where one might grow beyond the light, in luminous signs of the unrecognized

                                  *

daily we mix and mingle, and nightly our dreams yield up

semblances, resemblances, reassembled as

the flow of what we truly would want..., or need..., or are?

                                  *

the sneeze coming out of me, the nose running, the blessed

event, tells me with a shout I am released! so I run

off into the distance, and, from where I sit seeing my spirit come up short against the body, would, like a gust of wind, make

a true inroad of myself, a self on its knees to joy

                                  *           

sure our sentence is a long one--punctuated with sighs, sorrows, situated in a larger paragraph of time passing, surprising in periods, while always given, or seeking after, an even wider context of meaning, where meaningful attains to fullness; but 

when facing up to death I get tongue-tied; when falling in love, my syntax gets strained--your place or mine?--either way, this currency'll be restamped, superscribed as it is with the markings of a lovesick scribbler, by way of an ennobled cliche that has, yes, a mean and hungry look

                                  *

fodder for hell is what Rumi calls those

    who are heedless of beginnings & ends--

heeding the end, you achieve power & greatness, he says,

    by dwelling on results.

heeding the beginning (more rare), you achieve ambiguity,

    by dwelling on process. 

while our paradise simply would be pretext 

    of a 'shadowless shadow,'

in which is held accountable 

    the origin of the world






Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

notes of a native son

    

                           As I lay dying, America

              --O tender is the night--

              I can hear the sound & the fury

              from my sanctuary

              in another country,

              I can see my lives and how

              I lost them this side of

              paradise (no victim, I),

              I can see my homecoming,

              my family reunion, America,

              just above my head,

              I can see the beckonings

              of the face of an angel,

              I can glean from the

              ways of the hour other

              voices, other rooms, a further

              range in the clearing, where

              a witness tree stands,

              an empty mirror, an open head.

              And I can see the other side

              beyond the gates of wrath, America,

              where men and angels

              at the end of the world

              make final payments in the

              company of women,

              their eyes watching God.

              I can see across the river

              and into the trees, America,

              how the winner takes nothing

              --ah sin--how the shadow man

              with a one-way ticket leaves

              dust tracks on a road

              (not without laughter),

              notes of a son and a brother

              at the edge of the body,

              and how misery--a bag of bones

              on the road in different seasons --

              is now the long walk day by day

              of the boy I left behind me,

              past the people of the abyss

              --the armies of the night--

              now the running man

              running against the machine,

              running in the family

              on existential errands,

              spreading the gospel

              according to the son,

              of a new life on the

              golden pond,

              of the progress of love

              in the skin of a lion,

              of a tenant in the house

              of dawn.

              Oh America I can see

              coming through slaughter,

              riot, rage, dred, half-lives,

              my wicked wicked ways,

              wounds in the rain, aloneness,

              a tangled web, the winter

              of our discontent,

              something to declare,

              something I've been meaning to tell you:

              Oh America, beloved America,

              who do you think you are?

              Letting go, crossing the water

              --the awful rowing toward God,

                     to a God unknown-- 

              making it new, America,

              a twice-told tale,

              like the old man and the sea

              surfacing in the time 

              of the butterflies, home

              sweet home burning bright

              -- raise high the roofbeams! --

             Joshua then and now

              in dubious battle, 

              a dog's mission --

              to honor the difficult,

              the greater inclination,

              the awakening,

              the touchstone,

              the long dream the world over,

              here and beyond,

              of the children past

              the age of innocence, and

              certain people possessing

              the secret of joy--

              of representative men,

              the outsider, 

              invisible man, 

              a tramp abroad,

              my life and hard times,

              black love, black love

              --white man, listen!--

              no executioner's song,

              the fruit of the tree,

              one of ours.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

so too does the heart ask to receive

The past is so full of pain

Is the future full of pain also

Yes the future is full of pain

The bones of the dead are waiting

Shells are already washing ashore

The sky is unleashing destruction down

Upon the earth in waves of fire

And the bodies of men and women

Are loving one another forever

The tide comes so regularly

Will the moon be loyal too

Yes the moon will be loyal and will shine

Through the darkness for the child lying in bed 

Half in shadow who loves everything at once and is content. 

And the moon and the stars shall leave a trail

For those listening and wanting to follow

The animals are so lonely

Is their loneliness the fruit of our neglect

No the animals are alone for a reason

They do not need us, they hear us coming

And they flee into the wilderness

Let them go, let them alone

The cities we’re going to build

Will they touch the heavens and replenish the earth

No Earth replenishes herself

And the cities will crumble into dust

But out of the dust the cities will rise again.

Earth patient and enduring shall abide

The human swarm that levels her forests

And burns her fields and dams her rivers

But she shall not abide forever

The human shadow is so long and dark

Will life have its place in the sun

Yes life will have its place in the sun

The black terrible bulls will charge with their horns

And the air will be ablaze with their blood 

That drenches and soaks and seeps into the ground

For the next generation and the one after that. 

The death that sweetens the bitter old men

With imaginings of glory and sacrifice

Will flash affirming full of immediate and high longing

In the eyes of their sons

The death that stalks the present

Will it ever find a home

No the death that stalks the present

Will never find a home

It is hungry and ravenous and endlessly seeking

And its only aim is to accomplish its nature,

Whoever stands in its way is damned,

Whoever yields to it is also damned 

Sleep is so swift and deep in the night

And dreams carry us so far that we’re afraid

Will we always be afraid

No though you will hear the voice of sleep say your name

And the night will offer no shelter

Your safety is in going forward to meet your dreams

And taking them back with you into day

The people you meet by day will be the holy essence

Of where sleep takes you in the night

So lie down and be still where the pillow is soft

The morning of the next day seems so far away

Will we ever awaken 

Yes you will awaken when the time comes

And the sun will take pity and will rise

From dawn where it has always been 

And you will show your thanks by bearing witness

To the geography of pain which its light reveals

The old meanings are being lost for good

Will new meanings come to take their place

Yes new meanings will come to take their place

By those who dirty their hands in the rubbish of time,

Who fashion the sacred places where tears fall

And are caught in the hands of lovers, in the hands of children,

Who while they sleep know not what they do

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

the heart beats strongest in a wound

Some people you know are the picture of death. 

They drain you, leaving you powerless, but you must 

Not succumb. You’ve been testing the waters in a lake 

That’s dried up, where men and women live in a world 

Of barren fact and are heading nowhere in a hurry. 

But not so fast, Lucky One! Remove that thorn in your lion’s paw! 

For the challenges facing a heaven artist like you 

Are real (you’re preserving the fruits of transitory time, 

Whose wealth you’re gladly passing on.) (This? This 

Is already a tradition in the new world you’re headed for. 

Key is to stay faithful to your instincts…) Yes, stretch out 

Of your comfort zone and take the plunge… Go into the mirror 

And seek heavenly signs… Mission not impossible. For now 

It’s time (who needs whom?) for the real story to unfold

--of light and shadow edging closer to where borders 

Fall, and the outlook (with a lot of ‘ifs’ attached) of further 

Reflection at the crossroads treads a fine line 

And, hitting pay dirt, thickens the plot as the Real McCoy in you 

Declares to certain others: I’ve always wanted to meet you.

   Yes, to you, to YOU I am speaking. We have so much to say!

For some people you know are the picture of life.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

when losing by winning becomes winning by losing

       

how not to handle fear, lessons 1 and 2:

repressing it only makes it more desperate

           Yes, but don't go too far! 

...that's what we all say

many of us have no idea where we're going

epidemic errors:  bad's 'bad,' good's 'good'

but there's 'good' bad too (and ‘bad’ good)

that keeps air in the tires,

wheels turning...

challenge, you think, is to translate creative

process into acceptable public policy

(strictly speaking, there is no connection)

      a movement groping in the dark

the world seen through the local lens of a body artist's life,

                   from the corner of his eye... 

      

to make a long story short: the Hades factor.

brethren! a darkness deeper than night!

our viewpoint: don't expect too much of us

but now under the spotlight:

    how fast food has changed our lives--

    how sex scores! but love suffers…

ah! fearing a monster you helped create?

yes, touch brings life to things that decay

but  ...Lovers break the rules secretly. 

        And that opens the door to politics.

--this is that story.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

getting a life

             
He was struck out of the blue by    
       A bolt of lightning and he died.
It was out of the deepest darkest blue
       That his death came, he thought.
When he looked back on his dying
       He was amazed, and puzzled, too,
For though it happened all at once
       He had been, he realized, dying for some time.
It was not anything he had control over--
       Because his dying was not an experience he could put
Into words, one sentence after another.
        His dying wouldn't be thought of in that way.
From the moment the bolt struck
       He was set willy-nilly on a dizzying descent, free-
Falling into the vast, terrifying and wondrous world of
       Meaning, one that human beings were creating,
He was to learn, in collaboration with the gods——
       A world wherein time moved, echoing
And reverberating with a significance
       Which he scarcely could begin to fathom.
In the ensuing struggle for survival were all manner
       Of unconscious fears and inner demons which began to arise
Out of the shadows during which he fought
       Not to lose sight of the bigger picture--that of being
Brought face to face with the profound mystery of
       His own inwardness. It was a vision
Of inwardness not of the "here's what I saw" variety
       But an ongoing discovery, constantly growing
Out of direct, personal experience, each moment
       Poised between his dying and his being reborn,
Between his holding on and his letting go.
       It was more a matter, he sensed, of being gone through:
For he was dying and as his dying continued he wanted
       To keep himself conscious every minute of every hour
Of every day through it all. He simply was living
       His dying and living it, he imagined, as much as he could bear.
But it was in his dying that something strange happened:
       His mind was unable to absorb anything discursive.
That is, he was dying and had no time, let alone desire,
       To narrate the process, or to process, as it were, the narrative.
Prose seemed heavy, leaden, useless: his narrative appetite ceased:.       All that was left in him for taking in, all that there was room for,
Was poetry. For from his dying there started
     Springing forth poems, at times effortless and
Plentiful, flowering, it seemed, like those buds in time-lapse,
     High-speed photography, appearing before him wherever he turned.
Poetry-- whether reading or writing it--became as natural to him
      As breathing, allowing him to participate in his dying in a way that reading and writing discursive thought, or prose, couldn't.
      For where prose would have put him outside
The experience of his dying, poetry, on the other hand,
       Mirrored for him the death he was undergoing, enabling
Him not so much to contain but to harness in words the  
      Unrelenting,  untouchable force of his dying --the death
Which he henceforward wanted deeply,
       With all his heart and will, to be alive to.
For on the day that he died it was as if he woke up.
       On that day he understood there was a deep hollowness
At the center of his life, and that he had to get hold
       Of himself, that he had to settle down and make himself
At home in everything he said and did. Simply
       It was the defining moment of his life.
And he had been, in his way, re-living it ever
       Since and would go on re-living it until he
Was satisfied (could he ever be?) that his entire life
       Had been retold, re-phrased, in the language of his death.
For he had, he realized, quite by accident
       Discovered--where creative endeavor and
Personal suffering cohered-- the elusive life
       Of his soul.

                     








Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.