Since ’51
haven’t seen the sun
in Katmandu, Kham and Ando.
Young Tapey rains
dreams – falls
through to the dome,
to the glow
in the palm of the hand
little wings stir air,
as a drop floats up
ere a spirit looks down,
wrapped in linen cloud.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
What has yet to be written –
from absurd to sublime
has it all been said?
Take a moment.
Also think of where it’s all
been scribed – on hearts, minds,
stone, stars, sand,
winds, walls,
in the heavens
and in the mud,
etched-in blood and ink and tears and sweat,
invisible, indelible, and permanent.
And by whom?
Wholly holy worthy ones,
the prophets, poets, and bards.
What I mean to say is
just suppose we juxtapose
polka dots:Dalai Lama.
Start a bow-tie trend,
Tibetan U-Bet,
feature Tenzin Gyatso,
sporting FOURTEEN carat diamonds.
Tattoo Hello Dalai on the ass of Time,
go tramp-stamp the seat of the cosmos.
Anyone out there own this concept –
am I safe to assume it’s mine?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
My mind is empty
they tell me that’s a good thing
the whole world over.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I sit on the hills, watch the Main Line glow
somewhere outside of Philly,
to ponder all that I’m not.
Like triple death-by-chocolate,
the people they’re too rich for me.
They have this and that’n
I got jack shit’n I’d
need statin to unclog
the wax in my wallet.
Presuppose that I am predisposed to disposable income?
Well, think again ’cause in fact I have none.
No, less than a nun,
certainly not to support my habits.
The Schuylkill River is noisy below.
From this vantage
it sounds like a good bet.
Someday I’ll buy a ticket to flow
one-way to its bottom.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We tentatively tiptoe past
the quiet sleepers
who must choose
selfishness at the others behest
or at the expense of selflessness.
One or the other,
not both.
In a forest in mist
I release your hand,
a vain lapse; each moment
you’re gone
I bleed on shards
of Venus’ looking glass.
So quiet
they stir,
we feel
them stir
us to fall
face-down
on a bed
of spikerush.
Crawl along quietly now.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Please get him away from the cable wire, seriously, the wire, he keeps jiggling idhaf thetd; fuc;ak vin; gwkdire, if I lodfase this connectl
I’m having more fun with comments
Than writing my own poetry
Lately.
Been thinking more into Your space
Than mine.
I’m a medium I channel,
A turntable for your media,
Spinning.
I’m picking up pieces,
Filling in blanks,
Rounding corners,
Softening edges.
Breathing in
Your air
This time,
Precious.
My toe’s in your water
At the deeper
End.
Of you.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Whenever I lament the state of the world, I listen to the song of Kauaʻi ʻŌʻō. Put some headphones on and listen to this very short clip. I promise, you will not be disappointed.
Love to you all. Have a great weekend. —Carlos C.
Listen to the haunting song of the Kauaʻi ʻŌʻō, presumed extinct since 1985. Headphones recommended to fully appreciate the rhythm, tenor, tones, and intervals, of the bird’s song. This is the bird at night.
I believe this is the only known footage of the bird:
http://www.arkive.org/kauai-oo/moho-braccatus/video-00
See here for additional recordings and to browse the wonderful collection of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Macaulay Library
http://macaulaylibrary.org/
Again, farewell Kauaʻi ʻŌʻō.
—–Chagall
Lazy birds sing what sound to be questions,
Trilly lilts angled so oddly in time.
Shush. Hear the hurrahs?
Winds schuss a course of boughs.
Waves atop etchings on sand
Erase traces of what once was.
Beyond, there come the loggers,
Mechanical, Om-like, spun chorales,
Mantra for flat-felled forests:
Erase traces of what was once.
I rush the treeline insanely
Unable to draw enough air
To support the bellow I want to import,
The reply I want to thunder.
To the wood pigeon, grand thrush, paradise parrot,
the heath hen and laughing owl,
the parakeet, grebe and island rail,
piopio, Kauaʻi ʻŌʻō . . .
My chest heaves, I’m a front-row mourner.
Hot eyelids strand gummed tears.
I see the world through rainbows
Cleaved cleanly through
My optic nerve.
I purse my lips, find the bird call in me,
Arpeggiate soulful lament
Cleanly without glissando.
I beg:
Take heed – just fly – just fly away –
Find places we cannot find!
But my song is lost as the world surrounds.
The crescendo envelops, it’s near.
The steady march, the goose step advance:
Erase traces of what once was.
Leave no trace of what used to be.
From above and away I hear lonely cries –
ʻi ʻŌʻō
ʻi ʻŌʻō
ʻi ʻŌʻō . . .
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The voice of the cello.
What note did you hear?
Hum it for me.
Om,
loons,
warm rooms.
hmm . . .
Resonance:
breasts, navel,
inner thighs,
vibrate.
Arced, bowed.
Yum.
Yo-Yo Ma.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 