Morning bells at this odd hour
I fear another has fallen
Hasn’t really left us
so much as we remain
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Tag Archive: life
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
Corners, sides, are easy to find,
they’re machine cut to bound the frame,
a space for vision and hearing,
to romp, to roam: proscenium.
I touch with all that I have now,
electric expanses of skin,
orient me to creation,
this is my time, this is my place.
Moments, knurled, from a jigsaw cut,
demand attention to pattern,
peculiar shades at their borders,
whisper to hint, here’s how we fit.
And so, a single piece missing,
I choose not to search for it yet.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Here, eternity works a little different:
it’s forever for some, but not for all,
like those at the parapet,
standing watch for the rest.
Here, death is not quite the same either:
if you grasp the nature of the energy,
and your mind’s in the right place at the touch,
nine times out of ten, you’ll transcend.
A breath here, a swallow there,
a promise, a beacon, a cold-hard stare,
life’s the clarion call.
Get your riders up!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
With oxygen my chief inhalant,
I pulmonate my way
through a tangle of moments
I manage to right-side up
to a semblance of order,
I call my life.
They say that you focus
on only a thing at a time,
but I seem to be struggling
with even that.
I rotate through the five senses,
like so many outfits,
costume changes laid out for the week,
before wash day, Friday, rolls around.
I see, I hear, I smell, I taste, I touch,
I conquer.
Son of a bitch inside my head
keeps insisting it’s me,
though I’ve asked over and over:
please stop calling here.
I find serenity in the ground,
in the space around shape,
the silence between words,
the time around now.
It’s the art of glass blowing,
creating outsides from the inside,
from a glowing tip,
sand to form to ash.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We . . . eternities
stretch – out beyond to both ends . . .
are the ellipses.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I am nothing
if not existent,
bewildered
when I don’t see plainly,
omega
right from the start,
sunlight
over my shadows,
rain
to quench the sere,
drought
in the aftermath of flood;
I am
essentially that.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 