The Red Wheelbarrow on Mars

The Red Wheelbarrow on Mars

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

on Mars.


--William Carlos Edgar Rice Burroughs Williams

Beauty is the creator of the universe (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

(jacked up via biblioklept)
http://biblioklept.org/2015/10/05/god-has-not-made-some-beautiful-things-but-beauty-is-the-creator-of-the-universe-emerson/

From Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “The Poet.”

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on the centre. For the world is not painted or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful; and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manual skill and activity is the first merit of all men, and disparages such as say and do not, overlooking the fact that some men, namely poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of expression, and confounds them with those whose province is action but who quit it to imitate the sayers. But Homer’s words are as costly and admirable to Homer as Agamemnon’s victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he writes primarily what will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, in respect to him, secondaries and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building materials to an architect.

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words.

The sign and credentials of the poet are that he announces that which no man foretold. He is the true and only doctor; he knows and tells; he is the only teller of news, for he was present and privy to the appearance which he describes. He is a beholder of ideas and an utterer of the necessary and causal. For we do not speak now of men of poetical talents, or of industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “The Poet.”

Pluto dog star [Science fiction poetry]

Pluto dog star

Pluto dog star
atomic blast, and a rocket
passed by
everythign else
but itself
in the deepest and darkest
of space,
even space passing by,
until there's nothing else
to stand by,
but this everpresent nothing
moving deeper
into itself
yet again,
as it once ever was.
never disappearing
always being more
of exactly
just the same

empty void
of a blackened out
space
kali-unwhitened,
no stars
sun, or sky
passing on by
their ever-distant lines

and the weight of the world
so ever-more
uranic, saturnic
plutonic. Platonic.
(The heaviest waters
and the darkening orb)
in the old,
and still new
to even yet be
but therefore: so much
ever-yet-more
in its darkening canvas
in the empty nothing of all.

possibilities to be
(or never more, still to be)
to be destroyed forevermore
become by something ever-still more
neither here
nor faraway there
always somewhere, "there", or inbetween
what had once almost come to be
in this moment of space


------
INspired bartly by the musings and speculations of Christopher Knowles about the pluto mission, and the possible extra-plutonic object (planet x) that is being searched and speculated about. As well as other writings about pluto and the solar system.

http://secretsun.blogspot.se/2015/09/nasas-new-horizons-other-shoe-dropping.html

Wolf in the flow

I wrote me a one poemetry. The oldest art, and often-times the most lively (or even... the most... DEADLY).

So, my friend. I wrote you this hopeless Werewolf enchantment. But please… my old friend. Pretty PLEASE. My dearest of friends. Just don’t go out and whisper it out loud… At least not wwhen you’re missing out there… all alone. So that only the shadows can hear. Yes, at least not when you're falling down under a red-blooded moon in the night.

Wolf in the flow

Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.

Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
skin,
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a' things,
reatttttatched
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.