Thursday, October 10, 2013

The October Sun of Santa Cruz

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
     this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
     their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are
     crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
     distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised
     and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread,
     crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the
     passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
     dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the
     eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the
     fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
     from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd
     the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the
     origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are
     millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor
     look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the
     spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things
     from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
     beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always
     substance and increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed
     of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
     entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is
     not my soul.....

(Excerpt: Song of Myself _   Walt Whitman)

Transcendental Faded Denim Jacket

   Trouble, love and greatness all begin from here.   There is a reason for everything.  There is a purpose to every moment.    Perhaps hidden, undisclosed, buried deep inside the spark and intelligence of the universe.    But it is there.   We may never see it..   
We might go searching..   but its like the words looking for the mouth or the thought for the mind.
Unveiled.  And certain that there is a destiny for the most distant of us.    That we are not only happening but becoming the laughter and genius of the stars.     I imagine my appearance here and as myself taking the shape of action and reaction..    and each time a window shatters, or a heart flutters,  I am a part of that coincidence.      

"Put your jacket on and take a walk"..   says the universe..   and when I do,  the doors open wide and I am part of the concoction.     

Andrew Tipton

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

The Lions Are Sleeping

I was afraid
 that when I left you there, on the corner
you would begin to dissolve into soft unimportant pieces in my mind
float on by, losing your edges like the condition of clouds,
and never return. 
I was afraid that the part of my soul and laughter and belief
 that I sliced off of my heart
 for you
would disappear as well
like it does.
relentlessly. always.  never
to be put right again. 
the heart grows back hard. the veins seal up,
the capillaries wither.  you can see the scars
left over from the memories of beautiful afternoons. and summers
of unabridged anticipation.
leaves wounds too. 
and it never heals right.  like
it used to be. whole. honest. serenely open. 
And when I was obscene. scream. blood and broken wrist.
from punching holes in the routine.
 it was because of this thought.
of returning to the empty. the spacious comfortable
of complying with the predictable amnesty of ordinary
come and
let go. disappear.
 these hearts aren't made for reliving and recreating every six months.  
I don't want to forget.  the birth of my happiness in regards to you.   
because I don't want to become numb,
and hard
and cold
and lifeless from overuse.
too many journeys along the same path.
until our climb becomes only a stroll,  and the dangerous and mysterious
fade away
Am I a contributor as well?   I do not wish to become one.
of these
complacent ones.
No.  Is this how it is for us?
NO.  For everyone who has loved and begun and ended?
and starts again.  and again.    and again.
replicating the curves and sculpture of every past
love story.   until the soul only knows how to
imitate forgotten and tired emotions.
As I leave, 
I feel myself
release..  part of my spirit and the part of my song
that is irreplaceable. gets buried
in the median between lanes of slow moving traffic, beneath the fallen branches of redwoods.
  I am aware as the blurred, silver streetlights fade
behind me
each of us eventually becomes
a soft glow
inside the other
's mind. 
I resent this about the human condition.
without causing a mess of things. 
I am not sure how it will change.
Or how to keep you as an ember inside my thoughts.

Andrew Tipton