Thursday, June 21, 2018

#2 Seeking Mayakovsky



I keep falling for beauty
I keep searching for my love
India found it and somewhere
I lost it.

Somewhere, somewhere
it must be-

the loneliest place
in the world is to live in a space
without love.

The longing I feel is a grieving
one cannot explain what love is
and what it is not

perhaps confusion a good word.

Up is down and down is up
when you have it

you are like a junkie
high as a kite.

Love is my heroin.
Love is my addiction.
Love is my pain.
Love is my joy.
Love is my reason.

When I saw Brando in full flight
I saw love.
When I listen to Dylan's clapped
out voice I hear love.
When I watched Debbie Harry
I lusted for love.
When I walked into Shantivanam
I felt love.
When I read the beatitudes
I knew love.

Love is a poem by Ben Smith.
Love is a hairy hand.
Love is a bottle of wild fox.
Love is a chorus of hallelujahs
and amens without I am nothing.

Without love I'm just another
dried up alcoholic that has lost
his humanity.

Without love I am no longer
human no longer capable of
seeing beauty or joy.

Without love I exist only
by breathing and thats no existence
at all.

I am not even animal
I      eye      I eye
scream

Don't you know
its the hungered flesh I want
at least to hear it.

To hear it, to be devoured by
its sound
I am rushing towards something
alone and not to have that word
on my lips is the loneliest feel

for without
I am dead.

To explore one's body alone
is not enough.

The ancient Greeks believed
the apricot a cure.

Someone once said
if you can't love God
then find someone to love.

When I saw you in the bookshop
I held a book of poems by Mayakovsky
in my hand with you smiling wild.

9 comments:


  1. how that moment
    felt like the love it was
    and so you remember

    ReplyDelete
    Replies

    1. that Mayakovsky
      who wrote in Russian
      "that the stalled motor
      of the heart
      has started to work again"

      Delete

    2. the slanting rain
      the fool
      the barrel of dynamite
      the rude crude words
      one stanza blown to bits
      beloved by Stalin

      Delete
  2. I like what you wrote,... love can be real crazy, lose yourself, forget yourself, outside of yourself kinda stuff when the weather doesn't matter or anything else for that matter but then comes the parting and I guess there comes the longing and grieving, its life what can I say

    ReplyDelete
    Replies

    1. sure it is
      and love
      replenishes
      the soul

      Delete
  3. Wow Ken - another uber epic poem. Was going to say I love it - but hey as we've just seen - love weaves its way around longing, lust, loneliness, craziness and so much more. Keep the poems coming Ken!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. thanks Kristen. boy, what a Friday at Collected works , just coming getting back to normal

      Delete

  4. We alone are the face of our time. Through us the horn of time blows in the art of the world...
    We order that poets' rights be revered...
    To stand on the rock of the word "we" amidst the sea of boos and outrage.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Love IS a hairy hand Ken. I am with you xx K

    ReplyDelete

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