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The Song of the Universal.

COME, said the Muse,

Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,

Sing me the Universal.

In this broad Earth of ours,

Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,

Enclosed and safe within its central heart,

Nestles the seed Perfection.

By every life a share, or more or less,

None born but it is born—conceal'd or unconceal'd, the 

  seed is waiting.

Lo! keen-eyed towering Science!

As from tall peaks the Modern overlooking,

Successive, absolute flats issuing.

Yet again, lo! the Soul—above all science;

For it, has History gather'd like husks around the globe;

For it, the entire star-myriads roll through the sky.

In spiral roads, by long detours,

(As a much-tacking ship upon the sea,)

For it, the partial to the permanent flowing,

For it, the Real to the Ideal tends.

For it, the mystic evolution;

Not the right only justified—what we call evil also jus- 

 tified.

Forth from their masks, no matter what,

From the huge, festering trunk—from craft and guile 

  and tears,

Health to emerge, and joy—joy universal.

Out of the bulk, the morbid and the shallow,

Out of the bad majority—the varied, countless frauds 

  of men and States,

Electric, antiseptic yet—cleaving, suffusing all,

Only the Good is universal.

Over the mountain growths, disease and sorrow,

An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering,

High in the purer, happier air.

From imperfection's murkiest cloud,

Darts always forth one ray of perfect light,

One flash of Heaven's glory just heard,

To fashion's custom's discord,

To the mad Babel-din, the deafening orgies,

Soothing each lull a strain is heard,

From some far shore, the final chorus sounding.

O the blest eyes! the happy hearts!

That see—that know the guiding thread so fine,

Along the mighty labyrinth!

And thou, America!

For the Scheme's culmination—its Thought and its 

  Reality,

For these (not for thyself) Thou hast arrived.

Thou too surroundest all;

Embracing, carrying, welcoming all, Thou too, by path- 

  ways broad and new,

To the Ideal tendest.

The measur'd faiths of other lands—the grandeurs of 

  the past,

Are not for Thee but grandeurs of Thine own;

Deific faiths and amplitudes, absorbing, comprehending 

  all,

All eligible to all.

All, all for immortality!

Love, like the light, silently wrapping all!

Nature's amelioration blessing all!

The blossoms, fruits of ages—orchards divine and cer- 

 tain;

Forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images 

  ripening.

Give me, O God, to sing that thought!

Give me—give him or her I love this quenchless faith,

In Thy ensemble—whatever else withheld, withhold not 

  from us,

Belief in plan of Thee enclosed in time and space,

Health, peace, salvation universal.

Is it a dream?

Nay, but the lack of it the dream.

And, failing it, life's lore and wealth a dream,

And all the world a dream.

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Vicente ROMERO

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Darkness

By Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

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On the Origin of Species

The last paragraph. By Charles Darwin

It is interesting to contemplate a tangled bank, clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth, and to reflect that these elaborately constructed forms, so different from each other, and dependent upon each other in so complex a manner, have all been produced by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in the largest sense, being Growth with reproduction; Inheritance which is almost implied by reproduction; Variability from the indirect and direct action of the conditions of life, and from use and disuse; a Ratio of Increase so high as to lead to a Struggle for Life, and as a consequence to Natural Selection, entailing Divergence of Character and the Extinction of less improved forms. Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone circling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.

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From: The Value of Science - Of all its many values, the greatest must be the freedom to doubt. By Richard Feynman

“I have thought about these things so many times alone that I hope you will excuse me if I remind you of some thoughts that I am sure you have all had–or this type of thought–which no one could ever have had in the past, because people then didn’t have the information we have about the world today. For instance, I stand at the seashore, alone, and start to think. There are the rushing waves . . . mountains of molecules, each stupidly minding its own business . . . trillions apart . . . yet forming white surf in unison. Ages on ages . . . before any eyes could see . . . year after year . . . thunderously pounding the shore as now. For whom, for what? . . . on a dead planet, with no life to entertain. Never at rest . . . tortured by energy . . . wasted prodigiously by the sun . . . poured into space. A mite makes the sea roar. Deep in the sea, all molecules repeat the patterns of one another till complex new ones are formed. They make others like themselves . . . and a new dance starts. Growing in size and complexity . . . living things, masses of atoms, DNA, protein . . . dancing a pattern ever more intricate. Out of the cradle onto the dry land . . . here it is standing . . . atoms with consciousness . . . matter with curiosity. Stands at the sea . . . wonders at wondering . . . I . . . a universe of atoms . . . an atom in the universe.”

- The Pleasure of Finding Things Out (Helix Books) (pp. 143-144). Basic Books. Kindle Edition.

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By Robert Conquest

“There was an old bastard named Lenin Who did two or three million men in. That’s a lot to have done in But where he did one in That old bastard Stalin did ten in.”

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When

By Ryan Elwood

When there are so many pieces

I feel the granite and I speak like we have things in common assumed strength the forgetting of the many rocks, years, shatterings, infinitesimal shavings that are its make when there are so many pieces we are in awe of our expanse an immense pain at the understanding of possibility that it can be empty that we must give shape and weight to our beings I stare into the voices that crowd my mind, play games in my stomach, ask them what they want a stimuli for destruction a learned behavior of never agreeing I wish to run my hands over the smooth of a granite face that only feels so to me because we are made of the same thicket of stuffs a tangled chemistry of our incapacity to truly understand ourselves when there are so many pieces there are so many parent parts to the shrapnel edges we run risk of cutting ourselves on or worse yet becoming like possibilities run wild a mustang to tease out the idea we should ever have to grow up we age and discover when there are so many pieces we form the strength condemned to an end by nothing but Nature.

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By Vincent Perraud

vincentperraud.com

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“Everything that is possible demands to exist.” - Gottfried Wilhem Leibniz

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Conscious Containers We slaves to almighty replicators. Old ideas become our new masters. Us – vessels. With time choices take hold one idea over another, another takes in a friend, some random rearrangement,  a retelling  misread into mutation making a truthful unification apparent to a clean coated explainer. (at San Francisco, California)

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I See Brain in magic's reign Confronting all that is braided      In an off colored frame. My discordant discharges Blatantly accost me till I stagnate. I break into a sprint,     Sweat every small atom             Sincere in reuniting them                   With evaporation. I must absorb intelligence or face derangement, Feel attention’s point, Draw the sharp needle    Don't believe       Do not fear          Do – not.            Be. See reason and awareness coalesce.

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The First Kiss

By Sappho And down I set the cushion Upon the couch that she, Relaxed supine upon it, Might give her lips to me. As some enamored priestess At Aphrodite's shrine, Entranced I bent above her With sense of the divine. She had, by nature nubile, In years a child, no hint Of any secret knowledge Of passion's least intent. Her mouth for immolation Was ripe, and mine the art; And one long kiss of passion Deflowered her virgin heart.

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Riprap

By Gary Snyder 

Lay down these words Before your mind like rocks. placed solid, by hands In choice of place, set Before the body of the mind in space and time: Solidity of bark, leaf or wall riprap of things: Cobble of milky way, straying planets, These poems, people, lost ponies with Dragging saddles -- and rocky sure-foot trails. The worlds like an endless four-dimensional Game of Go. ants and pebbles In the thin loam, each rock a word a creek-washed stone Granite: ingrained with torment of fire and weight Crystal and sediment linked hot all change, in thoughts, As well as things.

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I Learn With the Breath I learn when my grandparents took their last, They are now as we were when we were not born, Lost to the great void.

I can only feel peace for the people whose lives have seemed to break to pieces. Because I am opposed to grief, I seek only light For my Grandmother who held a heart for two fold my lifetime, For my Grandpa who saw the atrocities of war, For my Mother who stands poised in her unwavering altruism, For my family for forming a foundation.

Evil seems to be struck down on us by death, But together we will hoist our mast high again, And stand in awareness as the grey skies fade, With the wind taking us in, With our courage, to trust tomorrow, We will watch this pass. We shall stand stronger in their light, in their sincerity.

So unlike the alternative paths taken by the rest of the world, In the immense spectrum of suffering We become overwhelmed with anger and misery, We chain our identity to them and we break from our positivity, Becoming unvirtuous of who we see as our principled selves, That we mold in every moment.

So shape a special moment now, We have a gift so great in the connection of generations, Tied by the momentous weaves of our gratitude.

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Wait

By Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.  Distrust everything, if you have to.  But trust the hours. Haven’t they  carried you everywhere, up to now?  Personal events will become interesting again.  Hair will become interesting.  Pain will become interesting.  Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.  Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,  their memories are what give them  the need for other hands. And the desolation  of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness  carved out of such tiny beings as we are  asks to be filled; the need  for the new love is faithfulness to the old. 

Wait.  Don’t go too early.  You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.  But no one is tired enough.  Only wait a while and listen.  Music of hair,  Music of pain,  music of looms weaving all our loves again.  Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,  most of all to hear,  the flute of your whole existence,  rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

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Frustratingly Hateful

When you forget to be thankful, Lost that sense of love in mindless tears, Embracing shadow friends, creating only cast of your character, hollow. A great painfulness that you allow to hitchhike in your front seat, A frantic folly lost in a volley of vengeance, It comes down to feeling the worst of this mental weather, Stuck in this downdraft, the windfall, This vital sucking venturi, That stabs with lightning daggers, Running through you leaving you no less healthy, Just fraught and frightful, Stressed and suicidal, In light of your downfall, of a false perspective you attach to Like a leech sucking the light from your minor lesson, As the blades of the clock tick and tick, Where the creeping prick is driving into your extremities, Just as the bamboo shoots did to the POWs when they were enchained over the growing spears, Excelling at exploiting the invitation that you had miswritten and drawing it out for years, Taken you fully at your half word, That left you fending off the dogs from chomping up the last piece of your sustenance.

But then, With luck The tide goes out, Your jacket pockets rip and hidden stones of dark matter fall into oblivion, The lightness lifts you to the one place that you couldn’t even reminisce about, Your lungs fill with crisp cool life, And the future is there again, But more so is the moment that’s made up for you By a mysterious motherly magician that sprouts sunshine from the inside of your cave, And as if the mortal wound could seem to wain no further, Red berries roll in to allow you to paint again, With more than the old ash that was left from the last fire, You are now willful, with wonder in stride and stroke.

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The Bottom Of It We frolic amongst this “this is your moment, take it” And we really fucking take it. Pleasure is recognizing those great moments, Mindful and modern, Akin to after sex, With another, truly naked in the significance, Grasping into another’s infinity, Emerging from deep waters of known unknowns, and being transcendentally ok with all that is entailed

An old poem I wrote in Yosemite on LSD, after onsight soloing royal arches on said substance, I brought a pad a paper and a pen in my pack and wrote between peaks while rolling around naked in the sun, it was a day I’ll never forget, especially coming down and coming down the gully with headphones blaring The Beatles sliding down the polished granite till I was funneled down into a perfect body shaped groove looking across the valley not knowing whether the rainbow on illilouette falls was real or imagined.