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POETRY |
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By Peter RussellBy Dave BensonBy Mandy Hinson |
By Carolyn SmaleBy L.E.Hinson SrBy John Rigg |
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FOUR SHORT POEMS by Peter Russell
THE TWO BIRDS Always in the forest I see two birds Opposed on a single tree. One is pecking the Quits, the other observes, Silently, mockingly. One day seeing me come, they utter words, The one white as snow, the other as black as coal, And in turn they say "I am your body" "I am your soul."
ANOTHER DREAM SONG
A one-eyed woman sat by a well With a cat and a hazel-fork. She rose, and the hazel-fork fell,— Her face was the face of the sparrow-hawk. A ripe fig on a giant fig-tree I fall to the ground and lie still,— The sweet river flows down to the sea And the wind blows round the hill.
WATER TO OCEAN
She can renew and can create Green from the ground and flowers from stones In valleys parched set streams in spate And raise up with a word dry bones.
VENICE IN WINTER for Gitta in Berlin
The clouds obscure the island and the church And the cold sea is streaked with grey like mud; Dark cypresses (but not a single birch As in Berlin), edge the Venetian flood. Follow the Lido with your wind-swept eye ---Long needle of the land that threads the sea--- Where white gulls in the stormy distance, fly Past lonely gardens and the last green tree. You wouldn't think the citizens would dare To venture out upon the streets below With all this frosty dampness in the air; But when night falls you'll see the scarlet glow Of braziers roasting chestnuts near the Square, And sweet potatoes in Sant'Angelo.
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Here is the theme poem of Peter Russell's Theories
How can one bear to be alive? Five hundred thousand things to do! Solitary dreamer in a honey-hive. I dream of you...
The problem is, of course, to be, In a dead world of waxen cells, Not that there's monotony Even in insect hells.
To be, --it's no good buzzing around Doing as people do in Rome, Droning of penny, shilling, pound-- To build the honey-comb.
The honey comes from what you do Each rushing second, minute, hour; Yours is the sweetness that is true, No matter what the flower.
The plants and trees are all in tune, Petals and anthers ranged in space; The tilings are simultaneous, I'm Out of time, out of place.
For when I light on this or that I'm neither there nor am I here; I can't see what I'm staring at, Though nothing's there to interfere.
The air is clear and I am free At any time of day or night, To visit any flower or tree In sunshine, shadow, or moonlight
What is it then that hinders me? Why is it that I don't arrived - I am a solitary bee Dreaming in a beehive
Where Time and Space have ceased to be, And so there are no things; I'm everywhere and nowhere,—me, On imaginary wings.
Solitary but never alone, Freeholder of the emptied soul; Let workers say I'm just a drone And drive me out the entrance-hole,
Beyond the stratosphere and stars, Past even humming nuclei, My life which was hyperbolas Is now a single "l',
All sets and theorems put aside, All space and matter lost to view. Let insects make insecticide! Honey, for me and you...
Please give us your opinion on this text Peter Russell Lido di Venezia 31st January 1973
Sitting.Watching.As a fly flies.Watching the pattern.As the fly traces out a square.Seeming to bounce from invisible walls,suddenly accelerated out of control.Out of equilibrium.The pattern changing.Always tracing straight lines.Precise angles.But now triangles,now lop-sided squares.Sitting watching.Feeling a way.Moving.Up there.Searching for reason.Feeling ill.Suddenly ill.Worried into fears.The sudden changes of direction pulling.Mind cold,sickening.Wanting form,finding random,fragmented flight.Sit watching till the dullness of it,the mindlessness of it,palls. Bores.Wipe out the disturbance.Look away. Act yourself.Cover the space
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