Warren Falcon

Gold Star - 4,888 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Warren Falcon Quotes

  • ''Think again upon these things which go about

    in darkness and stumble against us begging no

    pardon, intent still on passage, confused for words

    or Ibn Arabi's 'Black Light' no light at all, or

    thing, but a gnossis found, or given.

    Gnossis, most striven for, in minutest motes, is.''
    from 'Der Einfall, Remaining Light In Duino'
    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • ''''And what shall I cry out?
    My impotency? My useless rage?
    Then why be forgiven when Heaven's Will stays?

    Undaunted, there are no cracks in Its ceiling,
    only Light from a million suns to harm,

    and a rustling of wings in corridors,
    and a thousand voice chorus crying out,

    No arms! No arms!

    I've been to hell
    and flaunt it like a gypsy's skirt.

    I've been to hell
    with a hundred tongues of metal.''''
    from 'Exiled In Mountains A Young Man Dreams Into Beast, Chimney Rock, NC 1980'
  • ''''The animal we are reserves just rights to complain -

    empty bellies, encroached territories, crotch urgencies, skin withers, fur falls -

    brittle goes the bone, so small the gathered human corners, so great the needed mercies''''
    from 'Brittle Goes The Bone'
  • ''the subject matter
    is not new

    & not the sorrow

    old as the first cave
    bearing first fire
    in human hand the
    expiring artist torn
    from blank sky to
    an expectant wall

    a herd there
    a declaration

    one day we too will
    fill the earth as
    hooves have done
    capture sun & be
    & so come to such
    an edge of ruin''
    from 'Design - Fabricate - Install: A Carol On The Difficulty Of Communion With The Ineffable In An Age Of Disbelief, Solitude, And Profound Anxiety'
  • ''sun slants/the dark slides easily in

    tree clusters red, yellow
    tinged, early October, top
    limb silver shine leans
    downhill over-catches the
    man leaning on a rail face
    to late sun, worker, dirty,
    pants torn, catches it
    in the ear (so it appears)
    he does not move, think,
    fears what might occur
    from such a limb


    at this late hour
    sun and shadow slide
    away from each as I wait
    the train here more mine
    to outrun what is left
    from 'Dusk At Princeton Station'
  • ''Back inside our rooms, last castrati on the radio.
    Enter winter under the door crack.
    This becomes an event,
    the retelling in high C;
    '...I guess it's just as well we speak
    this way in America and call it poetry.'
    See. I'm ramming it again.
    Cold breaks my concentration.
    It's moving up my legs like hemlock.
    Poetry should do the same.

    OK. I'll get serious. A brief libretto: :

    Today sweet Molly with the black eye
    and the cut on her breast cried then
    decided to return home to Bud who
    beats her when she's drunk. I tried to
    talk her out of going but she was going
    and she went. Scherzo here. Interlude.''
    from 'Hard Days On In At The Rehab For Drunken Poets, An Opera Of Sorts, Circa 1981'
  • ''I, Twitter, stutteringly remember

    in cyber chases, late night,

    sitting at computer scrabbling

    after old grievances such are

    lovers, cheaters, jilts, and those

    rare 'got-lucky' graces, unexpected

    shudders and shoulders where I broke

    open, finally laid, laid waste for future flatterers

    and failures of heart.

    Sniffing my fingers for remnant tents,

    I recall, sickened, the candy at every fair,

    hand fulls gorged, glutted, belly sore and

    wanting more, drowned in the push-shove

    of fevered bodies intent on the fast rides

    where one loses stomach for the ordinary.

    Dizzy, I grab my ankles, confess instead,

    I've puked my guts from excess, spun sugar

    and cartwheels, mechanical distractions

    ghosting up Stillborn nights holding their

    breath well past bedtime.

    At a window counting railroad cars

    a boy thief is stealing circus hours.''
    from 'I, Twitter, Stutteringly Remember In Cyber Chases'
  • ''Sudden, he turns singing boat and heart to shore,
    starfish near at hand yearning beyond foam for depth.
    Dawn tongues slowly raise up the land-sunken houses,
    stilled curtains in darkened windows not yet stirring.

    Nearing, he shall not shake the dew from his cloak but gather
    as much as he can to bathe Her - feet, hands, those parts
    Death cannot sink into but he can.''
    from 'Moments From The Orange World'
  • ''I am the itinerant priest who sits at meager feasts.
    Suffering congregants, forlorn over their starfish and soup,
    ask about dreams, confess to anguish, ask what should be done.
    Here at my confessional I can only plead mercy upon the boys
    who have jumped from bridges, hung themselves, cut, sliced their
    compulsive hands, exploded hearts, leaping dears eyes ablaze in
    thrall of antlers, trembling flanks strong to fly decrying the
    violent hunt which always ends in a death bequeathing these
    chopped bits to me and to others like me who remain at table,
    plates before, to stare at what is to be later scattered, sown,
    these pieces in and for Love-without-name still a stain upon
    confused local deities and their wild-eyed supplicants.

    But there is no stain upon the promiscuous sea.''
    from 'Nightingale Confesses Into Straighter Teeth For The Seven Falling Ones'
  • ''I am flying.

    I am falling.

    No difference in memory,

    the smell of rose oil in your hair

    my body can find even in the dark

    its scent upon me when I awaken

    is the cup alone I drink.

    ..I am not free of this cup.

    I have stolen it to remember

    milk and a scent of rose

    entangled in black hair.''
    from ' No Difference In Memory - After Reading A Love Poem by Li-young Lee'

Read more quotations »
Best Poem of Warren Falcon

Autumn Haiku

Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.

Read the full of Autumn Haiku

Autumnal Math

The ground assumes its portent.
The good of the season remains in what is left behind.
It takes what lays down or is laid down upon it.
You'd think it a kind of king of accountants.
You'd sink down an addition of arithmetics,
heartbeats, breaths, footings found and lost,
all the unintended landings of a life.

You'd think it wouldn't stop.

[Report Error]