Warren Falcon Quotes
''Think again upon these things which go aboutfrom 'Der Einfall, Remaining Light In Duino'
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.''
''''And what shall I cry out?from 'Exiled In Mountains A Young Man Dreams Into Beast, Chimney Rock, NC 1980'
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.''''
''''The animal we are reserves just rights to complain -from 'Brittle Goes The Bone'
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''''
''the subject matterfrom 'Design - Fabricate - Install: A Carol On The Difficulty Of Communion With The Ineffable In An Age Of Disbelief, Solitude, And Profound Anxiety'
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
one day we too will
fill the earth as
hooves have done
capture sun & be
& so come to such
an edge of ruin''
''sun slants/the dark slides easily infrom 'Dusk At Princeton Station'
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
''Back inside our rooms, last castrati on the radio.from 'Hard Days On In At The Rehab For Drunken Poets, An Opera Of Sorts, Circa 1981'
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.''
''I, Twitter, stutteringly rememberfrom 'I, Twitter, Stutteringly Remember In Cyber Chases'
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.''
''Sudden, he turns singing boat and heart to shore,from 'Moments From The Orange World'
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.''
''I am the itinerant priest who sits at meager feasts.from 'Nightingale Confesses Into Straighter Teeth For The Seven Falling Ones'
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.''
''I am flying.from ' No Difference In Memory - After Reading A Love Poem by Li-young Lee'
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.''
Read more quotations »
Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.
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.