The Red in Our Veins

The Dissection of a Star

Little curled flowers hang
From red vines of fire
Tracing lines upon her shoulder
And her scars-

Mint green strewn
On her shirt sewn
With lessons learned
From love-

The black of her bra
Exposed and wrought
With paisley gone far
With a few-

The bright behind her eyes
Reflecting the light
Of satiated nights
Not alone-

Paper white skin
And fragility therein
Distract from the sins
That accrue.

Beauty laid bare;
The dissection of a star;
Dredge the virgin seas;
And the black beneath is clean.
And real.

-c. c. Condry

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A Tower to Which All Roads Lead

Plain before me a Tower to which all roads lead-
Stark this tower rock, its hue in contrast-
Walls steep and running deep attempt
Hold upon the road, submitted, bent.

Plain the path and measure of my steps where lead-
Starkly set the signs on road to the ether elsewhere contrast-
Walls are set by the void attempting
Hold- true- on travel. Hap by hap, it is bent.

Plain the Tower’s rising form and Logos leads-
Stark the open door and welcome, seeming to me a contrast-
Walls loom, grab at me. I attempt
Hold on Eros’s panic; Thanatos is laughing, bent.

Plainly set inside the Tower’s baleful mouth a lead-
Stark the scene my senses light- No Hell! What contrast!
Walls before me fall, reveal the Tower’s attempts.
Holding tight to hope I leave the Tower past- Eros laughing, bent.

-c. c. Condry

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poem poems poet poetry Auden Whitman Hardy Moore Pound Eliot Muir Yeats Frost Ginsberg

Yeah, I know, I wrote a poem about roses. I even used them as a metaphor for two females in my life. Ezra Pound would laugh in my face (Make it new? Umm….) Well now I can cross those clichés off the list and move on. Next up: Raging seas of emotion, hard grey cliffs of inevitability, and a winter of discontent.

-c.

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The Leap

There is a place between roses that is frankly not as sweet.
The uncomfortable mummification of space

Is evident in the distance between things;
There is not one ghost of a scent that can gap

The leap between the points in a field.
Memories of melodies are lamed by the dull drums of a silent Sargasso.

To steer this ship to any point precise
Is to press the spaces in; A reach

To embrace a life is a stretch that bends with death.
Flowers fall beneath the crushing nothingness

That accrues with time, and I will have to reach
For mine but in doing so leave

Another to dust-
A thorn too sharp for a boy to safely bear.
I am not alone in this garden-
To take my rose I must brave the cold;
A field of space, a sea of death-
A risk and evident necessity.

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Lawrence Moore Muir auden eliot frost hardy poem poems poet poetry pound whitman yeats Ginsberg writing

Now is Then

The fires of this age rage
On ever as they have
For my life and more,
Though in my eyes any light has long since dimmed.

Decades now exist as weeds;
Pressed between the firm stone
Of precedent and possible
The years attempt their life from soil scraps.

His writing is his father’s-
Her lens is her mother’s-
My dreams were another’s-
The aesthetics have found a new form of laziness in recycling.

Every reckless smile and
Dangerous feeling or
Real sympathy recorded
By Right-Now eyes is a roll of film remade.

On a wave of young blood
The agents of precedence
Ensure every Now is Then;
The old fires burn on ever as they have.

One after another the germs
Of the possible impregnate
This world with theirs;
Supplanted saplings arrange as kindling.

One by one, the children
Have taken to labored breath,
Held in hopes that one of ours
Will court a Muse not entirely Greek.

-c. c. Condry

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poem poems poetry poet writing Auden Whitman Eliot Pound Hardy Muir Moore Yeats Shelley Ginsberg

The Moon is Dead

What now can inspire? The moon is dead.
Its pale face is gone,
Empty space is all it left.

The seas weep at the feet of sands
In mourning for their rage;
The orb that pulled their waves withdrew its hand.

The wolves have lost their muse and languish mute;
The forests lack their melody;
The howling winds now out of tune.

Skyward lenses mourn the void,
Their study subject astray;
The still of space records a deafening noise.

The shine is torn from nightfell snow;
The light is out now
Save a string of weak lamps alone.

And worst, I’ve lost my second Earth.
The light is out now-
The moon is dead-
I weep at the feet of the sands that stole my pearl.

-c. c. Condry (12/31/11)

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poem poems poetry writing art whitman auden hardy new year break up

CHOOSE.

I have a new (to the world) poem. I put it up today. Buuuuut I have two versions. One, I wrote after an intense period of man-crushing on Walt Whitman. The other, I revised after I’d spent a rather depressing night alone in the city. They are certainly the same poem, but through a different lens, I feel. I put both up, and maybe you can let me know which one you enjoy more? I’m curious!

-Chris

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poem poems poetry writing art Walt Whitman Whitman Man-Crush city night

The Varies of Yourselves (City Night Remix)

Hard the walls and halls of this night-
That I should grope this tunnel endless;
Senses set that tell of others beautiful as you
But in this tunnel fingers numb.

Whirl! Marshall! Array yourself!
Ruddy the beat in my breast!
The cold mists of Dis abound
And you should be my light!

And you should be mine winds-
Charon’s oar is set aside-
Glorious sail is raised and strained,
The ferry in complete reverse for thee.

The varies of yourself in attendance
I am born, new and pink.
Clear my eyes and throat that I may Be and see you Be;
Birth me to this open ether.

Vary are your selves, but each
In their way are plain to me and logic;
Vary are the knots and locks you keep-
Pressed to you by them I am red.

* * * * *

All the world in circle bends to single point
And clear it bends to thee.
Thou art weighted full to bend the world!
The ray of light and drop of dew bent to you;
One emerald blade is monument to thee.

Poor Achilles fell to love for thee-
Prospero summoned only thee-
The televisions set to thee-
Work and ageless works and war are wrapped in thee-
Love is build for thee and hate in congress thee-
Clergy fork their tongues through thee-
Mine eyes entrap and focus thee-
Mine ears have well endowed my soul with thee-
Mine fingers fumble numb for thee-
Each in turn wakes and rests for thee.

I myself am risen thee-
Our souls for thee: You fill and succor me-
Erect and pride with thee-
I walk erect, so held by thee.

-c. c. Condry

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poem poems poetry writing art love Walt Whitman Whitman city night

The Varies of Yourselves

Whirl! Array yourself-
That you should ruddy the beat in my breast-
The cold, creeping mists of Dis abound
And I should ask you for a light-
You should be mine winds-
Charon will sail and reverse for thou-
New and pink I am-
That you should birth me and clear my eyes-
The varies of yourselves in attendance-
The hard lights grip me tightly and I should expect love no less in thew-
(Later, I would recall these lights in horror, but
Now they are all the ether plain in this world)
Birth me to this ether-
Vary are your selves, but each in their way
Is plain to me and logic.
Vary are the knots and locks to you enslaved-
Pressed to you I am red.

All the world bends in circle to one point, and clear it bends to thee-
Each interpret myth and forge is bound to thee, and to the root of thee-
Achilles fell to love for thee-
Prospero summoned thee-
The televisions set to thee and work to thee-
Each in turn wakes to thee and rests to thee-
Love is build for thee and hate in congress thee-
Mine eyes entrap and focus thee-
Mine ears have well endowed my soul with thee-
Fingers fumble after thee-
Clergy ease on thee and dissipate-
Thou are weighted full to bend the world
To one ray of light and drop of dew-
One emerald blade is all and monument to thee-

Marshall and avail me!
I’d two coins in hand and ready-
Erect yourself and pride with me!
To me!
Your frame is blackened by your Father Sun so shone behind!
To me!
Your breath is sweet and fills the heart with stay-
To me!
My sight is bent to you and you are necessary-
To me, you hold a weight innumerable-
To me, you hold my weight entire-
To me, you are as fresh-stoked coal against the chill beset my lungs.
Wake within me every fury white-
That from this sleep I am born and redden flowing.

-c. c. Condry

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poem poems poetry writing art Love Walt Whitman Whitman

A Year in a Minute

Auden majored in Biology for a time, too. We have that in common. But his first (serious) volume of poetry was released in 1930, when he was only 23. That gives me 1 year to keep up. To be better. Much better. He once described (in this reader’s humble interpretation) writers, or mass communicators in general, as “the Just.” This is what I have to live up to. I need to say more, not write more. Henceforth- I will.

-Chris

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poem poems poetry writing biology auden W. H. Auden publishing September 1 1939

We Musn’t Masturbate

That we mustn’t masturbate is clear;
That we must allocate a portion of our life to study-
That we must wake at the appropriate time and rest in the appropriate place-
That we must eat to standards and expel in even intervals-
That we must avoid dangerous areas and likewise risk-
That we must breath deeply and calm ourselves-
That we should follow when asked and lead precisely as we have been led-
That we should exercise daily our bodies and lucrative skill-
That we should remain clean and avoid the natural world-
That we expose ourselves to Pathos upon the prompt-
That we accept the Ethos for God and Country-
That we exercise Logos in the order of our forebears-
That we must invest in insurance against the variable-
That we must live in accordance and die with only the allocated pomp-
That we must die in accordance with social grace-
That we must die and dispatch our seed-
That we must die and divide the physical complete-
Indeed, that we mustn’t masturbate is clear.

-c. c. Condry

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Endless Forms Most Beautiful

Still the spit and rage-
Still the fist and curse-
Still the brutish sword, in this age.

Still the distant mind-
Still the unversed voice-
Still the growing wall bisecting sides.

Still the hounds that bay-
Still the wolves of God-
Still the dumb speak loud, in someway.

-c. c. Condry

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