sw00729ut-27.3poems

The Undulant Trees



 Cherry Mars

      (for Stan Apps
       with a nod to Ed Dames)


I wonder what,

deep in their planet,
the Martian robots

think when they see

Cadbury chocolate
seeping into

their hoary caverns?



                    (11/28&30/07)


§


 Trussed Invader

      (for John Latta)


Latta, I love
the way you write
poems and prose
of spiked delight.

If only I had
a proper brain
with which to un-
derstand your rain.



                    (11-30-07)


§


 For

your chances are incredible,
cutting as diamonds, relentless as beets.
I'm almost afraid to finger them.
But, as you can see--well,
behind the scenes--my fingertips
are deeply red and freshly sliced
in the scars and scabs and
in between, you have to laugh,
possibly.  Still, I still favor your anteFitts
appearances despite "The Wheelchair Butterfly"
and "Poem to Some of My Recent Poems",
wanting (in my fingertips)
the soft coral color
and the tell-tale etches
to be more visible again
through the lightning scars.



                       (circa 1984)




-------------------------
-
Friday, November 30, 2007
-
"Success Comes to Cow Creek"


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00728v-31.poem29

Venturings



A Cardinal of Consciousness


So I, as Adam, am namer,
if I accept Adam,
as with so much else.

Yet what I name,
giving sound to percept,
a trope of a trope,

will never thereby
be yanked from the mystery
of its shining essence

however splendid
and human-catching
each name I choose.

Still, aware of my
intolerable solitude,
I eye and ay,

out of my brightnesss
drawn to a brightness
difficult to view,

praising and damning
it and my inadequacy
in my voiced need

to do in you
exactly what had
been done in me

in spite of how well
our differences
impoverish that.

Heliacal,
sun of a sun,
reality wrangler,

complexity of complexity,
paradox of paradox,
imager,

I scream "Rahg!";
thump my chest;
zee my name.


               (circa 1985)



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00727st50-followup

Sent an important email to the Social Media blogmaster.  If I do not
get a response, either directly or indirectly, I am going to post it.
-
4:32 PM -- Here's part of the response I got:
.
"Thanks, Brian.  We're working on a huge follow-up post
that addresses the many concerns and questions that people
have had."  . . . .  "Re: Journals page.  We know the lack of
Journals are there, but we're working on fixing it."
-
For me this is satisfactory, but every AOL user needs to be
aware of it.  This blog, being what it is, does not attract many
visitors.  Yet, this is top-now AOL news.

12.01.07 - See Magic Smoke main message about journals.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00726st49-gustaf.sobin

   an AOL blog          my other blog          poet Gustaf Sobin



In the Social Media Blog under "Welcome to the New People Connection"
the comments worth reading (in my opinion) are:  #6 from Joseph Manna /
#19 / #34 / #68 / #72 / #103 / #114.

§

I have a Blogger Blog (Rhodingeedaddee) I am using for special purposes.
None of my poems will be posted there.  Today I'm going to begin posting
an abridged version of old autobiographical pages which were in another
Internet space for about six years before I started my current blog here.
-
The first page is up.

§

On page 317 of Paul Hoover's Postmodern American Poetry is
information about a poet born in 1935, a poet I had never heard
of: Gustaf Sobin.  Was surprised to learn/ his poetry aesthetic is
at base the same as mine, but I prefer his description of it. 



-------------------------
Gustaf Sobin


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00725a-confusiondream

Autobio



Had another one of those dreams shortly before I last woke/
in which I am the main character, but in which things are all
in disarray and I am constantly frustrated; but the setting in
this dream was not some motel or hotel where I was night
auditing, it was the house in which I was raised, but during
a time some years after/ when it was going through another
renovation.  My vague at-a-distance wife made a minor
connection with me at a time I was supposed to be about
to leave Wisconsin and go to Idaho, but I was unprepared.
I had forgotten things I needed.  I therefore went back to
the house, where I immediately became lost.  At one point
several women, who seemed to be servants of some kind,
passed by me.  Then two tall men showed.  I felt threatened
by them; yet, every few moments they would kiss each other
deeply.  That's where the dream ended.



-------------------------
Stanley Kunitz and
-
illusions, delusions, hallucinations
-
Skanky Possum founders


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00724st48-blogging.notes

Found another interior way to get to my blog.  The steps are:
Click Community, then Journals.  If this takes you to the Blogs
page, enter one word in the Search Blogs space that relates 
directly to your blog.  My blog's name has two words.  The
first of those two is the most significant and unique.  Type in
your one word and proceed to search.  This will take you to
a page that--in my case at least--appears to be unhelpful.  Do
NOT read the search suggestions if this is what occurs.  Scroll
down to Journals in the box at the left and click it.  This should
get you to a link to your journal (blog).  That is the way I got
in moments ago.  Also, yesterday I placed a link to my blog in 
Favorite Places.  One other thing: though I do not know if it
matters, I decided to turn on Safe Search.
-
Regarding Chat:  Once you get to the general area, you need
to choose a topic, and so on from there.  I am not a chat user
so I cannot tell you more.
-
Regarding Profiles:  Put the screen name you use in the primary
search space, but do not search.  Beneath this space advanced
choices are given.  I chose to limit country to United States.
Beneath the choices is a gray search.  Use it.  That is how I 
got to my profile.  What I found there I liked. 



-------------------------
  Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00723v-30.poem28

Venturings



 Michelangelo,


your body
strong    taut
like the bodies
your hand
so deftly paints
fills my eyes
my heart
all the while
you concentrate
on the altar wall
with dreams
of creations
our bodies
together
speak of
the glories
of God
me
pubescent
you
mature
& the wind
full of rain
the wind
full of sun
the elements
the plants
the animals
living
dying
living again
until every woman
every man
accepts
& praises
the differences
that are
themselves
that are
each one




- - - - -
"Michelangelo," was originally published in "the fifth season"
Wisconsin Review  Vol. 14  No. 2 & 3  1980  p. 36
under my Alden St. Cloud pseudonym.


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00722st47-boppo

The following is a comment I made 25nov07 on Silliman's Blog.
It was an attempt to insert some levity into the comment stream
because all the comments were responses to Ron's comment-
control decision.  Since what I tried to do did not work, today
I suggested the removal of my comment.  Will check later.

     Change of direction, I think.
     -
     Took the link ride to Gatza's PDF.
     I have read The Chinese Notebook.
     This is about the pot holder called "boppo":
     If said pot holder had a loop sewn near its opening,
     a loop through which one finger could be slipped,
     then--and this may be from childhood memories of mine,
     if one does not place one's hand into the pot holder,
     but does place one's index finger through the loop
     and one's thumb inside the pot holder
     and one's other 3 fingers
     of whichever hand one is using/
     outside the pot holder,
     and whacks someone on the head with it,
     the pot holder instantly becomes a "boppo"--no?

Silliman posted my levity and remove comment, and///
did not remove my original comment.  So there you are. 

*
AOL changed things again without even a note on Magic Smoke,
and where they did have information it was insufficient.  Besides,
the feedback link takes one to an email connection which appears
to be fine but causes an error message which voids attempts to 
use it.  Users of products need instructions which are step-by-step/ 
simple and clear.  How did I get here?  I'm not going to tell you, 
but I did find a way.  It is not a way, however, I prefer to take.
-
Got a response from Joseph at socialmedia.aol.com.  He suggested
an alternative which is similar to the way I had found: bookmark
http://      peopleconnection.aol.com/blogs                    Also,
the last comment at the time I was there is by some Steven.  He
obviously understands and uses much of what AOL provides,
but he did say--which is true--the editors blog list needs to be
updated.  Even though I may never use most of what's available,
his comment was interesting.
-
About getting back to this blog:  I knew (as Joseph said) I had
to go from the Main page to the Blogs page.  I also knew about
clicking on the    update your blog   link       but that was getting
me nowhere.  In the upper right corner--which cannot be seen
unless the page is widened--is a Sign In/Sign Out box.  My screen
name was showing Logged in.  Now, if I have       remembered
this correctly, when I clicked on the   update your blog   link,
I was taken back to the Main page/ where, when I clicked on
the Blogs again, I was taken to my blog.  I will need to try this
circuitous routine again to make sure that is what I need to do.
-
Thank you.
-
Just checked the routine for getting to my blog.  It is correct.
One thing though:  When I left here, I just clicked the x box in
the upper right corner, which was the common way to leave.
When I returned via Community / Journals, my screen name
was still showing Logged in.  My sense is that that now exists
for security.  Therefore, it appears that after I leave via the x
box, I need to return to Community / Journals and Sign Out.
-
Well, my method for getting in stopped working.
-
Ended up placing a link to this journal in my Favorites.
* 


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00721st46-connecting

Being reclusive has its advantages, but also its disadvantages.
My personal problems at that time aside: after the publication
in November 1972 of my first book, getting involved with the
Wisconsin Poets-in-the-Schools Program early in 1973 was
worthwhile; but pulling back into myself and away from being
actively engaged with other poets was--though I cannot prove
it--a major error.  As I have noted in Sprintedon Hollow's All
About Me section, I am reading Postmodern American Poetry.
Last night I got to and through Larry Eigner's pages.  So?  So:
Up until 1978 he lived in Swampscott, Massachusetts.  Before
that year in the 1970's I was in Swampscott, MA, at least once
because aunts of mine who had been born and raised in the
same Wisconsin town I was born and raised in owned a house
there.  I might have been able to visit Mr. Eigner.  I did visit
William Everson briefly at his home in California during the days
of one of my separations from Janice.  But I was in San Fran,
and even stopped at City Lights.  Did I try to connect with the
poetry community there after I was told the person I had come
to visit was out of town for two weeks?  No.  During another
separation I was in New York City.  Similar question.  Same 
answer.  How many times was I in Boston?  I lived for 3 years  
in Milwaukee.  My 24+ years in Gainesville, Florida?  There I 
only seriously connected with other poets during the singular
semester I was a Donald Justice student at UF.  So, after I
moved into Missouri late last year, I convinced myself that 
until my body's mind ceases to function/ I was going to re-
connect with and remain connected with other poets for as
long as they would allow me to.   


-------------------------
Li-Young Lee on making poems


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00720st45-thinking

Appears the basic colors this journal uses will not be changing.
This means the usual text colors will be black, and most other
text colors will be dark shades.  Blue will be the link color.  The
background colors and the sidebar color will be the 80ffff light
aqua/cyan, the c0c0c0 gray, and the 808080 gray.  I am trying
to quell my urges to/ change this journal's basic colors.  There
are times when consistency is not foolish.

After posting a comment relevant to/ where geniuses come from
and a 10,000 poets list idea at Ron Silliman's site, I decided/ that
was the nth of what I cared to write there.  So I applaud his new
approach to handling comments.  See Sunday, November 25, 2007.
This evening I placed a comment relating to one item in Silliman's
The Chinese Notebook at the connection above.  Tomorrow I will
check again to see if he allowed it.  Did it in part to veer from the
flow of comments about his comments decision.

Was also at Mark Wallace's site.  I had placed a comment there
which I found he had responded to.  I responded to it, and he
again responded to me.  I like Mark Wallace's thinking here.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00719v-29.poem27

Venturings



 As In a Mirror


Who is this
Brian Salchert,

green cornucopia,
dumpster;

and where is he
to be found?


Has anyone seen
all his works;

the hells to heavens
they populate

other than he;
other than God?


And if someday
someone did,

would that person
be able to cull

two or three that
might be representative,


or even one
worth presenting

in a century's
anthology

for centuries after
to contemplate


as in a mirror?


Who is this
Brian Salchert,

green cornucopia,
dumpster?

Where is he
to be found?



     October 6-9, 2005 revision


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00718v-28.poem26

Venturings



 Spring Reflections: 1973


Walking
under trees
or the shadows of buildings,
taking delight
in every child,
in shapes & actions,
in clothes, sounds, smells,
in touching--
this is the first ideal.

As I write this,
I think of Janice,
of the work to be done on Road Apple,
of the border fights and the deaths of nations,
of finding again a steady job,
of moving,
of the time I waste,
of the tensions and pretensions,
of never knowing, for sure, who I am.

As I sit here in the Titan Room, U. of Wisconsin-Oshkosh,
I watch the people, compare myself to them,
drink my black cherry, & feel my bowels slip,
notice the Titan plaque on the wall, & remember the surprising football team,
observe the movements of lips, curious,
follow the progress of feet, the lengths of steps, the colors of shoes, the shapes,
          the walkers themselves,
listen to the Foghat jukebox, the silence after, the mechanism, the disjointed talk,
          the clinking of cup on saucer, The Spinners,
contemplate the lights in the ceiling, like a squadron of UFOs, an acoustic tile,
          a vent, a bright window, the six ochre pillars,
remember Samson, the love of David and Jonathan, the passing of Egypt,
          the Wall of China, the prows of Vikings, 
          Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, Homer, Tu Fu, Basho, Mishima, Goethe,
          Twain, the myths & tribes,
think on the present, everything mixed & senseless, everything perfectly right,
          the moods of Walt Whitman,
          the connotations of the song now playing: Rita Coolidge's "My Crew",
          the space for Gary, for Debie, for friendships and
          the places I want to go to, the space in my heart.

Barefoot, I step on the grass for coolness, butter my soles with dandelions,
          test them with thistles.
The sun--

Some people say I've become too personal;
others I'm not what I think I am.
It makes no difference.
Today is April 10th.
Yesterday it snowed so hard in the 40-mile-an-hour wind
I couldn't think clearly at all--
flakes of sunlight.

This is the alliance of comrades;
this is the contradictions of friends.

Knees up,
to hold the book I am writing in,
feet & ass on a tile floor,
back against a cream-painted block wall,
ears marking the sounds of air coursing the vents, 
          of closing doors, of movements & voices:
          the sensitivity group behind the X theatre's doors,
          my hand moving along the page,
          the voices of Kelly, Richard, Candy, Paul,
          your voice forming these words, my voice,
eyes following the often soundless work of my pen,
          or should I call it play,
          & Terry, & someone I do not know, & Candy again,
I grope toward 10pm.

This is what is real--
these are the trees I climb in;
these, the winds.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00717v-27.poem25

Venturings



The Anger in Me Is  
             So Deep, So Old, 
                          Nothing Gets Through


Blue jays flashed
a minute ago,
and mockingbirds,
seasoning the air.

Earlier, a red-bellied woodpecker
clambered and pecked on the laurel oak
the often about white-breasted squirrel
now stands next to
nibbling the apricot cap of a mushroom.

One day we watched a solitary wasp
carry a lime caterpillar
stowed beneath its abdomen
along our patio's concrete step.

Another we smiled at a brown thrasher
and several grackles
scavenging,
and nearly laughed
when they flicked the leaves
huddled against the cyclone fence.

Maybe the flame-topped pileateds
will course back
to whack the pines,
or a great crested flycatcher
startle the sky.

Three cardinals!



     (undated, but address on reverse side indicates 
                       sometime between 1986 and 2000.)


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                    

sw00716v-26.poem24

Venturings



 Homily


To Russia:

Land of decorous onion domes and broken French,
tundras taigas taigas / steppes steppes steppes,
scything dissent / hammering the good truths home,
deep with the beauties of earth / shallow . . . of power,
your harsh infected triumvirates of 55 years/ have so
enslaved themselves to a way, they have willed them-
selves eternity and the adoration due a god.  Nothing
escapes them.  They have organized to save.  But their
hands are far too heavy.  And humanity, inherently
weak, has toppled in blood in their wake.  Russia,
mightiest land where Occident and Orient meet, I
give to you a mountain spring--for your renewal.


To America:

Land of tall thin buildings and tortuous activity,
valleys mountains deserts plains, striping dissent /
starring the good truths home, deep with paraded
beauties / shallow, your bright and clouded presidents
have carved for you a twisted trail and left you
out of focus.  You are stumbling into holes.  And
humanity, though desiring to be strong, is quickly
going mad.  America, grabber of wealth and planter
of compassion, I give to you a noonday sun--
for your revision.


To China, Japan, West Germany, and each other nation:

There is no turning here we cannot overlook; no
turning we can afford to.  But man is what he is,
a creature of longing and of fear / a creature of
polarities / an envisioner of perfection / a fragile
leviathan, and he cannot come to terms with his
condition or the dilemmas of the universe without
pain.  Brain heart guts / flesh and transcendence,
each of you must balance the elements, and contemplate
the natural and contemplate the made, and somehow
with the fact of constant change discover how to
achieve the most autonomy for every living man and
simultaneously the most control over the entire
radiant human race.  I give to you a krinkled leaf
and these considered words--for your awareness.


To everyone:

Your stubborn soldierings of your ideologies are
destroying you.  This wondrous marble quakes.  The
flowers stand straight from fear.  Your blitzing
and bombing does no good.  Look in the ancient glass.
Inhabited by that fiercest devil, Unquestioned Pride,
crouched like a cornered beast, you are driving a nail
through the heart of this world.  You are emptying
your home. 




(original date of composition uncertain, but probably in 1972 or 1973)



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00715ut-26.poem

The Undulant Trees



 Sweet Ruse


The idea is
to write poems
no one enjoys:

that way,
when they return,
the writer again

can
have the pleasure
of reading them.



                    11-2-89



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00714st44-snow.sun

Opened drapes: to a thin overlay of snow.  At AM 8:48/ the sun
(though somewhat hidden) is already melting it.



-------------------------

        Brian A. J. Salchert                                                       

sw00713v-25.poem23

Venturings



Then Millicent Said


Alyssum
blossom
cushiony,
dear.
Everlastings?
Forget-me-nots?
Gardens
heighten
inscrutably,
jewel
kindergartens,
livingrooms,
miseries.
Nuances
of 
power,
quiet,
radiant
stases,
they
undulate
vigor,
wonder,
Xavier,
yodeling
zinc.




- - - - -
"Then Millicent Said" was originally published in Studia Mystica
               on page 63 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00712v-24.poem22

Venturings



 Axiom


Once
the mouth
is opened;

tongue,
teeth,
lips

positioned
& re-positioned
(the cords

harped
by the exiting
air),

the sounds 
exhumed
can not be

taken back.




- - - - -
"Axiom" was originally published in Studia Mystica
on page 62 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00711v-23.poem21

Venturings



 Pride


When the little kid came
with his BB gun
to shoot whatever
birds were about,
I told him he'd better
know about the birds
first.  (I was a big kid.)
So I pointed out one
high up in a soft maple
I thought it'd be
okay to shoot,
sure it was an
English Sparrow,
a dirty sputzee.
So the little kid shot,
and the soft thing,
plucked from its twig,
dove past the leaves
& plunked in the lawn.
My eyes gasped.
Centered in its
striped breast,
a telltale
dark brown spot;
and the lambent song
I knew was there,
high in the maple,
in the soft shine--but I
was a big kid.




- - - - -
"Pride" was originally published in Studia Mystica
on page 61 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00710v-22.poem20

Venturings



 Saying Good-bye


Valiant bones, deceptive bones
define us, mother, while we die,
impersonating permanence
out of their marrows, out of milks.

Perhaps the ages won't recount
how you, Seviah, changed by John,
engendered once a second best
to be the first: a brian: me.

Resilient muscles, supple skins,
flexible veins and arteries:
our surface organs, sunken ones,
from calcium dust, nonetheless,

receive a form to venture with
though all our spry, exquisite dreams
drift in the winds, a haze of ash;
though ghostly shoulders bless my touch.

And yet that part of us which would:
outlast every other part,
bearer of burdens, burden is:
in some of us.  Fare well, my bones.




- - - - -
"Saying Good-bye" was originally published in Studia Mystica
            on page 60 of Volume IX, Number 4, Winter 1986.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00709st43-death.illness

A neighbor of ours when I was in high school died recently.  He was 67.

Reginald Shepherd is seriously ill.  I am thanking God for his safety, 
strength, and continuance.

Posted my few thoughts on existence over at Rho--.

Cold day.  High around 37.  Had to wear my insulated shirt
under my jacket, my Green Bay Packer stocking cap, my 
winter gloves.



- - - - -
thief du jour



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00708st42-thisday

Unplugged computer system around 9 PM yesterday and didn't
get back on until after 3 PM.  Inclement weather continues, but
the precipitation has been light for the most part.  May see snow
later.  

Spent much of the down time reading and writing.  The 4 prose
poems by Russell Edson in the Hoover anthology/ rearranged my
head.  This morning I/ scrawled thoughts about existence in my
notebook.

My sister & I got our flu shots this afternoon, stopped at my 
pharmacy for my two major meds, and drove round a McD's
for a double cheeseburger for me.  Sure is a blessing she is
able to drive.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00707ut-25.poem

The Undulant Trees



 Three Moods


1. Peripatetic

   These days/ I've been going about
   with my head in my shoe.
   What a genie it is!


2. How Do I Feel?  Like a

   screaming white wind
   stuffed
   in a shrinking
   cube of glass.


3. Taken Aside

   Teew tuu, teew tuu,

   teew tuu,

   teew tuu, teew tuu, teew tuu.

   Dicit se juvare eam,
   blue jay, blue jay.

   And I do too,
   putting down my Latin book
   to watch you again
   searching among the oak branches
   below our bedroom.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00706v-21.poem19

[ Note: The poem below is not against Adrienne Rich. ]


Venturings



 Good Woman


Adrienne Rich,
you witch,
you itch,
you stitch

sublime
in time
so I'm
a crime

undone,
a son
whose gun
you've won

away
from play
and grey
this day,

explore,
be sore;
wand or
mend more

my heart
apart,
my smart,
ripped art

that I
too cry
and hie
good-bye

the jails,
scales,
sales
of males.



               [ not a new poem / not certain when written ]
-------------------------
AAP Adrienne Rich page
Adrienne Rich


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00705st41-ed.dorn

This day I've been making phone calls, mostly to distant places.

My sister brought my book to me today.  Earlier I read the four
poems by Ed Dorn printed in it.  Have also read 3 short poems
of his which are online.  Am now reading a Jacket Magazine 32
intro article about him.  Need to get back to it as nasty weather
is forecast for here in an hour or so.  Some animal is messing
around outside.  Hope it stays outside.  Finished the article.  A
link to it will soon be provided below.  It is PM 8:09.  8:11 PM:
link is in.



-------------------------
Stephen Fredman's "Introduction to Edward Dorn"


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00704sem-6.odetothemidmonth

[ Note: Don't ask. ]


Seminary



 Ode to the Mid-month


A stream of light,
A river of delight
      Was I
   As I ran and tumbled
   While the Mid-month mumbled
      Through its billowing green,
         Through its shimmering sky.
Then shot like a dart
Past the eye of my heart
   An air-flung mite
      In song,
      A scarlet blur
   Like inward sight:
Heavy on the dusky marsh of thought,
Light on the clarion knoll of sense;
   Wound in the soft and strong.

Soon I spread
The brambles ahead
   Unto a humble view,
      A grass-gay room
      Within the woods:
   There a myriad warblers played--
      Flittering iterations,
      Rainbows in the shade;
   There entwined in quaint seclusion,
      Softer than the summer air
   Wrapped in mists of noon delusion,
      Hid a voice of glad despair
         Lost in lilting,
            Lost in dream,
               Lonely as a dying stream;
   There would wing
      On pinions graceful
   Heaven's bird of truth in art,
      Sometimes diving,
         Sometimes rising,
Ever,
Never,
   To depart.

Under the cleft
Of the lime-jut left
   A swallow swung for life
While over the haze
The sun ablaze
   Caught close the lofting hawk
      And yet beneath
      The elm-high wreath
         A fearful bobcat stalked.
   So moved,
      My step unwavered sped
      Across the floor
         Of the woodland room;
      Beyond the door,
      By joy and sorrow fed.
   So strife
      Now neither, nor its foe
   Could harm this poet's way,
For the glory I found
In the Mid-month sound
   Flows on:
      A brook,
      A ray.


                           1962



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00703st40-poets.blogs

Spent most of my online time yesterday visiting poetry blogs.
After PM 10, impelled by Latta's Friday post, I found an edu
site where an article about Slavoj Zizek is.  Should go back
there today to finish reading it.  That Zizek revived the use 
of the word "ideology" (the death of which I was not aware 
of) appeals to me.

Sometimes when I search my own name at Google, I find a
site where the comment attributed to me is not my comment.

My sister picked up at Library Station the anthology I had
requested: Postmodern American Poetry.

Now Latta's turnin' my broken back/ toward that straight'ner
poet/ Ed Dorn, sumpin' I'd been puttin' off.

Placed a long comment beneath Mark Wallace's "archive" post,
a comment which touches on four of his posts, and which would
have been longer had I remembered to write about the other
thoughts which were originally in my mind. 


-------------------------
Zizek


Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00702st39-about.alot

Had a vitalizing conversation with the apartment manager last night.

Began reading Schneider's Cosmoetica Pinker interview afterwards.
This morning I'm about to head back to it.  Didn't.  Finished reading
it around PM 6:50.

AM 9:26 - Earlier this morning such a swath of horsetail clouds
charmed the sky/ I went out and took about 10 pictures of them.

Thoughts pertaining to "a lot (alot)":  Realizing that context changes
how to understand a given set of letters; still, since "We bought a lot
to put our mobile home (mo-ho) on" exists, my suggestion is to use,
e.g., "much" depends instead of "a lot (alot)" depends, and similarly,
"many" of us instead of "a lot (alot)" of us.  In other words, try to
find substitutes for "a lot (alot)".



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00701st38-three.poets

Late last night I read an edited 02.04.01 telephone interview
with Clark Coolidge conducted by Tom Orange.  It is in an
issue of Jacket Magazine.  CC and I (bajs) are quite unlike   
each other in many ways, but we are like each other in two
ways: we both have a pack rat tendency, and we both have
loosened artistically as we have gotten older--have become 
more willing to let it flow and see what happens.

Copyright laws regarding web sites are messed up, and I
am not a happy blogger.  Sent a message to a well-known
law professor about it, if for no other reason than my need
to vent, though I'm hoping he will respond.

Some days back, in another issue of Jacket Magazine, 
I read David Bromige's pre-notes to a book he wrote.
Was surprised to find he had essentially the same re-
sponse there as I had had in one of my 1976 sonnets/  
to Sartre's "Hell is other people."



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00700a-The.Realm.of.Ibnar

[ Note:  Though not exactly as they were, each following section 
               was once a page in AOL Hometown, a space I've left. ]



 In the King's Garden Chamber

(This is a place for rumination and/ lumination)

Very few of us ever get how sacred each new moment is.
And of those among us who do, it is often (sadly) when we
are well along in our earth passage.  I, Brian Salchert, am 59
(in my 60th year therefore), and I tell you I feel akin to the
cross thief who told Jesus that he believed; but, I am/ not yet
dead.  I am, however, by the going dominant standard, deep
in a cave/ with little water and less light.  Hope?  Did I hear
a voice?  Ah, there it is!  Nab it!  Someonce in my childhood
I/ made up a word: rhodingeedaddee.  It was for me then/
magical/ in its silliness.  It was jester's word, and I was the
jester.  And I was the jester.  And I was the jester.  Small,
sensitive, sexually/ and intellectually different, I was not then
nor am I now at ease with/ most humans.  So now what?


 As I stroll here I am

indelibly aware of the hard disgrace waiting nigh.  But I
must not slip, not quit, not cry.  If my dreaming stops,
however foolish, what then?  Ground me, Lord.  Lead
me into and unto Thyself through whatever pain.  Teach
me--under this melancholic robe I wear--when to play,
when to pray, when to perspire; for human/ I am in a
body that must be cared for if I in this body am ever to
be holy, am ever to know that "by the sweat of of thy
brow" is not a curse.  A dream is only as vibrant as the
dreamer is.  Darkness enters.  Heal my night.
* * * * *
Brian of Ibnar* 
                                * Ibnar is my name jumbled.
               A great length of days after I jumbled it, 
               I recognized in it a new name for God:
                     I-Before-Now-After-Remain.
               Later I learned Ibnar is a real first name,
               but I had already used in several ways,
               ways I eventually discarded.  The name
               for God my spirit clings to.

   §

 Entrances and Exits

It is late, and Sirius hangs in the Dipper's eye.
There is a precipiceat my spirit's edge/ I know
not how to cast away.  So if you meet me by-
and-by, a bone or two upon a shore, remember
only those who know/ what they must know/
are fit to risk/ where few survive.


 Where I Am Today

In an atom space far inside is a joyous child
this May's first Sunday, andmostly because
that crazed adult--whose spirit is not high--
last night with Cedant.com reserved for two
years hence a domain called Ibnar.net.  Such
craggy creviced errors he yet has/ made
along, what chance he has is far and far and
far; but he is bent on it. ** on it. * it.


 Where Are You Today

Here, perhaps; and if so, did you know that the founders
of that wild republic named The United States// did not
condemn the revolutionary ardor which garnered them
their freedom?  It is well there in their Declaration, how-
ever carefully presented.
* * *
Another thought.  Why is it that so many hold 
the second ammendment to be holy?  Is it
because it rightly is; or is it because it passes
a power to the each and every, however 
distant/ from the moguls of power?   



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00699ut-24.3poems

The Undulant Trees



 Lunar 1


The moon is an egg
in a black nest
sprinkled with sequins.


   §


 Lunar 2


The moon is an egg
barely visible
in the pale shore sky.


   §


 Lunar 3


The moon is a moon
too late, too soon, too unsure
why it is what what.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00698st37-items.found

Projected high temperature today: 58; tomorrow: 50.
Air: gusty; humidity: 81; cloudy but, no rain expected.

Found more old poems yesterday.  Posted one.  Also
found several other items of personal interest.  Likely
to try to scan and post four.  Not sure if I'll be able to
here.  Found other old poems today.  Am missing one
of a set of four.  Not sure where I've placed it.  Since
all four where originally published together, I want to
post them together.  Also found my AOL Hometown
postings (copies of, that is) I had deleted.  They are
from my abandoned Realm of Ibnar.  May post them
as a group.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00697v-20.poem18

Venturings



 An Austin, Texas, Easter


So many bluebonnets Eastering the grounds of the Methodist church we walk past!
softly joyful in the bright coolness of the easy wind.
Up hills and down past houses, apartments, businesses,
our walk of thirty-five minutes to St. Ignatius's
seems lighter for the grace of seeing and remembering and expecting them.

Once we reached our intended church, the flowering crowd amazed us;
but we made our way to the vestibule's eastern side
from where I soon saw its western side was not full;
so I turned, and Janice followed me: out and around the church's front.
Shortly after we re-entered, the choir began to sing the Hosanna.

Then we found some church bulletins, and Janice took one.
The Consecration came and went, though no one in the vestibule kneeled.
Janice and I moseyed and read, and looked about.
At Communion time we decided to participate;
and as we did, a glaze of emotion surprised my eyes.

Returned to the vestibule, we noticed and admired the baptistry
and then how a cavity under the altar recalled for us the empty tomb
and how in the season of His birth could be fixed to recall the birthing cave.
We stayed a little; left.  A mother with her young son approached.
It delighted us--Janice especially--to see that boy all dressed in white.

Later, on our homeward walk, going from Oltorf to Parker Lane,
and by a people-live church of The Latter Day Saints,
we sway again with the gentle hills gardened by the penitence-tinted blue
of the Texas earth's Easter attire the Indian maiden and the blue jays made:
the miracle risings of the silky lupines given the sky to deepen love.



                                                       the above experiences occurred in 1982 /
                                                              not sure when I wrote the poem



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00696st36-thankyoumessage

Brian "Madman" Salchert here:

Whether my encounters with you were
pleasant, indifferent, or unpleasant,
I thank each of you, including each who
is no longer Earth-alive.  I have led an
awkward life: at times too reticent; at
other times too boisterous; and far 
too often/ just plain too stupid.  Still, I
have been at times prescient, giving,
industrious.  There are many I wish 
to connect with.  Some I have tried
to find.  Some I have found, but have 
not been able to hold.  So it is.  I am
an INFP Capricorn metal dragon, a
hobbit-like risk taker.  Many times I
have skewered myself.  I try not to be 
a know-it-all.  Mayfly, firefly, glint of 
dust.  Remember me; remember me not,
I can only hope I have contributed well
enough to have earned eternal welcome,
given that I have been graced/ beyond
my worthiness.  Peace / love / community.   



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                        

sw00695ut-23.2poems

The Undulant Trees



 Invitation


I'm such a jimble & jamble writer
you might find something amongst my poems
that pleasures you.   Do look through.



   §



 Tensions


Eight mourning doves along two wires
against this overcast day,
so recordeth my wandering eyes
when they panned my bedroom window.

Three squirrels about in the yard
upon this drizzly morning,
so recordeth my wicked eyes
while they pierced my bedroom window.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00694st35-fastings

Didn't sleep well last night, waking twice early.  When I last woke--
after AM 7:30--thunderings greeted me.  I got up and disconnected
the computer system, and then proceeded with my routines.  Turned
on a radio I only use when I am unable to go online/ for information
about today's weather.  That was at AM 9:00.  It is now AM 9:51
and there may be a bad weather respite for a while.

CAConrad, a Philly poet and activist, has suggested fasting on this
year's Thanksgiving Day as a way of protesting our mongerings in
Iraq.  I, this morning, on this day we are celebrating veterans of the
numerous wars this nation has been in, may try to subsist on water
and plus-level nutrition drinks and the various supplements I daily
take, and the one med I must take twice each day, even though--
given the state of my health--doing so may not be a good idea.  If
I do this, it will be my way of protesting those egregious invasions
this nation and certain corporations have falsely participated in on
planet Earth.  Far too many innocent lives--especially among the
young, both from this nation and those nations we unwisely enter--
are sacrificed.  As I have written twice recently:  If we cannot live
with each other, we will die because of each other.  In the unlikely
Utopia I envision, leaders who promote genocidal aggressions--no
matter their rationales--would be vigorously opposed.  If those
who are commanded to engage in wars/ simply refused to do so,
war would cease; and life on this planet would be immeasurably
sanctified.  There are far better ways to deal with overpopulation.  



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00693sem-5.untaintedewe

Seminary



 Untainted Ewe


   Untainted Ewe to mother lambs
Within the world-derided fold;
To intercede for every sheep
Imperiled now by night and cold,
Of you the story great is told:

   A nigrous night, the wicked world,
Was round, and wound and bound
The sordid orb with serpent skin,
A shedding minding men of sin;
The heavy darkness built
A blacker monument to win
For Hell, where liquid fires spilt,
An earth already devil-downed.
   Then, when the time of fullness came,
Dappled dawn defeated shame
That conquered centuries did claim,
And turquoise day broke free
Above the mountain, marsh, and lea;
Unbound, in peace a newer name
Was echoed through the blue
Gold-effusèd sky:    Mary,
   A simple psalm so sweetly sung
From whence the world's Glory sprung
To kiss a cedar cross and die.
   In childhood, O Mary pure,
You grew in grace beneath the eye
Of providential vigilance:
In humble silence, abundance-filled;
In patience did your soul o'erflow
That only you could ever know
A motherhood
Unparalleled in final good
Or in beginning love.  Thus through
Your bosom all creatures were remade,
Recharged with love, swayed
From above; whole-holied, Untainted Ewe.
Immaculate you ever were;
No sinful stain your soul to blur
Was found to be within:
Virgin-white, transparent-thin,
Alofted air-borne snow, new-grown
Merino fleece, thistle down wind-blown,
A solitary star of Sirius's mould
Transpierced and permeated bold
That being bent by God's will told,
As if no angel need appear
To whisper it in Mary's ear:
A child shall your womb soon bear,
God's only Son placed in your care;
Fear not, O Virgin full of grace;
From lo the Spirit shall this take place,
Namèd Jesus to save the human race.
Yet Gabriel this message brought
To speak what Mary never thought.

   Upon the meadow knoll,
Among the rainbow grasses stroll
The lambs and all the sheep
That daily grow, leap and sleep,
Or sometimes wander far
'Neath stalwart sun and twinkling star
Till, O that Mother-Ewe
Unstained! as if she knew,
Would come and find her stray;
Would find and show the way
Again, within the Blood-won flock:
Purging-path-pointed, Heaven-headed flock,
Warmed by the rays of a fiery light
That rides on a solar sea
Burning as the prayer of a mystic, love-bright,
Caught in an ecstasy,
Caressed by the breeze at play in the trees;
At play with a myriad bees;
Held by the clover till daytime is over
And the birds to their nests all fly,
While the Maker ofnight
Builds His cities of light
Through the vaulted abyss of the sky.
(But if in the dark
 Wild nimbus embark
 With tempestuous rage unknown,
 The timorous fold
 To Mary can hold
 For peace as full as her own.)
To Bethlehem cave when winter frost,
Tenacious fingers heavily laid 
Upon; frigid-fixed and icèd-crossed
On silent soil, solid-cold, made
Unrested treks more wearisome,
Did not the spouse and Mary come
That Jesus might in humbleness
Be born, swaddling-shod, and nothing more?
She knew the wrack of trial;
The tears that tribulation brings,
Yet hers is a peace-filled smile;
A Magniicat she ever sings.
Fear not the tempest-slashèd skies
Or rumbling, thunderous cumuli
That roll therein.  Betake
To our Untainted Ewe
Your sin-suffering soul;
The sorrow your heart endures.  Mistake
Not the words she utters to you
Amid the fold upon the knoll:
   Be poor and love, and peace is yours.

   In silence wrapped did Mary live,
Full-joyed when she, her love, could give
From Bethlehem to Nazareth 
To Calvary: one rising breath
Of lung-bursting virtue;
A heart-rending issue
Of virgin-bonded blood.
   Where blooms the meadow's rosebud,
The Lamb of God is found
With His Untainted Mother-Ewe
Through whom all things are crowned,
Created new,
Made sound,
Upraised true;
Angel choirs confound.
On bloody, cedar-crossèd Calvary
This Lamb, Himself did sacrifice
To end, oh man's marked misery,
With life renewed; and though this should suffice,
He gave Himself as food the eve before:
Eternal sustenance--a wondrous wine
And beauteous bread, boundless gifts
Of glory-winning grace to home incline
The path traversed by man, by man who drifts
So easily from Him he should adore--
Forever-food, new manna made
For all the sheep that sleep and leap
Within the world-derided fold,
That sleep in Mary's arms when cold
As Jesus crucified was gently laid
On Mary's lap, and she,
Not one to weep,
In mystic visions deep,
The wisdom-work of God could see
Through all its shrouded mystery;
That leap round Mary's feet
As Jesus did at Nazareth,
And then, as now, she felt
His final breath
And caught Him up to rest
Against her heaving breast
Where seeming hard defeat
Was victory complete,
And she, in prayer, thendwelt
Upon her Son
Till time was done
And He had won.

   His death--our life,
And limbo rife
With joy sprung free
Upon eternity; and He
Arose in resurrected glow
Of light, as winter snow,
(Reflecting rays of sun,
 Gold-glancing glitters spun
 Through cloudless atmospheres
 To dry earth's tears,)
In primal air-borne fall
Is cherub-pure: and all
Reminds of Easter morn
And Christ's footfall,
The hope of men reborn,
At love's first call
Straight-turned towards her
Who mothered Him to stir
This Virgin's sinless soul,
This Taintless Ewe upon the knoll,
With love that should forever grow
To strengthen straying sheep below;
Alone in wild, tumultuous blow,
The raging thief of day, of day
Returned when men to Mary pray:

   O Virgin wrapped in timelessness,
   The Mother of my God and me,
   Lead onward through the world's duress
   This lamb that would to heaven flee.
   Untainted Ewe, remember me,
   Your little lamb on bended knee,
   And guide to life's eternity
   This flock you bound in Unity
   By willing that in humbleness
   Which God proposed to work through thee,
   And fold in meadow happiness
   This flock you bind in Holiness
   By willing that in charity
   Which God must yet through thee express;
   Thus causing God the globe to bless,
   And every man to give no less
   Than highest praise in poetry,
   The poetry of prayerfulness.


                                  April, 1962 revision
                                 Brian Salchert, N.S.J.



-------------------------
Blessed Virgin


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00692sem-4.jesusbound

Seminary



 Jesus Bound


O those wounds with which we wounded Him
Through which He heals our wounds--this Jesus bound.
Lo! e'en the silence streams as strident sound.
O languishing alliterations--lapped
On each like sea-swoln tongues that taste the sand,
A searing sand, to lapse in death beneath
The seeming petant rush of other tongues;
Alike the lethal lash whose lick would limn
Licentiousness in blood upon the Man,
Inflaming Man; would fall to rise again--
Momentous motions, mountain movers, march,
Forever march, in solid starward step
Across the blood-red Back that bridged the years,
A radiant rainbow arch Redemption bent,
As men in one Man unified through death.
Indeed, let ev'ry man now bind himself
Against that pillar cold where he can feel
The unrelenting ripping off of flesh
Imposed by sin.  In this compassionate.
Low bend, yea, unto creeping bend, and weep;
True nothingness is everything too deep.
So we, as godly men, must grow to naught
By being bound in love with Boundlessness,
Receiving only injury and hate
Like naked slaves or criminals depraved,
Which wretched ruck in truth we are though He
Be innocent.  Thus to descend is need:
The deed is duty.  But the duty done
Is saintly sleep.  Full freedom reigns all-pure
In atmospheres of that Paternal Will     
Alone/ through which the dying sun sends rays
Of sanguine light to rend the sinful veil
That men might see, to fill the cup of life
That men might grow, to vivify the air
That men might breathe more freedom still and find
The ropes that bind, the ropes that free, the ropes
That ever shall unite weak man with Christ,
Who being pillar-bound is bound to all
Things good which bend pursuit of happiness
Towards God.  Conjoin us each in You to posts
Of suffering, our "Father of the world
To come," where drumming, brutal scourgings bruise
Our body fleshes unto humbleness,
Where each expectant pause between the beats
Is pregnant with the blare of trumpet fears
That echo down the caverns of our ears
And rumble 'round the mending rooms of thought:
The deed is duty.  But a duty done
By none but freedom-breathing sons to whom
At last the silence strides as holy sleep,
A vigil-rest caught in/ the Pillared One.




-------------------------
There are moments I call God moments, and today a link
on Silliman's Blog to an article by Veronica Whitty about
Francis Thompson
allowed me to experience several such moments.


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00691st34-transits

Completed "thoughts in transit" at Rho blog.  Poetry and aesthetic
positions are at the core of it, but other topics are also discussed.
Began the post on November third.  Today's section has nine links
to this blog.  On December 31st will be doing pdm count number 3.

§


About AM 7:30 I opened the drapes, and saw 2 passenger jets
quite near each other high in the clear sky.  Then I noted they'd
just passed each other, and that they were on the same SW-NE
line.  Couldn't tell, however, if one was higher than the other.
-
An hour or so later I heard a bird cheeping near the window, but
I was seated here on my stool and didn't get up.  Suddenly I
heard a larger something thump by the wall, and then a squeak
from the bird; then silence.  Went to the window.  Saw nothing.

*   

Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00690st33-blog.design

SH690update


Hopefully, I've at last settled on at least the page, text, and link colors
for this blogging endeavor.  A silver gray (c0c0c0 / 192 192 192) is the
page background color.  The basic text color is black.  Since the gray
I'm using accommodates it well, the link color is blue.  I may yet make
heading background and sidebar color changes.
   Am beginning to settle into specific presentation patterns.  The first
line on most pages (entries) will be as it is on this page, beginning with
the page's AOL entry number followed by this journal's name and a
link to the site map along with one to the homepage.  The last line on
most pages (entries) will be as it is on this page because, even though
placing copyright information on each page is not necessary, I want to
reveal that information.  See Homepage for related details.  
   Had been conscientiously placing in each entry one or more extra- 
site links.  That practice has been stopped in favor of only placing 
such links in an entry when they are pertinent. 



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                  

sw00689ut-22.poem

The Undulant Trees



 Open the Drapes


Frost in the yard
Cardinal on a wire
     then in an eaves trough
Juncos, sparrows, or warblers skittering
     into and out of the sturdy bush
Cardinal          back on the wire
I'm wearing my jacket




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00688st32-hard.words

On 7.31.07 I posted a count of Sprintedon Hollow poems, ditties,
and muttobs covering the months of May, June, and July.  In that
post is an untitled four-line poem.  Its first line reads:
          Death is the only truth worth living.
-
On a recent visit to Reginald Shepherd's Blog/ I learned that Jon
Anderson, a poet who was at Iowa during my second year there
and who had been teaching at Arizona for many years, had died.
As I had allowed myself to drift away from interaction with other
poets early in 1973, I was not able to comment on Reginald's 
"Homage . . ." post.  I did, however, do some searching; and on
two sites encountered Anderson's "The Secret of Poetry" poem,
the final line of which reads:
          The secret of poetry is cruelty.
-
Yesterday, a poetry theory search led me to Jacket Magazine 22
and David Bromige's "In Place of a Preface" wherein one of his
sentences reads:
          Poetry is the theory of heartbreak.
-


-------------------------

Jon Anderson

David Bromige


-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00687v-19.poem17

Venturings



 Distant Past                   Distant Future


ah-kah-haaah-laaah        oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo
ah-kah-haaah-laaah        oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo
ah-kah-haaah-laaah        oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo
                                        oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo
                                             oh-tay-ee-oh-ee-aaay-whooo




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00686v-18.poem16

Venturings



 Leaves Scattering Across the Deck


And in that final moment,
The last before going beyond,
Who shall whisper what the truth is?




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00685st31-anniversary

One year ago on this date I began this blog. 
Each of us has beliefs.
I have beliefs. 
I do not insist others believe as I do.
I am no one special.
There's a little prayer I say daily for each of us.
~
Blessed Trinity:
Father Creator,
Son Redeemer,
Holy Spirit Enlightener:
Thank You for each human,
Your blessings on each;
Your mercies on each.

Thank You for sharing in each of us
Your wisdom, Your love, Your serenity;
and courage and determination;
and holy creativity.  



-------------------------
Brian A. J. Salchert                      

sw00684st30-about.us

In This USA

the logical endpoint of states' rights is the dissolution of the federal government
and the morphing of each state into a nation of like-minded selfish isolationists.
Live only with those you agree with, and the rest of the world can spit peanuts.
The Constitution of the United States is NOT a sacred document.  If we cannot
live with each other, we will die because of each other.  The AI's are waiting.
After the demise of ugly Homo sapiens, Earth will throw an Edenic celebration.
Prepare yourself for the crossover.  The requisites are: peace, love, community.
-
The logical endpoint of federal government primacy is the death of statehood
and the consequent invalidation of even altruistic legislations of sovran states. 



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00683a-24.fv1961

First Verses


The Gush of Spring

    (for sound effects, fun, and beatniks)


In joy I walk along;
I sing a happy song,
For nature's mellow gong
Is rightly ringing long.
The mattresses of frost
Beyond the wall of land
With mighty force are tossed,
Where oceans spanned
By glassy waves
That ever break
Against the wall
And shattered, fall
On miles of sandy graves
From whence they never wake.
The hoary mattresses
That now are gone
Allow the messes
Of sleeping spring
To twang e'er lang
The song they sang
On last year's lawn.
Oh happy, bouncing spring,
Freed from winter's bed,
No longer are you dead!
You do not sleep,
But rather bring
The slamming dawn
To scare the hare
And flare the bear
And move the heavy air
As one would move a chair
Across the floor
Or drop the music score.

In joy I amble on
My oily way
And run this marathon
Each turn of day.
The vernal rush
Is always heard
In softly spoken word,
A lullaby so hush
That never did
The Scotch
So sweetly notch
The word and song
That lies not hid
Beneath old winter's dark,
Beneath its eerie bark,
Beneath its cold,
Beneath its scraping wind,
Beneath its charging bold;
Beneath its face of stone
That drops quite wrong
On those who sinned.

And yet the room,
Where spring is now exposed
And winter's sheets are torn,
Does find me there, forlorn,
As all around the gloom
Of night's shades fallen
Cause the gush of spring
To be deposed
As would a reigning king
Who grew with such quick speed
So as to suffer need
Of that which would make clear
This messy time of year
When all is like
A can of beer
Gurgled and thrown away
At noon of day
And life is far and near
With footsteps heard,
The song of bird,
The beat of drums,
The deaths of bums,
The whistle of a train,
The sound of plane,
The mush and gush,
And all such like.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00682a-23.fv1960

First Verses



Solitudo III


Along the earth's forgotten trails, beyond
The desert dunes and snowy mountain heights,
A silent voice entreats; all men respond,
Imprinting thoughts across the endless nights.
Light tapestries, ideals of every man,
Reduce to empty weaves Minervan toil,
Embellish all that spirits deem to scan;
And harbor hopes above the deadly coil.
But seeds of dreams too often rudely die,
Forsaking men with emptiness to hold,
Till deep retreat, alone, with heaven's Eye
And woodland rest reveals the hidden gold:
   No solitude enacts a greater role
   Than quiet realized in peace of soul.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00681a-22.fv1960

First Verses


The Song of Southern Africa for Freedom

     with thanks to Alan Paton


Boom! then quickly rap the beats--dark song.
Soon! recast the rhythmic ring--life's score.
Boom ti ki boom,
     boom ti ki boom.
          Wreathe, O warrior dancing.
Twist,
     whirl,
          charge:
               boom ti ki boom, ti ki.
Now charge!

Fight! across your open plains--bright light.
Reach! the burning torch proceeds--new trails.
Boom ti ki boom
     fades from the air;
          freedom's song is rising.
Speak,
     sing,
          move;
               grandly orate, Zulu.
Be free!

Phalaropes in the sky,
          black and white,
                    are in flight.
Cry
     --the country beloved lies deserted.
Love.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00680a-21.fv1959

First Verses



Into the Marsh


We wind our ways
     Through misty nights,
And shun the days
     Of crystal heights.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00679a-20.fv1959

First Verses



Triton


O Triton blow your silver horn
Across the salty sea,
                  and call
The nymphs beyond the painted morn
Of brightly shining victory.

Each shaft of dawn Aurora brings
Replacing shades of night,
                  to all
The realm of father Neptune sings
New solemn songs on rainbowed light.

Make hard thy mighty sinews now,
Fill up thy chest with pride;
                  and reign
Above the waves that ram the bow
Where Homer's vir in search does ride.

Upon your head of umber rests
The laurel of the sea;
                  a train
The evening's veiling shade attests
Your peerless, royal ancestry.

Remember thou art Triton, true,
Half man; half fish, your form;
                  but know
What-e'er in future times you do,
With faithfulness pursue the corm.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00678a-19.fv1959

First Verses



Tom of the Woods


In yonder woods so green and fair
 There lived a lad in woe;
For though he had the glades for friends,
 There was no man to know.

His name?  His name was Tom de Luck,
 And luck he surely had.
His life was full of chance and dare,
 But lonely, he was sad.

The woods was bright with flashing hues
 That sparkled in the sun,
As squirrels scampered on the ground
 Until the day was done.

The fox in slyest deviltry
 Approached his hapless prey,
And captured it, then took his bow
 Before he dashed away.

But all these scenes that filled the woods
 With gaiety and life,
But further saddened Tom de Luck
 And added to his strife.

He strolled the paths with head hung low;
 He stumbled through the mire,
Where mists that echoed all his thoughts
 Accepted his retire.

One day while sitting on a stump,
 He heard a "hello" flow
From tender lips (beyond the marsh)
 That beckoned him to go.

"Who comes so into this deep woods
 To utter soft helloes?
What maiden fair is tripping there
 Yet knows not where she goes?"

"My name is Mary Mariand,
 And I know where I be.
But who are you that questions thus
 In truth to know of me?"

"In truth I go by Tom, if that
 Be true enough for you.
Within this woods of stately trees
 I've lived my whole life through."

"Now Tom of thé woods, for is it
 Not thee, your name and this?
Now gentle sir, be kind to me,
 But render not one kiss."

"A kiss!  I fear the thought of it. . . .
 A maiden such as thee
With golden hair that trails as silk
 In lightest winds at sea. . . ."

"I think you have too many blooms;
 Your garden verse o'erflows,
But let us walk down winding trails
 To where the gentian grows."

The distant haze enveloped them
 As hand in hand they trailed
The ivy and the royal gent's
 To where the maid was veiled.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00677a-18.fv1959

First Verses



The Red-Breasted Messenger


When winter's snow has all but fled the scene
And vivid green is ringing through the air,
I crane my neck across a jeweled ravine
In hopes of sighting spring's first robin there.

What new delight excites my weary veins
As 'mid the budding boughs of maple trees
That harbinger of wooded dales and lanes
Announces life with cheerful melodies.

His lay, a masterpiece of genial song,
Enhancing every enterprising whorl,
Removes unpleasant thoughts that come along
And sets the mind and man where leaves uncurl.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                  

sw00676a-17.fv1959

First Verses



His Goal Was Peace


Long, dark shadows stole through the light;
Great vines strangled life in the night.
Deep, damp jungles that bent men's minds
Brought forth freedom to rend black blinds.

Fire-lashed crossways tainting the land
Now met Lincoln's comforting hand.
Fate-found saver of freedom dear
Held his honor of justice near.

Out from wilderness for the right,
Trampled evils with all his might,
Beat through brushland where fire was borne;
Claimed the hilltop one foggy morn.

His spirit set on union and life
Moved to conquer the country's strife;
Forgetting all physical needs,
Stretched its hand to calm trembling reeds.

How great the effort Lincoln made:
By day he worked; at night he prayed.

How hard fell the war on his heart;
How his features imaged the part.
Strong, sad grooves marked his kindly face;
Tear-filled eyes did his thoughts embrace.

When sweet peace on golden-hued wings
Across the land of Lincoln sings,
All souls rest in its golden glow,
Thanking God for this man so great
Who melted the war-reddened snow
And found his peace at heaven's gate.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00675a-16.fv1959

First Verses



Indian Sue


She was just a doll in yellow attire
Bound by cloth of East, the land of the sun.
Hair had she as black as night in the mire;
Cheeks of umber burnt were tinted with rose.
Legs that looked like trunks of trees in repose
Near a lumber mill were covered with cloth,
Yellow like the skirt which Sue wore.

Sue, all decked in jewels, beckoned with hand
Outstretched, "Come, come and follow me to Souix land."




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00674a-15.fv1959

First Verses



Profound Depths


My mind is tired by thoughts so rare
That seem to permeate the air.
Throughout this space of fading lights
I dream of many sleepless nights.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00673a-14.fv1959

First Verses



Each Man


Each man in this great world of ours
  Has his own job to do,
But how he carries out this plan
  Is simply up to you.

The goodly God has shown the course
  That we in life should take;
However we alone decide
  Depends the path we make.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00672a-13.fv1958

First Verses



Woodland Shades  (version two)


In gleaming streams of light the woodland shades
Like tiny fingers creep across the glades.
They seem to ring of lullabies so sweet
That linger on forever near my feet;
Their changing moods from dawn until the night
Keep all within their chambers gay and bright.
O scarlet red, O turquoise blue unfold;
Uplift my mind with thoughts that are untold.

Through distant mists the creaking trees resound
As hollow logs reutter mournful word.
But beauty yet in stillness can be found,
And life embracing holiness unstirred.
His majesty the oak surveys the realm
That leadeth all beneath the shading elm.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00671a-12.fv1958

First Verses



Woodland Shades  (version one)


In gleaming streams of radiant warmth
I endeavored to capture the woodland shades.
Upon the cool, grassy earth I rested still,
My mind measuring the living beauty.
The winding brook rippled over ragged rocks,
Its merry melody echoing. . . .
The softest breeze whispered through the reeds
And lingered by the leaves, lisping lyrics low.

Old gold glistening was swinging freely
From burden bent boughs toward blossomy births.
The final fulfillment in nearness
Brought extended efforts for happiness true.
Hues with brilliance of precious new jewels
Pierced peaceful shades of arborial glades.
From distant mists resounded a dark, dire moan;
Hollow trees creaked, alone in the mire.

As shadowy fingers gripped ever at death,
Shading the clearing where in wonder I gazed,
The red fox himself slipped out of the brush
To crush dried leaves in the woodland's open path.
Yet, trudging the jungles, ardent ants
Worked well the Willed while in storing for winter.
Busy honey bees too, like dancing fairies,
Gathered sweet nectar from the columbines.

At last I softly stirred in this woodland rare,
My mind retracing the beauty through.
His majesty the Oak surveyed the wondrous
Realm with loving eyes, understanding of all.
    It was then I realized
      What truth I must disclose:
    The beauty of God's nature
      No artist ever knows.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00670a-11.fv1958

First Verses


Nature and the Goal

    after Charles Peguy


Behold, My Creation, says God.
This I have conceived from all time.
I separated the land from the water,
Each to its own place;
And in each place I brought life,
And made the land young.

Then I created man
To My Own Image and Likeness,
To rule over the land.

Behold, My Nature, says God.
From snow-capped mountains
Above the timber line
A new-born brook
Winds swiftly like a silver-blue ribbon
Tumbling in gay, cool splashes
Over old, worn rocks.
Into the autumn forests by colored leaves
The brook winds swiftly in beauty so rare.
This I have conceived from all time.
Life flourishes by this rustling brook;
Through rustling leaves it scampers.
Dancing rays of sunlight on the rippling brook
Are an earthly taste of heaven,
My palace; the final home of men--
Of men who understand My nature,
This nature that I gave to them.
From all time have I conceived this
To aid man toward his goal.
The beautiful birds of the upper air,
The great beasts that trod the land;
The millions of microscopic things:
Through these, my nature, shall man find his goal:
Eternal life in heaven.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00669a-10.fv1958

First Verses



Winter Winds


The barren land in snowy raiments rests
When winter dominates the country scene.
No bird reposes now in feathered nests,
For bitter winds are blasting where the green
Of summer had in cooling shadows been.

These winds that charge across the open field,
Like storms of woe that oft beset the heart,
Are draping flakes of snow that always yield
To every wisp of wind till nature's art
Is manifest as strokes of Genius yet again.

O blow with all your might upon the earth
And cover all the tracks of life around.
Have mercy not on any when in mirth
You laugh at blemished faces on the ground.
Return triumphant fiend to yonder murky fen.

O winds of self mistakes; O winds of Will,
You mark our lives with heavy burdens now.
But we will win this lifelong battle still.
So slaves of Aeolus do suffering allow
For hardship strengthens souls and betters men.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00668a-09.fv1958

First Verses



The Mystic Dove


A whistling Wing amid the trees;
  A glowing Cousin of death,
Thy rosy breast colours the leaves,
  A singing of souls to rest.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00667a-08.fv1957

First Verses



I Could Be a Poet


Ah, 'tis true, but who am I?
I am no Pope, no Whitman, no Longfellow;
But rather an amateur
          searching for light,
                    for room to breathe.
And yet, do I truly wish
To breathe the sweet air of poetry,
Or do I but fool myself with such grand thoughts?
Am I just a bard for fame,
Or do I possess a true talent
That might flourish if I am patient,
          humble,
And willing to work toward such a goal?




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00666a-07.fv1957

First Verses



Too Young


Experience is that which I have not
                             leave in,
  As surely you must see.
My poetry is that of the saddest lot
                            even
  With weaker company.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00665a-06.fv1957

First Verses



Treasure


As lays
In beauty bound
By melodies so light,
Is all the wonder man has found
In life.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00664a-05.fv1956

First Verses



Light of Love


The "star of love" shone bright on high,
A guiding light up in the sky.
It led the Maji to the child;
Upon their gifts the God-Man smiled.
The angels sang their songs of praise;
As yet the star threw golden rays.
The shepherds on the hill did see,
Adoring the Christ on bended knee.
Should not hearts wonder at these things
About which still an angel sings?

God's love for man was resting there
In this manger, lowly and bare.
How radiant was His young face,
For from His heart flowed love and grace.
He gave Himself to save mankind
So that those lost He might then find,
Pointing the way to happiness;
Bringing all to Him to caress.
Eternal heaven is the home
Where we who love shall rest, shall roam.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00663a-04.fv1956

First Verses



Mother


I think of thee when traveling down life's road
My back is burdened with some heavy load.

I think of all the times you soothed my sores
With quicker speed than oil in Grecian wars.

Of all the words we spoke when left alone
That painted phrases only we have known.

You are a luminary of the night
Revealing paths that lead to love and right.

Each word and act I saw expressed by thee
Did bring you all the closer, Mom, to me.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00662a-03.fv1956

First Verses


[ Okay, I had an inordinate attachment to my mother who/
  was too gentle, and a troubled attachment to my father/
  who seemed to me to be too firm; but I learned a lot 
  from each of them, which says nothing about what I did
  with what I learned. ]




My Mother


She is short.  Just
    Five feet is her height.
Her eyes are soft brown;
    Her hair black as night.

A look that is kind;
    A smile on her face,
Which tears of sorrow
    Will never efface.

She's mine forever,
    Oh how much I love her.
May the Lord bless her.
    My dear, loving mother.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                  

sw00661a-02.fv1956

First Verses



I Dream of Life


Closing my eyes to see afar
   the magnificent brightness of a star,
I dream of life; the things therein,
   to think the way, my heaven to win.
My conscience remains my lasting guide;
   a guardian angel is at my side.
Like the swirling nebulae,
   in this realm I wish to stay.
My world is a dream; my life uncertain,
   and with my eyes I see the curtain
Of eternal life wherein I may go
   as I will.  Oh,  . . .




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00660a-00.first.verses.links

First Verses section of Autobio Poems

verse #1 - "The God-Created Milky Way"
-
verse #2 - "I Dream of Life"
-
verse #3 - "My Mother"
-
verse #4 - "Mother"
-
verse #5 - "Light of Love"
-
verse #6 - "Treasure"
-
verse #7 - "Too Young"
-
verse #8 - "I Could Be a Poet"
-
verse #9 - "The Mystic Dove"
-
verse #10 - "Winter Winds"
-
verse #11 - "Nature and the Goal"
-
verse #12 - "Woodland Shades"  (version one)
-
verse #13 - "Woodland Shades"  (version two)
-
verse #14 - "Each Man"
-
verse #15 - "Profound Depths"
-
verse #16 - "Indian Sue"
-
verse #17 - "His Goal Was Peace"
-
verse #18 - "The Red-Breasted Messenger"
-
verse #19 - "Tom of the Woods"
-
verse #20 - "Triton"
-
verse #21 - "Into the Marsh"
-
verse #22 - "The Song of Southern Africa for Freedom"
-
verse #23 - "Solitudo III"
-
verse #24 - "The Gush of Spring"
-
-
-------------------------
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00659a-01.fv1953

First Verses


[ When I was twelve I was attending a Roman Catholic elementary school,
  and I thought I might one day be an astrophysicist.  During that year I did
  two quite unrelated things: an oil painting of a young evergreen rooted at
  the base of an incline in the north section of the yard around our house,
  and a poem about God and the Milky Way.  The painting is hanging/ on
  a wall/ in this apartment.  The verse is/ hanging below/ a virtual um. ]




The God-Created Milky Way


A group of stars the heavens wide
  That seem to be side by side.

    A heavenly group with stars aglow,
      That Milky Way, which we all know.

A bit of the universe created by God
  That containeth the earth on which we trod.

    A sight to remember your whole life through;
      For it told of God's greatness,
                                       personally,
                                               to you.




-
Brian A. J. Salchert                   

sw00658st29-first.verses

Today and tomorrow are the final two days of my first year
of spinning this Thinking Lizard Sprintedon Hollow webbed 
log.  In my Autobio(a) section I will be placing First Verses.
Although I have lost some of them, it has been my habit to
keep what I've written.  Given the variety of my writings,
especially during 2007,  my early attempts are revelatory.
Therefore, my opinion of them is marginal (not to the point).




-
Brian A. J. Salchert