So, in addition to each weeks poem, we're to write a one page, double spaced response to a poem from that weeks readings. At the moment, we're reading Major Jackson's Leaving Saturn. And the poem i've chosen is:
(i'm not sure of the legality of posting the poem here, but as it's a non-commercial use...
if you feel conflicted i've also included the site from where it can be retrieved)

Some Kind of Crazy
From: JSTOR

It doesn't matter if you can't see
Steve's 1985 Corvette: Turquoise-colored,
Plush purple seats, gold-trimmed
Rims that make little stars in your eyes

As if the sun is kneeling, kissing
The edge of sanity. Like a Baptist
Preacher stroking the dark underside
Of God's wet tongue, he can make you

Believe. It's there; his scuffed wing-
Tips-ragged, frayed, shuffling
Concrete-could be ten-inch Firestone
Wheels, his vocal chords fake

An eight cylinder engine that wags
Like a dog's tail as he shifts gears. Imagine
Steve, moonstruck, cool, turning right
Onto Ridge Avenue, arms forming

Arcs, his hands a set of stiff C's
Overthrowing each other's rule,
His lithe body and head snap back
Pushing a stick shift into fourth

Whizzing past Uncle Sam's Pawn
Shop, past Chung Phat's Stop & Go.
Only he knows his destination,
His limits. Can you see him? Imagine

Steve, moonstruck, cool, parallel
Parking between a Pacer and a Pinto-
Obviously the most hip- backing up,
Head over right shoulder, one hand

Spinning as if polishing a dream;
And there's Tina, wanting to know
What makes a man tick, wanting
A one-way trip to the stars.

We, the faithful, never call
Him crazy, crackbrained, just a little
Touched. It's all he ever wants:
A car, a girl, a community of believers.

I’ve chosen “Some Kind of Crazy,” for it’s chock full of images within images, and works as well as Steve’s Baptist tongue to take us to the neighborhood where the original vision took place. The third stanza’s start sounds like an invocation: ‘Believe,[1]’ but just in case, Jackson adds ‘It’s there’[2] even though ‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t see’[3] the Corvette, for this is about the dreamer’s sight. We’re encouraged to ‘imagine’[4] again and again, which may be the force of the vision. Now-a-days, some seem to have grown weary of imagination, instead preferring the concrete Jung- et al. It’s interesting, strict adherents to scientific discovery may be inclined to forgo imaginative forays under the weight of so many facts, but where do those discoveries come from? Albert Einstein is quoted, saying: “Imagination is more important than knowledge, for knowledge is limited while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”[5] Who’s to say a little Einstein in 1890’s Munich[6] wasn’t dreaming similar dreams? It seems only fitting if the ‘gold-trimmed rims… make little stars in your eyes.’[7]

                This work shows too the power of animation in storytelling, which is something that could be lost in the channeling from one medium to another, but Jackson does masterfully. Images like ‘his hands a set of stiff C’s… his lithe body and head snap back pushing a stick shift into fourth’[8] not only aid his readers towards the sights and sounds of Steve’s moonlit drives, but were likely a key part of the convincing stage shows that seem to have heavily influenced Jackson’s work.

 

Emerald Disco Ball

Oh! Emerald Kingdom, How Glorious!
Vaulted ceilings and open expanses
Show us All, the inspiration
For each Grand Holy House built.
'mongst your myriad forms: more
Diversity than this wee mind
Can even hope to grasp with mere reason.
Thus the seeker slips silently beyond
And embraces you with awe and wonder.
Show these tired eyes your Sweet Mystery,
and illuminate this poor soul,
That into the World might shine
A Light on your Radiance.
Together We'll find Harmony!

Hmmm, well i suppose it's been nearly 24 years Now, or more so, as i moved in a bit before it was all the way built. It's been fun watching the place grow, not so much in the sense that rooms were added, but that the rooms seem to have expanded their square footage (or meterage for those who use the metric system :-). i look forward to celebrating the anniversary of its grand opening this November 28th!  :-)

Celestial DJ

Sitting still,

On a tranquil Sea,

The mind slips away,

And the Stars descend

To meet the Earth;

Falling as the softest rain,

Forming a gentle mist that glows,

Illuminating the ten directions.

Who could want more?

 

Watching galaxies spin like records,

Where Novas pound celestial drums

Keeping time with Eternity;

And each spiraling sphere

Sings songs of Silent Unity;

Beautiful melodies of the Heart.

In this Great Cosmic Stage Show,

Dancing in the sky Free;

Heaven, Here & Now.

We barely remember who or what came before this precious moment,
We are choosing to be here right now. hold on, stay inside...
This holy reality, this holy experience. choosing to be here in...

This body. this body holding me. be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion.

Alive

This holy reality, in this holy experience. choosing to be here in...

This body. this body holding me. be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion...
Of what it means to be alive

Swirling round with this familiar parable.
Spinning, weaving round each new experience.
Recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this
Chance to be alive and breathing
Chance to be alive and breathing.

This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality.
Embrace this moment. remember. we are eternal.
All this pain is an illusion.

Sometimes, staring into the sun squinting,

the light fractures in the thin film of oil

that surrounds each keratin thread trying

to shade the lensed orb entrusted to it.

 

Instinctively, the eye adjusts focus,

and sends the watcher deep into the self;

Rainbow bridges connecting the bright sky

and the EyE (that's not an eye) fill the soul...

 

Just call me ROY G BIV, for the prism

that splits the rays based on wavelength splits me,

and what once was within is now without;

Like a seed who's coat slips off in the warmth.

 

Transformations like this are: What keep me

ready willing and able for each day;

What keeps a smile on my face in the rain;

What lets life be lived without a complaint.

Crossing Over

From

Sun Ra & the American Spirit Arkestra
At the Foundation Maeght, 1970

 

Death, but not
A death. Half-wit
Minutes, homogeneous
Seconds, observed

With open arms,
The way myths end
& encircle you.
On a train to Nots,

I caught a glimpse;
It must have been
This way in Kush
Amid the Pharaohs

Cork-bronzed eyes,
Airtight helmets,
Whose stone-bones
Served as vessels.

Mars? Venus?
Not the point!
What but a family
Of Dynasties endowed

With the divine
Cadence to administer
The infinite swells
& ripples of Funk?

What if the stream attains
The music? Does it mean
The end to responsorial
Calls, the shuck

& jive of briefcase
Men, the termination
Of Image Awards?
Or can one museum

Rhythm? Where is
Parker’s horn?
In any event, we flaunt
The stuff of old

& modern hipness
As if it were a claim
Ticket. The day will
Come: we will have

Wished the world
Had CABBAGE PATCHED
With us, did the PREP
With as much mock

Capitalistic savvy,
PEE WEE HERMANED
Themselves into stiff
Bouts of kindness.

At moments, when we lose
Parts of ourselves,
Even if we know nothing
Of Legba, Oshun,

Obatala, we do know it
Has always been the case
To share the bopology.
How else to explain

A SOUL TRAIN line
Or the magic pull
Of THE ELECTRIC SLIDE,
So much better at willing

Conformity than the Bill
Of Rights? How else
To explain a people
Willing to groove

The Founding Fathers
Till they sweat abundantly
In nods, shuddering
Out of control.

For this, the second journey through the words of Major Jackson, I’ve chosen “Crossing Over.” This piece appears to be a stunning example of simi-directed stream of consciousness poetry. The opening strikes me right off: ‘Death, but not a death,’ and clarifies the title a bit. It also points me to stanza thirteen; for to ‘lose/ parts of ourselves’ is much like a ‘Death, but not a death.’ And when we ‘[observe] with open arms’ we can ‘[catch] a glimpse’ of what some might call “the other side,” which for Jackson seems to be a vision of “the grooveology policy,” or what Jackson calls ‘the bobology’ Which leads him to conclude that the pharos were ‘but a family… with the divine cadence… infinite swells & ripples of Funk,’ and that the rhythm that one may or may not be able to museum is, or at least can be, universally known.

            This work also feels very metaphysically influenced, in that it poses many questions of a rather curious nature whose answers, if conceived of, beg only more questions, and might not be able to be expressed. Crossing Over’s main questions seem to those put forth In the closing stanzas. I see Jackson at a Ra Sun concert watching the incredible synchronicity of ‘the Soul Train’ and the ‘Electric Slide,’ trying to penetrate the deeper realms of understanding, floating down ‘the stream.’

Ether

from

 

You sleep when they decree,

on a litter of mumbled numbers

and a rubbery head-filling smell:

this feathered word Ether.

Each whiff’s one nail

in a spiky bed

you levitate inches above-

a weightless guru

or long-suffering mist,

a wisp of cirrus separated

from his fellow clouds.

You’re a balloon that breaths.

 

 

Nurses. Surgeons.

Masked bandits who’ll

ghostwrite you. Gloved,

in green gowns redolent

of anesthesia’s leaky history,

they drag you into the light,

turning you inside out,

as Mother did

with your best dresses

before tossing them

into the wash.

As you evaporate

they trade dark looks.

Insomniacs hate snorers.

Something in you breaks off,

flutters up and lodges just

under the white tile ceiling.

For this, the first dive into the “Nerve Storm,” I’ve chosen ‘Ether,’ as it attempts to express the perceptions of a difficult kind of experience to capture in words (and does so masterfully). The music of the line is interesting, in that it draws out in the beginning, as the last waking breaths might under the instructions of the anesthetist, only to shorten and surge down the page as the writer disconnects from the body being operated on. The images are also striking; like when ‘each whiff’ of the ether is compared to ‘ one nail/ in a spiky bed;’ which might sound rather daunting, except for, it seems, ‘each whiff’ too acts to take the writer to a place unaffected by the spikes, where ‘[levitating] inches above’ one might as well be a ‘weightless guru/ or long-suffering mist / a wisp of cirrus separated from his fellow clouds.’ The first stanza maintains nicely the concept of floaty driftingness: ‘feathered… whiff… levitate… weightless… mist… cirrus… balloon.’ Then as the second stanza starts the whole thing pops like a balloon succumbing to the low pressure troposphere, and we come tumbling back into the operating room surrounded by ‘Nurses. Surgeons. / Masked bandits’ only to then reemerge ‘into the light’ which might as well be water, for it was ‘turning you inside out’ as ‘your best dresses / before tossing them / into the wash.’

            While the meter is generally consistent, averaging 5.97 ± 1.66 syllables per line, tho if the overall form was constructed prior to the commencement of wordsmithing it was done so, seemingly, at random (which for me are almost the most fun kind of formal poetry).