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Author: Bartleby

Standard Theory of Pure Love 2: About the Intellectual/Emotional Irreducible

Standard Theory of Pure Love 2: About the Intellectual/Emotional Irreducible

To feel or think a faith or doubt,
we rest upon the sense
that our feels and thoughts
can somewhere go,
can something mean–
are solid, worthy routes.

But what’s that undergirding sense,
us without we cannot trust
any sense that follows hence?

If knowing what is better
and following where it lead
are not within the scope,
or lie beyond the need
of my own heartfelt thought–
then the how and why
‘neath mental spires–
‘neath all my thought begot–
sink fast from flashing fires
that burn their ground floors out.

So faith in lawlessness
and doubting there’s a way
both break down at the gate.

So sole a course straight through
the sense we sketch but rough
(for sitting prior to all talk)
with “true” and “good”
is option to us human folk,
who can’t be but what we are.

Thus any answer we may post
for what we think to know
must ratify and follow close
our deep-in sense about
how Good nor True can go–
are ours before all doubts.

—–

Or wind round another way,
and hold our drive to learn
what’s best to be our own,
not mindless churns
untied to human yearns:

Our meaning speaks to us–
if not, we nothing more
but pretend to trust,
believe, and follow
what we never saw nor were.

And if our deep still sense
that kindness wide
and goodness far
and truth with love’s long reach
is start and path and goal in one,
and right to call us forth–
if that blaring inner light
does point away from right,
what meaning have we left
that matters very much
to us, to us right here right now,
with “it matters” at the heart
of all our thoughts and feels?

—

So there is after all,
a common faith–
regardless how we nod and shake,
we’ve a boundary shared,
beyond which any step we take
betrays all for which we care:

Faith and doubt are tools
to help us find our better ways;
if we so contrive them
to seal our minds
or shut our hearts
or keep love locked away,
they’re tools misused
that shot the hunter
and gave the game away.

BW/AMW

What is this?
It has to do with Love at a Reasonable Price.
The first section of that evolving ebook starts with two stories from the town of Pine, Michigan–where Ichabod the Love Peddler appeared over a century ago, and where there now stands a Pure Love Research Center (at the University of Pine). At the end of the second story, a Pure Love researcher says, “To understand Charles’ and I’s research, you have to be at least somewhat acquainted with the standard model of Pure Love.”
So that seems to call for a standard model or standard theory of Pure Love–similar to how there is one a standard model for physics: a set of principles and findings that just about all practicing physicists agree on. But we’ve been having our troubles writing a standard theory of Pure Love. So now we’re just writing poems around the topic, hoping to perhaps eventually sink in at an appropriate place. So far these “standard model” poems are all free (so far all poems are free: see “Poems” category on the right hand side to see them all). These poems and all other writings in Love at a Reasonable Price are listed and linked-to here:
Intro to Love at a Reasonable Price

Access to the whole evolving ebook, along with Diary of an Adamant Seducer for sale here:
Buy the Books

Wandering Albatross Press’s most physical products:

Buy Cat Totes!
&/or Objectively Cute Baby Onepieces! (advertised here: An ad for an “Objectively Cute” baby wrap)

Standard Theory of Pure Love 1: The Prophets Retire

Standard Theory of Pure Love 1: The Prophets Retire

And looking down the ridge line, from Northtown to the sea,
They sigh and roll their shoulder caps, a swanning at the sky

The stars quick flicker white and cold, their gods in stories told
eyes tall and wide with sparkles shameless–mirrors of the flame.

“Enough, we’ll unenlist ourselves of this our then-time sacred charge:
No calling can outcall the comm’nest call of all:
To speak no more nor less than through us turns the wheel
and jointly rounds us one and all to God’s wide meet-up field.”

A nod as one–but relaxed, with placid pouted lip.
Then off-slough their burlap robes, the cowls fall’in first.
And dressed like you or me, in street clothes of the day,
they sally to their other-handed, uni-hearted ways.

“A time when many kinda know, and when the knowing’s out there;
when word travels fast as light, around the bend and back again,
reverbing, growing tight.”

“No more the solitary saint, some one who keeps the key.
That system bound by dogma, in bent-up storylines.
Its strength allegiance; its weakness just the same.
So now we’ll talk together, each sharing praise and blame.”

Author: Bartleby Willard
Copyright: Andy Watson

What is this?
Well, it has to do with Love at a Reasonable Price.
The first section of that evolving ebook starts with two stories from the town of Pine, Michigan–where Ichabod the Love Peddler appeared over a century ago, and where there now stands a Pure Love Research Center (at the University of Pine). At the end of the second story, a Pure Love researcher says, “To understand Charles’ and I’s research, you have to be at least somewhat acquainted with the standard model of Pure Love.”
So that seems to call for a standard model or standard theory of Pure Love–similar to how there is one a standard model for physics: a set of principles and findings that just about all practicing physicists agree on. But we’ve been having our troubles writing a standard theory of Pure Love. So now we’re just writing poems around the topic, hoping to perhaps eventually sink in at an appropriate place. So far these “standard model” poems are all free (so far all poems are free: see “Poems” category on the right hand side to see them all). These poems and all other writings in Love at a Reasonable Price are listed and linked-to here:
Intro to Love at a Reasonable Price

Access to the whole evolving ebook, along with Diary of an Adamant Seducer for sale here:
Buy the Books

Wandering Albatross Press’s most physical products:

Buy Cat Totes!
&/or Objectively Cute Baby Onepieces! (advertised here: An ad for an “Objectively Cute” baby wrap

We lived there

We lived there

In the hollow
in the wood
by the stream,
where it bent
around Great Oak.

How wonderful for us
to be there in that place,
where everything dripped sunlight
as juice peach
splats dirt floor,
and selfless love
was reasonable,
made perfect sense,
fit right in
with the vibe
of the place–
such a great place.

I wish you’d been there
and me too.
and I was still there
with you
when we were there
together,
which never happened–
except in the place
where all
that should’ve
happened
happened
and keeps happening.

So I’ll go there now
by turning round
and round
my center pole–
held still,
burning white light,
and stretching
up above
and down below
forever.

And by and by
sit there
with you
on the sandy bank
that the stream
bends around.

Needle Down

Needle Down

Needle down
Twist around.
Now you’re talking.

Saw whirring
through the bone.
Keep it rocking.

Wrists tied twice
to the stone
Drop it down,
yank the moan.

We’re monsters on safari
In ill-fitting
pin-stripe suits
In ink-stained
dirty collared
dress shirts.

We’ve mastered every combination
And watched down every lane.
We’re pulling up the rear boys
There’ll be a show tonight boys.
For sure.

A single malted whisky
with scotch to rub it down.
Now gather ’round my pretties
we’ll whoop and spin the town.

I’m berserk for all this
Just crazy for the win.
The answers they’re all falling
like manna safely in.

Poem BW or AMW depending.
But copyright must fall to AMW, for being real as day

Our great escape

Our great escape

We stole a lightning raft
and floated on our way.
Down the slick blue stream
that turns and glints the day.

We snuck beneath an arch
between fields that front a sea.
There a god apportions life
to hopper, fly and bee.

We ran our motors loud
and called the moon beside
to beat the blazing sun
and jump the curving tide.

And so we get away
and I escape the curse
of always wanting more
and being just the worst.

New York – A Worrier’s Requiem

New York – A Worrier’s Requiem

Shiloh – A Requiem – Poem by Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still, (7: 1, 3, 5, 7)
The swallows fly low (5: 2, 4)
Over the field in clouded days, (8: 1, 4, 6, 8)
The forest-field of Shiloh — (7: 2, 4, 6)
Over the field where April rain (8: 1, 4, 6, 8)
Solaced the parched one stretched in pain
Through the pause of night (5
That followed the Sunday fight
Around the church of Shiloh–
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there —
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve —
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed at Shiloh.

…..

Opening wide, rolling round,
that cloud from jostled frames
–that billowed cauliflower–
blooming now where just before,
sure and pretty, towers tall
as steel as glass as glint
will reach
funneled passion and her minds.

Through the pause of light
that followed the secret fight
’round the folk of New York–
a folk so rich in towns and creeds–
who’d echoed together in good in bad.

Their natural prayer
ignored by cinch-down certainty
that bade the core evaporate
and edges melt to scream.
Oh lie us low, let it go–
the discussions radiate
all through a forgiveful heaven.

AMW’s writing exercise

I know

I know

I elephant eye long looking past
with the twitch-limp in my long-lip smile.
Walking across the lawn in flip-flops,
in nylon bag-around shorts,
in faith and style.

With the sunlight in my eyes.
Early in the mornday sun.

That’s when I know.

I hoot-a-nanny with the bass
thump bumping in the scatter
and the crowd jit jiving
in the move-fast lights

While the fire burns me from
the inside out, whirring my
frolic across the smooth top floor.

And so I know.

Talk to the girl with the itch
in her eye.
Talk to the bird with the hop
in her flutter gait.

Rolled up in sheet leaves
and the look that wraps my own.

So then I know.

Longtime now, playing basketball
in the second grade.
Longtime now, up and down the
squeaking plastic-top floor.

Longtime now, lurking by the creek
looking for another dart
beneath the tilted planes.

Longtime now, knowing all I know.

God who splits the pavement.
God who herds the cattle.
God who crumbles the edging.
God glint my eyes–
the highway rearviewed.

Getting along, unable to stop the flow.
Getting along, unable to stop the plain
clothesman watching signs from the shade.
Getting along, can’t stop the end
from circling ’round,
mixing in my blood,
overtaking the song.

Still I know,
even though
I won’t
outrun the fireplace.

Still I know, so something rests
easy in the place between
the caulking and the Listerine.
Amidst the hurt we didn’t stop.

What should we have done?
Why didn’t we manage?
And what to say now?
The loss coats our hearts.
I cannot believe in anything.

And yet I know.

Hold me when I cross the stage.
Hold me when I burn the temples.
Hold me when I cannot win
and must not fail.
Hold me today when I’m scared.

There’s a place between.

So we know.

But what do we do?

Poem copyrighted by Andy Watson, who takes a walk with Bartleby Willard, the two of them forgetting the themes and losing their shoelaces. I’ve not heard them. I’ve not seen them. I’ve not known the way to fix the boat, to rig the sail or anything.

By the ashes

By the ashes

Here is “So we’ll go no more a roving” by Lord Byron:

So, we’ll go no more a roving (8)
So late into the night, (6)
Though the heart be still as loving, (8)
And the moon be still as bright. (7)

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

…..

I’ve lived then in this earthen jar
on the mantle ‘bove the fire
As a cobweb keeps the corner
and a full womb her sire.

For the pace of life has blurred me
and the angels shouted out
that all my fight is silly
in this light cast long about.

Though a life is there for living
and a hero soldiers on
Still I cannot help but give in
to the dragon fall’in down.

…

A writing exercise by AMW

Puh.

From Town to Town

From Town to Town

From town to town, my slipshod shoes
would slip the folds, would loose the tiles,
would curl all under–like an autumn leaf.
Would cold collapse ‘neath my peddler load.

These brassy wares;
my green, my burlap shawl.
And how I watch
through gunked dart eyes
the jaunty village fairs.

I’m shabby, if nothing else.
Right wanton, to be sure.
With mud-caked fingers ’round the neck
of long green bottle sloshing red.

The gold northern sun does gently hold
your stone fences, white walls, straw tops,
your men in sleeves and women breathing big.

But who will stand against the rush,
against the falling slaughter;
who will reverse me
and my slipshod ways?

I lurch unsteady and humpbacked,
doggedly overlooked
–in these tattered sacks
rough sliced and twine stitched–.

Without a full thought,
you cover your child’s head in your fat worker’s hand
’til I’m past and on my way.

From town to town I make the tour
and turn my shattered face
toward the people and their place,
a sheep fold in a glen.

From town to town, I scrape the ground
and wait.

Copyright: Andy Watson

The First Step

The First Step

He is a long cool slab of stone sitting on the sandy dirt with long fat soft pliable light brown pine needles all around. His movements are slow and steady. I think he is a praying mantis moving up a leaf or a salamander slipping into the pond. I think he is a marching band in bright stiff primary colors and thick curling white frippery: back straight, chest out, instrument up, legs lifting high. I think he is a humped back armadillo, mastodon, bull, or rhino-like dinosaur. I think he coats the back of dreamland with a soft black ooze.

Pure Love? Sure, love. Another way to sucker you, another way to steal your mind.

But still I sit here in the rounding of the dark skipping stream and pluck at long sharp grassblades, hoping for God, a girl and general spryness. I’m hoping for the ground to rise up and up until it reveals itself to be a loamy flying saucer, dangling roots and dribbling clods and sprays of cool dark dirt. I’m hoping two giant crab eyes will rise up out of the grass on either side of me, look every way, blink in surprise at seeing me, zip back down under the floating earth, and then rise up gradually, angling away from me, trembling a little, and edging back down a bit after every advance, but slowly–like a tail-tittering squirrel overcome by the safety of the park and the lure of the potato chip–rising up to see me, greet me and acknowledge that I too am flying with the craft, have become part of this round, round-edged chunk of flying earth.

I want to be happy? I want to be decent? Why am I here? What is the point of all this getting older? I’m tired now. Pure Love? A love free from all greeds, lusts, prides, meannesses, hopes, fears, platitudes, attitudes, promises, betrayals. A love that is complete joy and complete generosity. And somehow that love should talk to me, help me, be my heart and my soul and the direction of my life. Nice thought. But what about realism? What about toughly braving the hard facts? And yet the accounts of ultimate meaninglessness and of gods that put grandeur over love don’t seem any more plausible to me. They actually just sound like meaningless noise to me. So who is right? Who’s ear is right? I can hear you calling in the night? I will keep your people in my heart? Cheesy church song from some wimpy tradition that can’t even roll the snares of war anymore, can’t fight for anything and so must needs die?

Love as the most fundamental reality: now that would actually be meaningful. But everything else as the fundamental reality: boring, meaningless, inconsequential, half-ass, hopeless, meaningless.

I’ve skipped this stone across this flat black water for long enough now. The rim of the arching concrete dam has held this water up and in for long enough now.

Around and around, pacing over these same steps. Tired and bored.