Poetry

Rose Water Farewell

When we were saying our goodbyes,
A lock of your hair
Fell across your face.

Without a thought, my fingers lifted
Of their own gentle will
To brush it aside.

Then you spoke with both
Your tongue and eyes,
“You were good for me.”

Your words fell like petals
Into my blood. For years,
They scented my heart.


From Sunburst Woman: and other poems about intimacy by Jack Ontair, now available on Amazon.  “Jack Ontair” is the pen name I will be using for a series of books planned to be released over the coming decade.  Sunburst Woman is available in some markets as both a paperback and an ebook.  It other markets, it is available only in ebook form.

Poetry

Inscrutable

Inscrutable Japan?
Imagine an homogeneous people
Separated by customary formality
Trying to find ways around their traditions
And get close.

Inscrutable America?
Imagine a diverse people
Separated by customary informality
Trying to find ways around their “friendliness”
And make their alleged closeness
Real.

Poetry

“Bad Poem! Bad Poem!”

Writing a poem
Is like training a dog.

The poem loves you.
It loves you and it is loyal to you.
It is loyal to you and it wants to obey you – but
But sometimes…

Sometimes it looks at you, cocks its head,
And just does not understand what you
Are telling it to do.

You want it to bark and growl and bite – but
It thinks you want it to fetch,
So it drops your slippers
At the feet of the thief
Who broke into your house.

Or it looks at you, cocks its head,
And is on the edge,
On the very edge
Of understanding you,
Of getting you,
Of getting you at last — but
SQUIRREL!
And it’s off racing in a direction
You never wanted it to go.

I love my poems, but I can get upset,
I can raise my voice.

“Bad poem! Bad poem!
No treat for you!”

Sometimes I yell it, really yell it.
“Bad poem! Bad poem!”

My neighbor is shocked.

She phones me, “You’re cruel! Cruel!
I’ll call the Society on you!”

I tell her, “The American Poet’s Society
Is not the American Humane Society.”

She doesn’t listen.

And neither does the Poet’s Society.
They send their inspector around.
“Sir, we’ve had a report.”

“A what?”

“A report, Sir.”

You still don’t think poems are like doggies?
You still doubt me?

Then explain to me how come,
How come it is always just about then
That my poem drops my very best slippers
Right at the inspector’s feet.

Alison, Eudaimonia, Love, Poetry, Quality of Life, Self-Flourishing, Well Being

A Fool and His Cottage

I sit on my patio,
Watch the man tug the leash,
The dog tug the man,

Both of them passing by
Faster than birdsong
Can shove a cloud
Across the sky.

Continue reading “A Fool and His Cottage”

Love, Poetry

The Mountains are Always Moving

When have you last looked at the clouds
Long enough to see them moving?
The clouds are always moving,
When have you last looked at the clouds?

When have you last looked at the mountains
Long enough to see them moving?
The mountains are always moving,
When have you last looked at the mountains?

When have you last looked at your beloved
Long enough to see them moving?
Your beloved is always moving,
When have you last looked at your beloved?

Creativity, Cultural Change, Cultural Traits, Culture, Emotional Dependency, Ideas, Invention, Love, New Idea, Passion, Poetry, Possessiveness, Romantic Love

The Time When the Universe Began to End

(About a 4 minute read)

It is incredible to me that the Arab and Persian Court Poets lumped possessiveness in with love to arrive at the concept of “romantic love”. But they did. The gods themselves were so disbelieving when they witnessed it that they forgot to wank for six days and six nights, and stars began to fall from the sky. The universe began to end! Nevertheless, it was true. The poets really, honestly did lump possessiveness in with love!

The consequences have been devastating. In effect, the poets created a schizophrenic concept of love.

Continue reading “The Time When the Universe Began to End”

Abuse, Love, Poetry

Each Year the Emerald Grass

(About a 2 minute read)

The red bud’s magenta blossoms
Explode above the emerald grass
That’s sprinkled with bright yellow lions,
And fresh with the afternoon rain.

The dark sky is passing now,
The sun returns along with a breeze
And I can smell the earth,
It smells like her hair.

Come sit with me in the grass, Marysa,
Come sit with me while it’s tall,
And before John cuts it.
Come sit close to me in the grass.

Each year the grass reminds me of her.
Marysa, each year the spring
Reminds me of her.

Her blond hair flowed in curls
Like a waterfall down her back,
And her smile danced
Like sunlight glinting off the ripples
Of a deep lake.

She was your age, Marysa
She was seventeen, and each year
The emerald grass reminds me of her.

Marysa, she did not go willingly
Into her night.

She was forced down
Pushed down
Held down
Choked down in a long ago spring
By a possessive boyfriend
Who strangled her
With an extension cord
For saying she loved a better man.
For saying she loved me.

Come sit with me in the grass, Marysa,
Come sit close to me in the grass.
Each year the grass reminds me of her.
Marysa, each year the emerald grass
Reminds me of her grave.

Creativity, Cultural Change, Cultural Traits, Culture, Human Nature, Ideas, Invention, Life, Literature, Love, Lovers, Memes, New Idea, New Love, Poetry, Quality of Life, Relationships, Romantic Love, Writing

Will Tomorrow Bring a Better Love?

(About a 1 minute read)

Over a thousand years ago, a handful of Persian and Arabic court poets created a new way of looking at one of the seven or eight kinds of love.  Today we still see that kind of love largely through their eyes.  We call it “romantic love”.

Of course romantic love has been around since the first homo sapiens — and most likely even before them.  It’s as old as the yellow grasses of Africa.  But it has not always been seen — it has not always been understood — in the way we see and understand it today.

Here’s a thought for you.  The world is coming together and I think it is likely that quite soon, some group of “poets” will create a new way of looking at love — one suited to a global culture.  But if that wild idea comes true, then hold your breath!  How people see love influences how they love.

If and when a new way of seeing love comes about — will that way be overall a good thing for the world, or a bad thing?

In my opinion, it could go either way.


For more on this topic, see this post.

Art, Creativity, Cultural Change, Cultural Traits, Culture, Human Nature, Ideas, Invention, Life, Literature, Love, Lovers, Memes, New Idea, New Love, Poetry, Relationships, Writing

“East and West”: A Love Story for the 21st Century

(About a 3 minute read)

We all know the story.  Boy meets girl, they fall in love.  They fight.  Then make up.  Then pair off  forever and ever.

Puke me a river of boredom.  The story has been repeated more often than Trump’s stupidity.  Besides, it’s totally outdated.   Totally outdated.

It’s outdated because it is basically a Western story — and we living a world now where “we” are no longer just and only the West.  Think about it.  Isn’t it time for a new kind of love story?  One that combines — that synthesizes — the great motifs of both East and West?

In a way, it does not matter what you and I think the time has come for.  It’s going to happen anyway.  The world is already too globalized for it not to happen.  There will be an East/West love story someday — and probably someday soon.   A story that has elements of the old Western story, but also much that is new to the West.

Why do I think so?

Maybe the easy way to put is this: In the West, you love an individual.  You love what is unique, special about someone. . In other words, you love Jim, and no one will do but Jim.  Or Melinda, etc.  If you, dear reader, are from the West, that’s all common sense, right?

But traditionally, it was different in the East.  Traditionally, you do not love the individual there.  You do not love whatever it is about them that makes them one of a kind.  Instead, you love the universal in someone.  The timeless, unchanging, eternal in them.  The thing they have in common with everyone else.

Don’t believe me?  I had once had a professor who now and then would read traditional Indian love stories to us.  Every hero is the same.  Every heroine is the same.  Story to story to story.  Only the moral of he stories ever changes. Only the moral.

Of course there are Western style love stories all over the East these days — but guess where they came from?

I will wager that someone soon is going to create a true synthesis of East and West when it comes to love stories.  Something that will worldwide replace the individualism of “She’s the only one in the whole world for me” — but also replace the universalism of “He’s interchangeable with any ranking member of his cast or class or clan.”

By the way, look not just for a new story, look even more for a new way of thinking about what it means to love someone.  That will be the real change.  The real synthesis.  Not the plot, but the new vision of what love is.

Just a thought for the day.  Y’all can go back to being sane now.

 

Life, Love, Poetry

À Toi Appartient le Printemps (To You Belongs the Spring)

À toi appartient le printemps
À toi appartient l’été
Pour vous appartient de l’année
Pour moi appartient la soirée
Je souhaite seulement pour voir vous épanouir
Mais ma nuit vient
Et trop tôt
Tu ne seras plus énorme et devant moi.
Et bientôt
Tu seras au-delà de ma vie et de mon amour.

Aller jeune femme!
Allez jeune homme!
Amour!
Vivre!
Danse!
Créer!

Et rire avec moi pour m’aider dans ma mort
Tandis que j’abandonne ce qui me reste
Pour vous et votre avenir


To you belongs the spring
To you belongs the summer
To you belongs the year
To me belongs the evening
I wish only to witness you flourish
But my night comes
And too soon
You will not loom large and before me,
And soon
You will be beyond my life and my love.

Go young woman!
Go young man!
Love!
Live!
Dance!
Create!

And laugh with me to ease my dying
As I surrender what remains to me
To you and your future.