Wednesday, April 18, 2007


I've been up late lately
In the belly of a whale
Groping around inky air
Brushing against drunken cousins
Sitting by mistake on a desert war
I took to be a cushion
Cracking my skull on the bruised
Heel of my brother's foot

How ridiculous it sometimes feels
After fishing these waters
And staying up late lately
In the belly of a whale
Groping around inky air
For the Light of the World


Nick said...

AWESOME ! I wonder what turned your mind to fishing and drunken cousins?

It wouldn't have hurt to throw in a snowshoe rabbit bouncing in the center of an isosceles.

Great Poem my friend.

ali said...

Wow. Thank you for authoring and sharing.

I am so intimidated by poetry and have nothing intelligent to say, but I liked reading this.

Les M. Blake said...


Thank you. Poetry is very intimidating and maybe for good reason. Nick (earlier commenter) and I were discussing that very thing and he shared with me this exerpt from German poet Rainer Maria Rilke

"... Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)--they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighbourhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming;

to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn't pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else--); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along overhead and went flying with all the stars,--and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves-- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."

That being said though Ali, you have everything intelligent to say, and we (your readers) enjoy your writing, "poetry" or not.