The One God is Mysterious

[sombrero-queen.livejournal.com]

by Frank X. Gaspar

from an illustration of Babylonian sculpture

The king and his queen are feasting.
They recline, sumptuously, on long divans
and are attended by naked servants. They
can have anything they want, this much is
clear, and I believe they have been having
sex with one another and with the servants.
Why wouldn't they? Who among the servants
would not be honored to help? And it's Babylon
after all, and doesn't Babylon exist in your
memory? Isn't Babylon the clear rumbling
of your heart at ease with its every craving--
not the way it is now, fenced off with spiked wire
and old pipes, with signs telling the pedestrians
to beware:  the litter, the old cans rusting. No,
this is my own memory of excess and extravagance,
of abandonment to the weight of everything
that pulls me down to ruin, those same ticks
and voices that lift me up and fill me with breath.
And don't you want to drink the breath of your
beloved? And his beloved? And her beloved?
You see how it goes. The One God is mysterious
and He has made me crazy. Maybe I am the king
or the queen. Or one of those sculpted figures
that bend so sweetly toward them, so graceful,
so finely formed and desirable in every way.
I remember being desired like that, and desiring
like that also. And I remember my heart in its deep
voice, commanding. Now that my common neighborhood
is tucked in for the night, the cars parked in the driveways,
the blinds drawn and everyone's drapes closed and the garage
doors locked, I can breathe easier. Now, in Babylon,
you see what is possible. The queen and her king are
dining, forever, in a gray frieze, but even so, they make
a fire in us, they free the ache from my shoulders,
they make every dark wish lie down with every bright wish,
they bring a great comfort to the harried in this land.

(no subject)

[projectmatt.livejournal.com]

MOUNTAIN
by, Matthew Rohrer


Mountain I’m sorry I gave

away your secret, sorry

I can’t dissemble

even to the very young,

I am opened completely,

ripped off of my hinges, I

get nervous even dreaming.( Read more... )

Walt Whitman

[dragonpaws.livejournal.com]

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson

	done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the

	themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Hello, all. I would like to ask a favor of you. I'm a graduate student in psychology studying self-transcendence, which is a state in which self-consciousness disappears and the individual feels a great sense of unity with others/the cosmos/nature/God/etc. As part of my project, I am trying to develop a way to measure self-transcendence in others as it changes from moment to moment. I would like to do this by assembling a collection of quotations and exerpts from poetry and prose that describe self-transcendent states. If you are interested in helping me, you can reply to this post or email me at dragonpaws at gmail dot com with exerpts from poetry that vividly describe an experience where the sense of self is lost and one feels at one with the world. In my experience, these passages are some of the most beautiful and moving writing in the world, so I feel this request is appropriate to this community. If it is not, I apologize and will remove it.

Thank you very much for any help you are willing to give.