Jé Maverick » Poetry

Prose Poem

Jé Maverick — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 14:20:28 +0000

It has been seen in dreams: death is to swim beneath water that has an impenetrable surface, facing upwards, an open parachute trailing behind like a submerged hurricane. The movements of all other beings in the afterlife are eased by flow: I am tasked with fighting against drag and current for eternity.

A Lithe Salmon Flashes Skywards

You, admiring the anemones and pincered beasts of the shallows, never look down upon my craving face; my wails cannot rise as even small bubbles through the immersion. I will watch you walk away from the shoreline in a perpetual loop, ever yearning to flash skywards into your thin air like a lithe salmon.

The Hands Of All Gods

Jé Maverick — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 12:09:36 +0000

The hands of all gods are wringing:

they have been emptied of love.

Misunderstood, it has been laid down.

We must gather it to ourselves.

We must turn to others and surrender

all love we guarded from the world.

The great worship is each for the other;

the great praise is one circle

of given,

and received.

With Small Hands I Give Great Things

Love Is My Favorite Gulag

Jé Maverick — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 18:58:22 +0000

The mapping of flaw has been completed. The shape of my name inherits the angles and contours of infamy. It can barb a tongue if uttered in certain quarters. It can be used as a flamethrower, can be a bottle filled with rags and propane and thrown against an ear. My name can glaze eyes with the longing for an intimate jihad.

These are The Days Of Wine And Crisis. I am synonymous with trauma; have become the execrable famine of morality that has seeped into the heart of humankind; I am the poster boy for all Huns. I am beyond salvation; prayer and atonement are forbidden in my name; I have become the wild accomplice of all random doom.

Love is my favorite gulag.

A Lover, Loving

Jé Maverick — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 13:27:56 +0000

To make love in the sands of Persia

is not to know the desert:

to love is to grip at smoke;

to clutch at air.

A lover, loving, knows nothing

of the history of love

or of love's future: it is to cradle

water for an insatiable thirst

in the palms: to quench

a lifetime in each instant.

Leonard Cohen - The Tower Of Song

A Visit From St. Nicholas

Jé Maverick — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 14:59:27 +0000

As a bit of a Christmas treat, I thought I would post Clement Clark Moore's fabulous poem for all to enjoy.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

— Clement Clark Moore