Read an Excerpt
Truth Serum
By Dorothy Neumann iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2014 Dorothy Neumann
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-2866-6
CHAPTER 1
Of Lonely Dawns
Early Poems
1963-1970
"For she talked to me about ...
childhood, mine and her own,
and about those years ... when
the capacity for love, in its
first youth, embraces not only
both sexes, but all and everything,
sensuous and spiritual,
and endows all things with a
spell of love and ... an ease of
transformation such as in later
years comes again only to a
chosen few and to poets."
-Herman Hesse
To A.A.
I have often wondered
why this summer's day
could not remain
among the poplars and the evergreens,
and why i could not stay in this place,
unknown and unchallenged by another,
from which i know not where i go
nor want to know -
a place to stay with nothing to run from,
nor run to, a place to sit
and occasionally pick a dandelion
charming, but interfering
with the quiet flow of green that surrounds;
petal upon petal, blade upon blade beckons
and teasing the breeze to fondle,
i sometimes even dare to touch them
for they like that;
they offer tempting hours,
for in touching their naivete,
i feel the artless hour -
the touch that moves the time:
you have joined me,
for you can bear
the closeness of the clouds
gently bumping the unseen air,
and freely nudging at the stillness;
for some the dignity is too quiet, but you belong.
you belong ...
thank you, ee
Life
is a circular (in
termeshed maze) of
barbed wire through which
noone escapes:
'till Father
DEATH
clip
s,
when jimmyandbobbyanddick were kids
they lived on thesameblock
(eighty thoid street)
they all joinedhands
and flew a kite:
but
jimmy was white
bobby was black
and dick - well he looked kinda funny -
now the kids arn't kids anymore
(they're always fighting
'cause they can't find that nice kite)
Prophecy
the young woman
stared in the middle
of the (silently crushing)
darkoaked hallway;
white (unknown)
white (unfelt)
white (silent) tears
were wrapped in wondernandwhy;
her frightened tears wrangled why -
the (silent door) closed
(merely whimpering) ...
washington square
tender minds lost for an afternoon:
seeking some sweet mysterious antidote
for this mingling pure dilemma --
the intricate myth of autumn,
perhaps lost, perhaps caught
in one lean and splintered day;
such sacred anxiety of love, but vacant:
leaves and grass
so easily locked in towering cement,
a friend, just one, to pour some peace,
to wait one hour, just one;
accurately wandering in such a home:
some finding, but throwing away,
others not, but loving the search --
remembering the last pierced moment
perishing in some profane dream, and
impressed in the casual
tormenting slip of immortal love --
and who dares alter this mystery;
for in this labyrinth of petaled dreams
lies all suns of a sun of truth --
the serene smile of some man immortal,
supremely drawing margins on
limitless sky,
merely asking the sky to love him ...
Sisyphus
in the subdued dusk of quiet
this gatherer of water for the sea
struggles in his solitude,
bound by the shred
of some known lie,
yet paralyzed
in the shadow
of a smile,
a whisper of peace
and a promise
so silently confirmed
in the dark
of subtracted conversation; hoping for some
naked recognition,
this fool merely
watches the waves
unwrap and envelop
this gift -
and laughingly
run
away ...
Graduation '65
black bits of glass glistening in the rain-
no longer can you saunter under willows
and juggle your worlds of falsity and conceit;
no longer can you linger in the lulls
of intellectual content and smile;
you are a princess perhaps-
charmed by a village arch,
pleased with the clatter of a carriage ride,
captured in the vibrating elegance
of a velvet gown, an opening night
and a luminous bubble of champagne;
you are a child perhaps -
longing for something to explore, conquer,
stifled by a world of reason you cannot find,
you are a child -
muttering whispers of peace and waiting,
clutching wishes, worn by the wait,
puzzled by the decayed flatness
of an opportunity you were promised,
frightened by the cheerless gratitude
of those who have tasted
the acidity of success, terrified
that you perhaps might join
the dank routine of suffocation and alone;
you are a fool perhaps-
confident that paragons of perfection
can be formed from the young palsied minds
of spiritual neglect and poverty;
you are a fool - testing the moistness of a love
but fearing pride to be conceit;
princess, child, fool - lacking a sheepskin for a goal,
and wondering if yourself is quite enough to smile for ...
a winter's night
the salient groans of bilious cigarette ashes
are conquered by splenetic flakes of snow,
so freefully dismissing the sombre languor of one day
with silence; with and by such stillness,
for this silent strain, a scabrous womb of white
envelops the limpid shadows of a memory
and prophecy of dream:
for with your blithe fingers have I travelled to far-off lands
and with you have I not spoken
of a quite (impossible) rendezvous
behind closed doors of sleep
where in the corners secretly unfolds
your simple and fascinating presence:
the evening suns and scents of cool earth
become reflected in soft tresses
(gently lying) - infusing springs of wine
into the deserts of flesh lying frozen
(and quite buried) in the white of moving lost time:
and your unique eyes retain freshly falling,
instantly melting flakes of crippling dreams,
limping in the shadows of a celebration:
a once smile; a sometimes lonely touch;
for can you possibly imagine
how much of me you are
and how your smile so instantly creates spring
with the ease of night caressing sleep-
hiding in nature's white womb and wandering home
of eternal, homeless fear.
a night: vacation
sipping to secure the day,
approve it, or disapprove
or cancel it as gone
when the wind blows ...
it is late -
the time has come to listen to existence
stripped to breathing,
subtracted sounds
yet binding, binding in our breath;
the word
crumbles into silence
and a blush,
while cringing in the light
of intense glance
and such obvious love -
the word hides itself:
as a time for tomorrow
crawls into a quiet corner
persuading itself to sleep ...
Strayed Reveler: Revisited:
For Pope Francis
"But when we try to erect finalities, we fall into the
worst heresy of all - idolatry!"
-Bishop Pike
the constricted mangled fingers
of audacious dawn begin their daily
gripping of a ship's haunting groan
for a bed ...
and a man, entombed and lacquered,
strolls among his misted glass caves,
imprisoned by luminous square walls
that shout of splendrous rectitude,
that scream of man's magnificent attempts
at finality, striving -
searching for the supposed limit,
and always, always looking;
he glances at a wooden doorway,
whittled and worn from the wind and wetness
and scarcely notices a slouched,
slumped form, hidden in the mist,
whittled and weary by the stagnant stench
of having been forgotten,
by the coldness of a damp, cemented bed.
one form, two forms, three, four
mourning the rancor of each other,
performing their ceremonial pantomime
with glowering jowls and gritted mouth,
barely conquering their futile efforts
at yawning and standing up,
breathing in the polluted Bowery air,
with an unwilling wheez and sigh,
things, resembling a man, coughing,
overshadowed by the gritting of cold engines
being forced to start their journey
of return and retreat,
scorned by the honking horns
of impatience.
dismissing and right-turning,
this dreamer resumes his stroll,
rambling through the twisting
endless walls of confinement,
a pause, a wait,
a breathing in and stumbling,
and up the church's steps, he enters.
outstanding in his loneliness,
he views the aging shepherds,
entombed in paint-peeling walls,
cracking marble, and the stuffy pores
of wooden pews,
creaking from the force
of too much sleep and human pressure,
resounding echoes of scourging doubts
shouting in their last breath
to be heard and sanctioned
in a patriotic plea for human right.
shepherds: barred from the warmth
of flesh, turning colder in the years,
chanting in honor of marble statues
on whose faces can be seen
an occasional flicker of a cold candle.
shepherds: hiding behind their ceremonial robes
of pretension - the medieval condemnation of their flock.
and so the lambs wander,
left behind in the journey,
crying for a leader
who understands their warmth
and so the lambs pursue -
revolving and rambling through the caves,
rambling and returning to the cold fire
of a vigil candle,
obsessed with a need
for a peaceful pasture of Camelot,
and tortured that it possibly has been missed;
this man, this dreamer
must ride with the seasons -
sometimes looming in the shadows
of Yahweh, mourning the dried blood
from the rotting, wooden cross,
beating himself, and resting
in a rocking chair of humility,
but falling asleep from the stupor
of a rocking monotony
that pursues a youthful prey
with unmoving, suffocating promises
of Christian nobility.
a sinless Camelot is missed:
and whispering behind the silent fold
of confessional drape -
comrade, brother, comrade, brother,
feebly whispering insincere apologies
for being so very weak,
so very human - so very real ...
a Camelot gone, a Camelot to come
and this believer seeks to open
the musty books of blind belief
fearing his boldness and drive
for an answer, promised by himself this time -
the new shepherd -
but no mercy is shown to him
so the dreamer turns and makes his exit,
sent on his way by the clanging clamor
of heavy metal doors, closing....
II
as when a man strives to frame his own universe
to claim his own moon and set of stars,
to till the soil of Calvary
allowing the roots to finally breathe the fresh air
made possible by the probing ...
as when the somber horizon
resumes its humble function
of breathing in, very deeply and quietly
the sounds and sights of day
confident that it will again,
very gently,
nudge the great sun from its womb:
a Camelot arrives -
in the very search,
in the fear of the search,
as when a man attempts to choose
between a blanket of pure snow
and the pulse of life beneath,
and which is more real,
the seen or the unseen,
and which is more beautiful;
as when attempts to choose
between a Friday and an Easter morn,
and does not want to choose ...
III
the constricted mangled fingers
of audacious dawn tighten their grip,
enveloping this reveler in his city:
shepherds, abandoning and distant,
Popish men, some resentfully smirking
in their pious greed,
and God lying still in a golden case:
the lambs scattering and starving,
pondering this new and wondrous role:
this noble man called "shepherd"
this suffering man called "Christian"
and God remains not dead, but hidden.
Fantastic Friendship
someone else's smile
illumines the winged horse of time
tracing brief, deceptive rainbows
that hold bright fruits and berries
and moons that won't be trampled on;
when it all begins to fade,
the memory invades and eludes
like water in a leaf-cup:
I shall cover you with leaves
like children seeking a cloth of gold
and hiding each other
while the velvet rain dissolves the sun;
you shall gather cinnamon and thyme,
emeralds and clove -
like children, trading armfuls of sand
and building each other's castle
secured from the haunting seas;
we shall clutch each other
and grasp the sun
so it can't fly.
To G.
the drone of too many televisions
multiplied by evenings of cigarette ashes
that are only good for stale memories
of all the nights before ...
seeking to touch, and you ran from me
into your secret hideaway of sleep ...
you have no excuse for your defense,
and I won't ask for any -
i seek only your forgiveness
for my wanting to hold your beauty
before the jealous dawn
glances for tomorrow in your eyes:
words are not enough ...
so I'll trust you
and remain quiet.
CHAPTER 2
Blue Rain
1970-1976
"such was a poet and shall be and is
who'll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam's architecture with his life; and carve immortal jungles of despair
to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand"
-e.e. cummings
Miracles
a quiet whimpering afternoon
like cat
when he crawled through the underbrush
to reach a light and my arms:
you)
gentle room
it was early in the evening,
and our words moved like leaves
leveled by the blue rain;
I fell down in the wind,
like a crumpled raincoat
tossed into the gentle room that's you,
where saturday nights below the world
have no home -
only rattling ice cubes, clinging,
then melting in my eyes:
you touched me
and it was sunday.
resting
your hands are like the sea ...
flushing my sun-drenched mind
and smashing sand castles
broken with the tide;
softly stroking the beaches of my skin
you leave nothing but a glistening slate
of burgandy to glide on and paint:
I am your empty canvas
as your smile splashes me
with the sun's palette
mixing with the mist of the waves
that are your fingers:
I am you
when the kiss of your touch
encloses me:
perhaps there is a god
that sings to the music of your skin:
your hands are like the sea
airport
an empty return of rain-reflected dreams
shattered with the screech of jet brakes
that turn the smiling travelers
into strangers staring at the dark rain:
some wonder why
they must resume their lives alone
after timeless dream days -
some beg the question
that they really didn't want to leave
the one who waits
at the tearandsmile-filled gates
that people create;
airports are too demanding -
existing for people to say good-bye to dreams
when all they want
is to say good-bye to the rain ...
heritage
i am a broken poem
from those who couldn't listen to the wailing child
fearful of fatherly bishops and marbled mothers,
to the lonely child, huddling behind the wood;
i am a broken dream
to those who wouldn't dream:
from sharpened pencils plotting triangles
and endless masses of chanting,
from blue and gold ribbons of rewards
that couldn't comfort the longing
for wisps of flesh hiding inside the prayer;
I am a broken smile
from those who couldn't smile -
from old ladies
hobbling down the Jesus aisle
with tears of pain praying
to the lightening dripping from the candle;
I am a broken saint
from cities not made for saints -
from dirty crowds of noise and mumbling confessions,
from lost friends
seeking to hear each other's guilt
for trying to touch;
I am a broken god
to those who wouldn't see;
I am a living god,
born from those who couldn't feel ...
quiet poems ...
you think we're just sitting
in the afternoon rooms of conversation
so you can't see the rich soft wanting
as the sun strokes your hair;
i'm trying to listen
but the sun-leaves ruffling on your back
lure me into listening
to the violet voices of your love
that soothe me with gentler hands;
i wish you could feel
the limpid fingers of my mind
touching the piece of light
that rests on your shoulder;
perhaps you think we're just trifling -
so you can't taste the sunlight in our tea,
nor see the quite poem in my eyes ...
sketching....
you were next to me
as i watched your careful roaming
into a pencil-sketching world -
pacing the same, dark, private roads
and deepening the paths
that make sharp-turning so difficult;
your thoughts,
suspended in intersecting lines,
fearful, heavy lines,
building cages of the past
i couldn't understand;
a face took shape, and then some arrows,
pointing to each other and nowhere,
with the time between us going nowhere ...
you were next to me, almost leaning:
perhaps you heard a shred of love
whispering - point to me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Truth Serum by Dorothy Neumann. Copyright © 2014 Dorothy Neumann. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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