Physics as Poetry

 Physics as Poetry  and

 Toward a

Lovers Of Wisdom,  the Poetry and Lyrics Blog

L. Edgar Otto    Thursday, May 09, 2013

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Perhaps love is hard to write about not because it has been so overdone, generations tired of the skylarky songs, so harder to discover something new or a new way to say it- but because it is far so simple if reduced to animal humor and behavior which seems to be the inevitable end to interpretations and innuendos in art as we go to the market place of emotions and memories a the centering in our brain stems where dreams churn and symbols are half real in its own hard to write perfections as sonnets, limericks, fishy miters and Easter Bonnets...

How much have our dreams enjoyed the assumptions of past generations that the media, all we had in the struggle with propaganda to suggest how we might live...what else might we have written or seen beyond the expediency of war?  Each generation wants its children's books while there are perfectly good classical children's books in that universal language before the spoken word-  My grandmother spoke of the Titanic as if current news from a decade past- wait! as we dance again in step have we not continued that great prelude for tales of all such maiden voyages?  Some symbols remain unsinkable.

Watching Old WWII Movies

L. Edgar Otto  beginning: Wednesday, 08 May, 2013

I bit her jug a fore our Jitter bug

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She squirmed and housed my sperm inside her rug

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=   14 lines ten heartbeats, loops, leave the dance, wall flowers, stepping on toes formalized as revolution - but can the eagle use its talons otherwise or the hummingbird sip honey that will make brittle its beak?

The logic of the form and lines are not that distant from our crude idea on string theory or physics in the clouds only of sacred geometry...the couplets joint again pregnant in the possibilities and the pauses, the patterns duplicate or merge heterosine radio waves and heterotic strings in conjugation in flat cold geometry of Euclid of which all this while interesting will pass into a new and vital age of poetry.  One obviously more in line with our complexity of biology.

Themes and Title Ideas as if for the Rascal Booklet of Poems (if I have the time or inclination to write them)

*2  The Scrawny Mask Rat was a Rascal

*3  As the Raven Flies to Far Rock'a'bye from Ground Zero

*4  The Moon Following Me Out of Each Others Sight

*5 Long the Hike to Kierkegaard, Pipe Dream in Dijon at Night

*6  Sun Grows Wood, Wood Makes Fire, I Shan't Get Home Tonight

*7 I Shall not be Converted to Your Faith thru My Stolen  Dreams

*8 Only the Gods and Angels are Neither Created nor Destroyed My Clay Idols

*9 Planting Spaghetti in My Zen Rock Garden (Form, the small pond eating turtle, as Rascal dines on small frogs

*10 The Onion's Petals Unfold, Chicago from Petunia to Rose

*11 Sugar Dominoes Stood On End, Skyscrapers and Tombstones

*12 Far From Our Brain Stems, Toxic Rivers to the Salting Sea

*13 When the Sound was Calm and the Littoral Fresh

*14 Flight thru the Air with the Greatest of Ease without a Net

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Sonnet Span in Depth as Mood yet Down to Earth

as if Accidental Logic of the Rhymes for Emphasis or Parallel Remembering Here, if the Reader Supplies

in Freer Verse Form of which Thoughts Perhaps Buried deep remain in an Aether of Intelligibility. Our rhymes in shifting rhythm, our lives run in parallels,  while once our journey beings- strong on our tongues shared alliteration.

A Jaguar without Spots

L. Edgar Otto    08 May, 2013

What your life was I cannot see

but it must have had its compensations

The whole game in risk of losing wars

or years of peace after invasions

No matter what the screen play script

your walk alone alive sensations

Free to live far from evil alien eyes

Heaven or hell's invisible to anticipations

My old shawled lady taking off her closes

many layers, rust flush bowls growing rotten

Imprints your aura as you strip dancing deep

in polka dots, calicoes, and other feline cotton

My head on the cold iron lizard Singer sew

Gravity fallen breasts, for her thrift store ill gotten

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Playing Opossum for the Landlord

L. Edgar Otto    Wednesday, 08 May, 2013

The plums, apple, blackberry bushes along

the bob wire fence of old Yow's cow pasture

By sesame street the kids called broken toy road

the chocolate not rub off our waving snake oil pastor

Rabbit tobacco, cheap wine, deep down Bourbon street Saturday night special sickle cell disaster

The Opossum rummages in my attic, I do not think it more than house creak wind, a fallen branch, acorn

Or black snake dropping down in its climb for eggs

once an old barn and drafty, weathered, worn

Slavery without a master, scarecrow circling crows

donned the hole frayed suit of a gentleman here born

I yell up who's there, broomstick thump the ceiling

His yellow rain drips down my eyes, scent revealing

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*2  The Scrawny Mask Rat was a Rascal

Too steep to fall, a ledge, chain fence and me

a scrawny bear sneaks bugler dark stops trapped

On circuits made so high a fall to flee

Hello, I said, the river's rage not mapped

By lights turned on passers-by walk bridge I camped

not seen, wore dark, made love, bar close, surprised

I dare not intervene one night her fight his stamp

his fist, her kiss, I knew, their dance, my eyes

As well, my rascal's ritual surmised

I made him fat, I shared, my sub-sandwich

Outside,  two months, to think, genomes, her cries

her brain, so young, to die, tumor, off switch

Amazed the Crazed wino invades my home

Rascal, sleeping bag, steals his wine, spoor foams

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 Footnote:  I imagine if I participate with the toad poets I should make a separate poetry only blog...we are always caught between chaos and thoughts of perfection- yet the sonnet form with some degrees of free verse freedom between the raw jazz of a folksy Shakespeare and Goethe's or Wagner's mature art.  I stand more with Whitman toward the center, yet I find the form, 14 lines or so, pretty much a good span of lines with the discipline of condensing in the range of a mood enough to say.  The mood or theme goes a above or asks a question about language- the sonnet particularly resonating with English as a form and the Logic of it all in dramatic reversals itself a free verse situation between residual chaos and impossible Godlike perfection.

So I give some examples which would have continued on this prelude them in a poem for a book of them- while I come to realize I have been on many walks, as free perhaps as a rolling stone can be.  But what is saved while the wait for a ride or the long night of trudging on alone?  Perhaps the poetic mood as a cloudy memory where if I take the time to take a breath from living I might understand from a higher perspective that periods of life walks may be past but not forgotten, that there was something alive then in the dream of the time and still alive those trials, angles and scribbles, love letters by the endless checky shores in the sand.

Yet, not only am I writing from lost or forgotten poems that intrude upon the present from the past as if encoded in mere quantum light changing the key to its reading- but more as I have pondered this project by what might be a small series of poems from the prelude I find each a prelude as it seems such still unwritten works intrude also from the future to the now.  Being aware of things within us does not need to change what we are or can be as creators of such arts that shared or in lonely isolation is healing life arising anew.  Then maybe we may see each other a little more truly.  The creative life flirts with its prolog in the music we write together, the script and soundtracks of and for each other.

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Magician's Choice and Riddles Still Confuse You

(What is your philosophy? the Trickster asked, putting you on the spot, your pencil marks a question or two out of step, then the graded test- sometimes on the curve...)

To live is also to be frozen in the moment that seems to have no depth.  The eutactic stars unfold and bind together in their doubling.  Love and Wisdom, Love a center for philosophy or in our work'a'day slumber our stellated or truncated dreams enfold our world and others against our own created nothingness. Far from equilibrium, some secret place in the forest in the brush fires and ages iced over outside the rainbow we find the indifferent universe its comforts cold, triage to those caught in but pictures of waves that jumbles to our eyes what we see on the rivers reflected clouds of dreams, or simulated storms of shadow beasts and rumors- the cosmos without love as we evolve technique and sirens, breaking thru ice, the emergency paramedics know- Nothing cold can be declared dead.

When you rise to know it all in intimate totality, life in fall or flow ever faster its widening span your frost bitten melting crystal dreams will know me, for in this lesser world of earthly prayers I have heard them in your songs...

Write then in the epilog, the dedications and prefaces, apologies fall there in the flower speak anthologies, for when does the book of poetry end short of sphere's end?  I close only to begin again a greater journey so say it closed but now it seems pointless to say it over and over again.  Think not your efforts are of little worth, for even the grunts and yelps, barbaric in self reflection or trite, are miracles compared against the nothingness.  Are portals that travel in the utmost mote of a moment or is freedom as we fly above the sky…

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 (note posting from library as replies to amy did not show up via phone... the ideas said are in here somewhere)