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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395828" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Calamiterror (Section VI)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meandering abroad in the Lincolnshire meadows day<br>Day and day a month perhaps, lying at night lonely,<br>The early September evening administering a mystery,<br>The moon executing its wavering sleight of hand, I sense the<br>Advent of the extraordinary event, the calamiterror,<br>Turn and encounter the mountain descending upon me<br>The moment of terror flashes like dead powder<br>Revealing the features of the mass as mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time like a mountain made of my own shadow<br>Collapsing on me, buries me in my life.<br>It is the future, undermined by present,<br>Failing appallingly backward. I bring<br>The cracked escarpments hurling down, I catch<br>The agonised glint of years in a fall of<br>Rubble, the time clatters down with branches<br>I hear the broken life scream and sob like me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meandering abroad in the Lincolnshire meadows<br>Throw up no mountain featured with self's face.<br>Idling like Hylas beside the Babylonian stream<br>Admire the harp on the willow not the bright mask<br>Suspended through the depths or down<br>Internally and eternally drowned you go. I know.<br>I wandered at night admiring the moonlight mountain<br>The moon had made the monster of my own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see the elements of my growth were drawn<br>Not from the objects that encourage growth,<br>The mountain ornamented with morning tears,<br>The musical tree, the hesitating river,<br>But the distorted mountain of the bowels,<br>The hysterical tree that branches to the arms,<br>The lunar river from the sexual fountain.<br>Feeding on self, the internal cannibal<br>Stands like a gap over its swallowed self.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">5</div><div style="margin:10px 0">About the adult like the solar system<br>Objects revolve, holding the man in place.<br>The abdomen of youth is the balloon world<br>Twisted to fit between the ribs. The Spartan boy<br>Had his own fox-globe hidden at his belly.<br>The youth of sorrow mourns this indigestion,<br>The world swelling in his guts. I vomit.<br>This is the act that 1 now execute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">6</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why walk at night admiring the moonlight mountain,<br>It is to find and feel the real and fine.<br>More may the glittering angle indicate<br>The physiognomy of the divine than thine.<br>Who is the parent of the innumerable plant,<br>It is not the sweet onion hanging at my loin.<br>The green tree springing in the rear of space<br>Follows the Greek sun and not my face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">7</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1 recall how the rosetree sprang out of my breast.<br>I recall the myriads of birds in the cage of my head,<br>I recall my third finger the branch of myrtle,<br>I recall the imprisoned women wailing in my bowels.<br>I was the figure of the Surrealist Exhibition<br>With a mass of roses face. I hung like hawk<br>Hungry over the running world, I hung<br>Like sun that pulls the bright boys, like the spider.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">8</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1 saw the moon nightly performing a circle about<br>The pivotal point of my eye. The bird flew<br>Either towards or from me, sang to me or was<br>Silent. I sensed the violent spinning of things, -<br>I was their axle like the polar tree.<br>The key of kings had fallen from the blue<br>Into my keyhole eye, I knew I knew.<br>I felt the crush of hell in my left side.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">9</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was on Sunday the 12th April I saw<br>The figure of William Blake bright and huge<br>Hung over the Thames at Sonning. I had not had this.<br>Familiar with the spatial mathematic,<br>Acknowledging the element of matter,<br>I was acquainted with the make of things,<br>But not this. I had not acknowledged this.<br>I had not encountered prototype.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">10</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw William Blake large and bright like ambition,<br>Absolute, glittering, actual and gold.<br>I saw he had worlds and worlds in his abdomen,<br>And his bosom innumerably enpeopled with all birds.<br>I saw his soul like a cinema in each of his eyes,<br>And Swedenborg labouring like a dream in his stomach.<br>I remember the myrtle sprouting from his hand<br>And saw myself the minor bird on the bough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">11</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1 recognized the cosmology of the objects,<br>The contributing and constituting things,<br>Which contemplated too close make a chaos,<br>The glorious plethora, the paradise mass, the chaos of<br>Glory, in which the idiot wanders collecting.<br>I recognized the cosmology of chaos,<br>Observing that the condition rendering<br>Chaos cosmos is the external fact.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">12</div><div style="margin:10px 0">William Blake was larger than my Lincolnshire mountain<br>When like my mountain fell. I heard the catastrophic<br>Fragments of his torso breaking past me, it was<br>The object of the physical world breaking on me<br>Like Krakatoa like Krakatoa like the<br>Fist shooting out of the box like the gradual<br>Appearance of morning at morning like Tutankhamen<br>Carefully divesting itself in public places.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">13</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1 achieved apocalypse - hearing slowly the sounds<br>Against which my ears had made their own music.<br>I heard first the Rhondda choral echo up the valley<br>Trying to find god's ear, I heard the presage<br>Ironically rumbling along the Channel, war:<br>The ancestral voice, the ancestral voice.<br>And 1 saw in a fog of gas Mr Baldwin orating:<br>We must repair the deficiencies of our forces.<br>I heard three women weeping in lrun's ruins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">14</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing 1 could not hear, Berliner<br>Tageblatt, Daily Telegraph, L'Humanite, Isvestia,<br>The air like newsboys shrieking, recounting<br>Instances of hate, of insult, aggravation, and<br>The Rhondda choral, the Durham hymn, over all.<br>I met seven saints in Salisbury with cotton wool in their ears.<br>I remembered with shame my own music.<br>The splitting of the central pillar like aural lightning,<br>I felt it crack my abdomen, the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Barker">George Barker</a><div class=q>
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Meandering abroad in the Lincolnshire meadows day
Day and day a month perhaps, lying at night lonely,
The early September evening administering a mystery,
The moon executing its wavering sleight of hand, I sense the
Advent of the extraordinary ..."></div>
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