   FULL BLACK Q
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   by
   
   Klaus J. Gerken  
   

   
   Black
   black
   black
   ten to eight
   black
   the night stalks everything
   there are shadows in which we cannot dwell
   others dwell in them
   you dwell in them
   like mirrors that explore
   the wrong side of you
   you who are lost
   you who are the seekers in the desert
   of african violets
   you find only scorpions
   you find only poison asps
   hot sand
   black night
   even stars don't shine
   black pawn
   in a jungle of deposed kings and queens
   you try hard
   try harder - it is the darkest night
   and the brightest day
   grey day
   paynes grey
   black non-colour
   mixed with white
   full colour produces
   grey
   grey
   black and grey
   darkest night
   the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly
   about old men waiting for their demise
   which has already come so long ago
   young men lost to emptiness
   everyone lost
   broken bottles
   drinking drunk
   stumbling falling falling
   it is the abysmal alley
   through which we stumble
   in which we fall
   it is the alley through which we walk
   drunk and drugged
   hoping for the night
   the day
   hoping for anything
   it is woman
   it is life
   it is a dragnet
   which is all that is gathered
   it is the poet gathering
   he gathers everything
   the tree might grow
   but it doesn't grow fast enough
   it is books and dust
   books and dust and
   repetitions
   it is periods of this
   it is periods
   the ending of a sentence
   the next paragraph does not begin as easily
   as the next note
   what is the next note
   what is not
   streets
   walking up and down the
   streets
   walking up and down
   one's past
   poems of the
   notebooks of the
   journals of the
   passing of the
   past the indecision
   the decision that
   gathers
   what to do
   or not to do
   the words
   angry words
   sullen words
   words without a hope
   of evidence
   that we exist
   letters
   answering letters and
   telephone calls
   and noise
   bearded men and
   lovely ladies
   poet's verses
   sunshine maybe
   perhaps clouds hide it
   hide everything
   there are clouds in my eyes
   your eyes
   everybody's eyes
   the eyes that see
   the eyes that don't
   the ears that hear
   and the ears that won't
   read read
   read the
   blackest poem on the whitest page
   in this monotony
   seated by the open window
   years ago
   dreaming
   dreams still come and go
   dreams still do a lot of things
   but we mix them with reality
   reality
   fine illusion
   like the tv set
   are there really actors
   are there really people who write this stuff
   are there really poets
   can there really be poets
   this cant be true
   truth is stranger than fiction
   fiction is the stuff of dreams
   dissected into fact
   and how we conquer it
   how we want to conquer it
   how we have a wish to conquer
   what is there
   what is left
   take stock - fifteen thousand  pages
   fifteen thousand ages
   in a world a-swim
   and how the world has aged
   how we turn the page
   how the world has bled
   for understanding and for knowledge
   calling wood and city
   country places
   cars and bicycles to work
   I just realised how alien this is
   I just realised I was realizing 
   nothing that has been the same
   stale conversation
   stagnant poem
   like the stagnant and polluted waters
   of the world
   whales and oceans
   saviour and society
   telephones
   snags in all communication
   it's a wrong number
   always the numbers one wants not
   out of order
   passed away
   ten years ago when the world was younger
   it was aging still
   this poem stretches back ten years
   it stretches back to shape and form
   upon an unknown canvas
   just exploded in my mind
   it ages back to everything
   old and new
   the past that is the past
   which was once before the future
   one searches and one finds
   renew yourselves
   yes thank you
   works of art are incorrigible
   everything is
   people of the roofs and jars of
   opium
   disturbance in the audience
   the audience is on the radio
   everyone should know that
   what
   yes yes
   whatever is
   whatever's not
   all of us
   chains do not unlock
   they make such pretty sounds
   clanking through the corridors
   go down do go down
   deep wells of wisdom
   filled with garbage
   on the beach a bottle
   and no message
   in the bottle
   cold wind
   and a dead gull
   white black
   feathers ruffled
   by a living wind
   pages
   black
   white
   peanuts and
   squirrels
   blue jays
   music
   photographs
   not liking one's own
   the image in the words
   the images on porcelain
   and the mirror of picasso
   the lives relived in words
   and photographs
   only surfaces
   too romantic to be seen
   in true flight
   why couldn't i have been born earlier
   when the world was young
   and people sick together
   in their feeling for each other
   and their art
   all of us
   what have we done
   we have seen our heritage
   diminished
   we have shrunk from our duty
   as citizens of the world
   we have made a sham of everything
   fragile planet
   birds
   rows of birds are art
   everything is art
   nothing is
   where do we stop
   where do we go
   where do we see these things
   we do not see
   what are these words
   these images
   these repetitions
   what are these poems
   with no rhythm
   these poems with no rhyme or reason
   reasons being out these days
   the poets are such simple people
   who like to think themselves much more
   they know as much about a poem
   as they know about themselves
   nothing
   we are all dumb
   broken
   shattered
   vanquished
   dumb
   it is boredom that we are afraid of
   we play games
   it is games that we aught to be afraid of
   it is panes of window glass we see the world
   through
   see through everything
   writers cramp
   of course
   everything's the curse of need
   machines break down
   and can be fixed
   like democracy
   at ten a.m.
   rain
   clouds
   dark and black and
   grey
   paynes grey
   of the voices
   voices that communicate
   voices that fall silent
   that can't
   some have no ears
   some only scars
   some are devastated
   some collect their ingenuity
   and smoke a cigarette
   and talk to pretty girls
   about their civil wars
   in bed
   break 
   pause
   back grey day
   day that must be rain
   fingers of prague
   rain that must be shadow
   without sun
   salt 
   and pepper
   rain on all of us
   blue roofs
   darkness in the streets
   don't shave
   when morning comes
   like a lark on fire
   singing
   songs of torture
   but the morning isn't
   good enough
   don't look in the mirror
   even if it cracks
   don't look at people
   they might just look back
   don't do anything
   pace the room
   pace it up and down
   shout
   scream
   drink
   get drunk
   forget to forget
   everything
   the blackness in your heart
   the too full jungle in your mind
   contrived in spaces
   that are inaccessible
   to anyone but god
   and who can boast
   of being god
   my guts ache
   they don't write poems
   like that
   they copulate
   like that
   the dregs of earth
   the lowest of the low
   that grace the lips of satan
   in eternal hell
   what's the use
   disguising in the world
   the good and bad
   the sun and moon
   what togetherness is not
   good poems do not lie
   they twist the truth
   society tells the lie
   and why not
   we're only here for the duration
   of eternity
   we can never do ourselves
   the harm to put ourselves away
   what we do not finish in one life
   we finish in another
   what is the use
   what can we do
   of love and of devotion
   love what
   devotion to whom
   STOP
   and as the sign bearer stops
   everything also stops
   black
   notice that there
   are no stars
   the last one having been
   outdone by the dawn
   the pregnant dawn
   all our images are broken by the dawn
   the blazing dawn
   society depends upon the dawn
   the ageless dawn
   everything depends upon the dawn
   the dawn of what
   another day
   a new beginning
   question yourself
   the dawn of what
   i just want to top
   the dawn of
   what
   we know everything
   nothing
   the nothing that we know is everything
   only we don't know it yet
   isn't that a laugh
   the birds are on their southern journey
   give a warning sign
   they are going on vacation
   we only lock ourselves
   into our prison cells
   it is like we would be if we were not
   or vice versa
   with ladders climbing to the sky
   the rungs are broken
   we all think we can climb the ladder
   we try
   we only fall down trying
   and still think that we succeed
   we get nowhere
   the higher we get
   the further we get away from what we had
   and what we had
   has been our solid base
   we are in outer space
   the solid base is weightlessness
   how long will it last
   chains rust
   but to actually cast them off
   that takes courage
   how much courage do we have
   what is freedom
   will we ever dare again
   were we ever in danger as today
   do we have each other
   do we know any more
   do we know ourselves
   were all these things as important then
   are they that important now
   the art of fighting
   without philosophy
   yes yes yes
   they are important
   the saviour is society
   we are the witness to the truth
   we are the witness
   to the silence we equate
   with full communication
   if we could
   only learn the language
   of community
   if we would only listen
   to the cars and the 
   machines
   and where the footsteps end
   upon a barren beach
   where is the wind
   where are we
   and do we really know ourselves
   do we really know anything at all
   do we really care
   are we so broken as to think that we are together yet
   and look at what we lose by losing
   look at all of it
   all the wonder
   the light
   the different light
   that permeates everything
   as open to the sky
   as love envelops us
   the blue cerulean
   the wonder of this studio
   with outstretched arms
   the radium sun
   heightens us in shadows
   shadows of our nature
   shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes
   let is leave the darkness of this city
   let us leave the darkness of all cities
   let us walk into Beethoven's pastoral
   and let us seek the quiet place
   where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds
   and breathe the freshet air of harmony
   beneath the gentle universe of stars
   
   it is late
   and it is early
   and the voices of the night are silent
   and the voices of the day begin
   another clamour
   i will say no more
   i will let the word come through
   of its own accord
   forgive me reader if i've said too much
   i will say no more
   
   Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara.
        Shantih shantih shantih...
   
   
                  Night of 21/22 Aug 1975
   



   Copyright (c) 1975 Klaus J. Gerken
   
   
   Published by:
   
   YGDRASIL PRESS
   1001-257 Lisgar St.
   Ottawa, Ontario
   Canada, K2P 0C7
