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Matched Pair
—on American moments (and a Frost poem)
Every step we take is about the road not taken.
Yes, but beneath the gravel of that one is
that of the other, as certain too— the road
that brought us here. We might call it:
matched-pair-joined-at-the-hip-of-choice
at-the-fork-of-yes-and-no
namely, this fork, the one at which we always stand,
which is eternal, or is as long as hearts pump and
breaths blow.
Now,
that being said,
down which will we head?
Jim Culleny, 3/7/24
Chuang Tzu’s Butterfly
“Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi (Chuang Tzu), dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things. —Chinese poet/philosopher, 4th century BChuang Tzu’s Butterfly
CHUANG TZU’S BUTTERFLY
the other night when I was sleeping
gone so far the moonlight leaping
through my window, past the curtain,
instantly I knew for certain
that I was a butterfly
I went flitting flower to flower,
I grew freer by the hour,
no concern for job or romance,
through the night I just
danced and I danced,
but when the morning light was breaking;
the sun, the sun! the moon forsaken,
I got up threw back the covers,
instantly I was another
knew I was a man again
between that butterfly and me
I must make some kind of line,
can’t have a common destiny
between me and this lungful of air that I breathe
I must make some kind of line
something solid my reason can squeeze
Jim Culleny
(written as a song, 1975)
Streptocarpus
Sartorial
I love the look & feel of jeans,
been wearing them since my teens.
Assiduously I’ve avoided wearing
ties and suits.
Ties remind me of a noose, while
suits are uniforms from one perspective
and collared shirts are seldom loose,
the tie that binds in one collective
feels like a leash from this galoot’s.
My dress is plain.
The point is moot.
Jim Culleny, 4/15/23
Betta Than Meta
Here’s an idea:
in FB scroll down at say
a post a second —keep on keeping on
(maybe Meta’s your thing)
find your groove, lose yourself
in avatars and memes,
get a timely sense of your milieu,
what you’re enmeshed in now, good or ill,
a scroll of streaming truth, or not, soundless,
unless you hum a track yourself; but not downbeat,
keep it up and light or you’ll fly off rails
it might be meditative,
but whateva,
considering the stakes,
there must be something betta
than Meta
Jim Culleny, © 5/26/16, rev 3/20/23
Even Einstein said the world’s a spooky place
To Thin to Spawn an Echo
from here the atmosphere’s a space so vast—
with depth enough to spawn an echo, but
seen from the moon imagine
a somewhat fat elastic band
stretched round a blue ball,
or slim mist of sweat evaporating
from the crown of a head still
clear enough to spawn an echo
imagine an aura of oxygen
held by a gauze of gravity but
with weave so slight so ephemeral yet
substantial enough to spawn an echo
try to envision something absolutely
essential but (in perfect condition) invisible,
containing the essence of life, but
now see it thick with carbon,
a saturated scarf girdling a globe
at equatorial noon muffling billions
of small voices crying, Now we see! but
too late too weak too spent too thin
to spawn even an echo
Jim Culleny
9/4/21
Pollination
—for my bee-keeping friends H & J
bee adorned with pollen fur yellow as sun
following a helical strand of DNA flower to flower,
hauling the essence of sweet to its hive while incidentally
bearing for all the world capsules of life,
hauling a bounty of food and beauty
on its back and body
Jim Culleny
5/28/21
Coming by Wrong to the Right Unknown
“That I might arrive like Columbus, who came by wrong
to the right unknown” —Rodney Jones, poet
it doesn’t matter where you start
you always end where you’d not begun
being hamstrung by what you never knew
along the way to what’s to come
when you get there, I presume,
little-known worlds are left behind,
at least it’s what the mystics say,
they recommend you seek to find;
but their promises are so obscure
you never know to where they surge—
the way, the truth, the light
sometimes seem a demiurge,
a minor cloud of hints and signs,
a myth, a mist of pointless lines
—except (in unknown’s push and shove)
the brilliant flames of
laugh and love!
Jim Culleny, 2/2/21
The Present Moment
Watercolor by Mary Walsh Martel
Link to other paintings by Mary: (6) #shireartsdotcom – Explore | Facebook
Blink 