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The Poetry of Brian Faulkner

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Brian Faulkner
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Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago for Christmas. I wrote a shorter one last week called "High Midas Day", getting rid of "Christ", but now:

Christmas, Go On!

Our bubbling jollity and our keen delight,

Our "Golly! Everything!" deep in the night;

Fast, inquisitive, competent hands,

Flying ribbons in flight command!

Open the box, there; what've you got?

"All that I dreamed of, dreamed a lot!

Tickets and maps, yes! Trips over sea!

Ah! and for you, dear, a present from me."

So grand the shape and so firm each part,

I know what it is, it's my new heart!

A bold one, a gold one, with a verse inside---

'May your life be integrity and your mind your pride.'

It is, it is, and yours is, too.

That's why we're living, naught lesser will do!

Giving, and taking, glad to have won,

Like bankers, like merchants, hey! we have fun!

Now put on the coffee and turn on the light;

Let's study these maps and set out tonight!

Vales little thought of, rocks never touched,

Trails just beginning, wonders half-clutched,

Ridges of promise waiting man's right---

Earth all new-fashioned for traders' delight.

New dams awaiting, new cities, new farms,

Sparkways of business spreading out charms,

Thousands of earth-stars---Edison's eyes!---

Set to all angles of wid'ning surprise;

Shipyards and airports humming deep strength,

Trainways and highways stretching out length;

Compelling up downtowns, where Top Competence climbs

With Wheeling's dealings and Profit's rhymes

(Cling! rings the money; ting! rings again!

Desires exchanging, happy are men);

Sky-ledged apartments where piano notes pour

My-Life Concerto where two spirits soar.

Open the door there, what've we got?

A new beginning of another plot.

For now Love touches; a kiss.....one.....two;

Our true destination's a self-made brew.

A trip for tomorrow, a sip for today;

To have no sorrow we gladly pay.

Routing and planning, and shouting, "To be!"

Sweet is the music rounding the tree.

"Yes!" to life's pleasure, 'specially THIS dawn;

Worldly happiness, Christmas, go on!

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Here is my latest "Christmas" poem. While reading David Gulbraa's "The Mall Masters" I thought that sad selfless Christ has to be banned from the celebration of gifts bought and exchanged in the spirit of selfish love. First, I thought that the name of a great businessman might fit the bill, then I thought of Midas Mulligan walking jauntily down the street, bouncing that bunch of flowers in his hand. Midas Day sounded good, but High Midas day sounded better. Then I thought, in essence, "now a poem of celebration". Hence,

High Midas Day

High Midas Day

Is on its way,

High Midas day is near;

With aim of gold,

Things bought and sold,

For target Joy we steer.

Hard faces bright,

Shrewd eyes a-light,

We shoppers scour the mall.

A pile to make

For this year's take

We'll find, and rake in all.

To sate desire

Of Man---The Buyer,

Proud shops and markets stand.

Who trade would win

May enter in

And gaze on all things grand.

With wages won

For work well done

We step, we look, we find---

"O Perfect Prize,

O Light of Eyes,

O mirrored Aim of Mind!"

Our piles of dough,

We love them so---

The jingling, crinkling bliss!

But goods held tight

In owner's right

Is like a Midas kiss.

And so we say

On Midas Day,

"Our gift of life is bought;

We made our dough,

We traded, oh!

And bull's eye Joy is caught!"

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Here are two poems I posted on the other thread; is it dead?

This one I sent to Martha Stewart a few months ago:

Martha Stewart,

What you are is one above the crowd,

A woman sole self-made, virtued, proud,

Who made top grade and passed the test

Of your own standard, your own best;

A human being who loves true doing-----

Mind on, hands on, all you're pursuing,

Thinking, seeking, reaching, and following through.

Production has a pronoun and it is YOU.

And we who worship the firm-lipped mission

Of Pride, as it manufactures its lightning vision,

We honor you for girding us with such grace---

To have sight of life's lover of her marketplace,

Your workplace, right place, office of high worth,

Crafting room, kitchen, man-made garden of earth.

Oh, in spite of the envious in the swerving crowd,

Look level, and never let your good proud head be bowed.

For SpaceShipOne:

Independent

Not with the aid of government

Was SpaceShipOne so sharply sent,

Nor did its heroes pray;

Capitalistic, atheistic,

Firing Mastery all the way.

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From an ancient English poem called "The Seafarer" done in modern English, here is:

The Youth

Oh, wildly my heart

Beats in my bosom and bids me to try

The tumble and surge of seas tumultuous,

Breeze and brine and the breakers' roar.

Daily, hourly, drives me my spirit

Outward to sail, far countries to see.

Liveth no man so large in his soul,

So gracious in giving, so gay in his youth,

In deeds so daring, so dear to his lord,

But frets his soul for his sea adventure,

Fain to try what fortune shall send.

Harping he needs not, nor hoarding of treasure;

Nor woman can win him, nor joys of the world.

Nothing does please but the plunging billows;

Ever he longs, who is lured by the sea.

Woods are abloom, the wide world awakens,

Gay are the mansions, the meadows most fair;

These are but warnings, that haste on his journey

Him whose heart is hungry to taste

The perils and pleasures of the pathless deep.

Sudden my soul starts from her prison-house,

Soareth afar o'er the sounding main;

Hovers on high, o'er the home of the whale;

Back to me darts the bird-sprite and beckons,

Winging her way o'er woodland and plain,

Hungry to roam, and bring me where glisten

Glorious tracts of glimmering foam.

This life on land is lingering death to me,

Give me the gale of the glad live sea!

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Americonorman, thanks a lot for the explanations. Here is one I wrote a few years ago.

I Am I

They say there will be light

If I give up my self;

I'll set the world right

If I only do not think of me.

My life is not my own, they say,

I'm only here to give;

Let others have control of me

And then I'll surely live, I'll see.

Just bow down humbly;

Just grovel on the earth;

I'm lesser than a common tree,

My thoughts are but a curse.

Just bow down humbly;

Don't stand and I'll be fine;

Have faith in what they're telling me

And sacrifice my mind.

Just bow down humbly;

Don't walk alone and sing;

Don't hold my head up in the sky

Or reach for anything.

My life is not my own, they say;

I'm only here to please.

Let others have the soul of me;

I'm better on my knees, I'll see.

But I have never let me go,

And no, I never will.

I touch all things around me;

I hear all winds roar by;

I see the sunlight clasp the earth

And sweep through all the sky.

I know I am at peace here,

With none but me to steer.

Reality is outside me

And I know I am here. I know! I know!

They say that I am foolish now,

So childish am I;

To go alone was in the past,

Self-trust is but a lie, I'll see.

I have a great beginning,

My mind is very strong;

I set the mark to reason hard

And lead myself along.

All ways are now wide open,

Waiting high for me---

My trusty sight, my vision, light,

My gladness soaring free.

I say, "Work is work,

And man is man,

And I am I".

They say there will be light

If I seek not to be;

That motion is a sign of blight

And stillness is for free.

My life is not my own, they say,

All others, they come first.

If I will only be like them

I'll die without a curse, I'll see.

I load my gold around me;

I hear my trucks roar by;

I see my spotlights carch my planes

Ans sweep through all the sky.

The world will see light, they say,

If I will pray for me.

Cold logic is no longer right,

But tends to misery.

My life is not my own, they say;

I'm only here to give.

Let pity fill the soul of me

So "die" will equal "live". I see.

I see my bridges gleaming

From bank to greeting plain;

And all around I hear the sound

Of trains that roll for gain.

Yes,

There's lightning and there's thunder;

There's flood and torn up tree;

But what I am is working, too,

And I am victory. I see, I see!

My city lights are shining;

They beckon from above.

There are no selfless men up there,

But only men I love.

My gate is now wide open;

There's one last hill to climb;

And climb I do with all that's true,

Until I pass "On time!"

And now,

I shall not bow forever.

Forever, bow to me;

And Fate, you're late! Get out and wait!

I open not for ye!

For man is man,

And pride is pride,

And "Stand!" is "Stand!"

And I am I.

One more:

Life

The foolish hand but air doth hold;

The reckless, blood and scars.

The sure one pockets all the gold

And steers the man to the stars.

Edited by softwareNerd
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Americonorman, I like your poem about recovered integrity. Here are two poems of mine, somewhat related.

Icarus

Yes, it's true, he fell.

But that he tried-----Nay!

Gave his all!-----

His new knowledge,

His life's strength,

His whole will, till-----

"Up, Icarus, up!"-----

His self-made self-said name

On righting wings of pride

Soared up through the centuries!

Yea! E'en now I hear it,

"Up, Icarus, up!

----------------------------------

The Star

The things in life you want

They say "you can't";

But Me, Myself and I

We know I can.

We don't give in

To scorn, sarcasm, fears,

But go right on

As one Three Musketeers.

Thoughts, Ideas, Dreams,

We're everywhere.

We spark and flash-----we stream!

A joyous Dare!

With chin in hand

We view the future, far,

Then take command

To grasp that giant star.

I, Me, Myself,

Straight on up we go,

Courage our real wealth,

Smiles all we know.

The way is long,

Rugged, hard and high,

But we---the strong---

All mounting odds defy.

It's "Up" against the men

Who'd try to chide us down;

"Up!" again and again

Upon each hoot and frown.

They think they're kingly wise

Who tell us "don't explore",

But their fake real-dom sways

While they shake at the door.

"You haven't got much chance",

They say-----they, who stand and stare,

And never walk or dance

Alone in open space and air.

"And you are selfish, too",

They say---they, who never want

What they desire all through

'Cause someone else says "can't".

But Me, Myself, and I,

I want what I do desire;

Just like the eagle, high,

I am a solo flyer.

For me, the tempting new,

Rare vision barely seen,

Waiting my footsteps true

Pressing the gold-fringed scene.

There, all calm and still,

No sneering winds of "No",

I'll sing whate'er I will,

The star of my own show.

And then that loud live light---

The joy I felt at birth---

Will flood me with such might

I'll drink my own self-worth.

For what seemed awfully far

Was always here, inside----

That strange heroic star,

The fearless face of Pride.

Edited by softwareNerd
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Brian Faulkner:

The Star was quite touching, it was better this morning than last night. I like the idea: the beacon of pride is really inside you, but it is hard that it seems that you have to leave this world.

Icarus was uplifting too but I don't know who Icarus is. Who is he?

It would be wonderful to have a whole book of poetry dealing with various virtues, with the image of flight as the gimmick.

Thanks,

Americo.

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Brian Faulkner:

The Star was quite touching, it was better this morning than last night.  I like the idea:  the beacon of pride is really inside you, but it is hard that it seems that you have to leave this world.

Icarus was uplifting too but I don't know who Icarus is.  Who is he?

It would be wonderful to have a whole book of poetry dealing with various virtues, with the image of flight as the gimmick.

Thanks,

Americo.

Americo, I'm glad you like The Star, and a good perception; you're right, I did not anchor it to reality; that is,not the gold-fringed scene.

Icarus was a man in Greek mythology who dared to fly up to the gods' abode. The sun melted the wax which bound his artificial wings to his body, and he fell into the sea. The seldom used term Icarian means presumptuously ambitious.

Have you other poems using flight?

Here is another.

Song of the Airplane

With wings of steel o'er the ocean

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

Strong is the engine inside me,

Drives me lightly afar;

But stronger the mind that guides me---

O Man, I know what you are.

Though day has fallen behind me

I'll raise it again, ahead.

I take on the night coming to me

With never a tremor of dread.

With wings of steel o'er the cliffheads,

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

I see the bright stars-----they are nothing!

Inside me are two brighter, far.

They see what will be in the future,

And nothing, oh nothing, will bar!

Dark boulders of mist are now shifting;

Some violence here there may be;

But their roughness shall buffet vainly

This calm pure spirit in me.

I climb the wild breast of the tempest;

I soar through its madness and roar.

The power of joy is inside me;

O Pilot, I know what you are.

With wings of steel o'er the mountains,

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

I see the low dawn, it is breaking;

My wings it is rushing to see.

But Man is the sun in me leading!

And I am the triumph of He!

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Brian Faulkner:

The Star was quite touching, it was better this morning than last night.  I like the idea:  the beacon of pride is really inside you, but it is hard that it seems that you have to leave this world.

Icarus was uplifting too but I don't know who Icarus is.  Who is he?

It would be wonderful to have a whole book of poetry dealing with various virtues, with the image of flight as the gimmick.

Thanks,

Americo.

Americo, My view of the myth is this: it was a story invented to discourage pride, but in reality if a man humbles himself it's not due to fear of the wrath of gods, but fear of the disapproval of others, even when that disapproval is expressed through an oracle of the gods. If he gives in just a little to this 'public pressure" he will indeed begin to "fall", spiritually. The only solution for him is to reassert his pride to an ever greater degree. Then he---or man, as a whole---will "soar up through the centuries".

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Brian:

I will have some comments on Song of the Airplane but I've been busy. I'll just say now that I liked it; I especially like your use of the Objectivist symbol, the straight line. I'll have more to say as I read it more closely. This week, the poem is a detour to my work, so I have to keep going straight and come back to it later.

Americo.

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Brian:

I will have some comments on Song of the Airplane but I've been busy.  I'll just say now that I liked it; I especially like your use of the Objectivist symbol, the straight line.  I'll have more to say as I read it more closely.  This week, the poem is a detour to my work, so I have to keep going straight and come back to it later.

Americo.

Well, there's nothing I can reply but some

Words for Pictures

Joy in work means joy in life,

And where none shirk there is no strife.

Bear down there, young man;

The wheel's in your hand.

Steady, set to it;

You know you can!

Side by side, in perfect pride,

The river roars down,

The boat puffs up.

I know what I know;

I see what I see;

No socialist government

Will ever stop me.

Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh,

Whose labor have you not lightened?

Whose roads and houses not rolled or nailed,

hardened, strengthened?

What magnificent cities sparkle now because of thee?

Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh!

"Well, dog, you better run;

I'm going to work!"

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  • 4 weeks later...
Americo, I'm glad you like The Star, and a good perception; you're right, I did not anchor it to reality; that is,not the gold-fringed scene.

Icarus was a man in Greek mythology who dared to fly up to the gods' abode.  The sun melted the wax which bound his artificial wings to his body, and he fell into the sea.  The seldom used term Icarian means presumptuously ambitious.

Have you other poems using flight? 

Here is another.

Song of the Airplane

With wings of steel o'er the ocean

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

Strong is the engine inside me,

Drives me lightly afar;

But stronger the mind that guides me---

O Man, I know what you are.

Though day has fallen behind me

I'll raise it again, ahead.

I take on the night coming to me

With never a tremor of dread.

With wings of steel o'er the cliffheads,

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

I see the bright stars-----they are nothing!

Inside me are two brighter, far.

They see what will be in the future,

And nothing, oh nothing, will bar!

Dark boulders of mist are now shifting;

Some violence here there may be;

But their roughness shall buffet vainly

This calm pure spirit in me.

I climb the wild breast of the tempest;

I soar through its madness and roar.

The power of joy is inside me;

O Pilot, I know what you are.

With wings of steel o'er the mountains,

Sailing straight on, I go.

A single line of motion

Is all I am or know.

I see the low dawn, it is breaking;

My wings it is rushing to see.

But Man is the sun in me leading!

And I am the triumph of He!

Before Objectivism, many years ago now, had an impact on me, when looking up at a clear night sky in the midst of the constellations, I used to feel an emotion of fear. It was the feeling of being afraid of heights. Perhaps the emotion meant that I was afraid to rise. In an interview I was glad to hear Rand say that she dislikes the feeling people get when they look at the stars: a feeling of smallness in the midst of the immensity; a feeling of smallness before god or something of the sort. Your poem is great because it rebels against that feeling. Every feeling that most people feel when they look at the stars is wrong; the power that the constellations are symbols for is not supernatural or superior to man. Those symbols should really represent the power of man to create, to manipulate nature to fit man's purpose.

I think in OPAR, Peikoff talks about the straight line when he is talking about productiveness. That has always stayed with me although I could not pin point the reference. Nietzsche uses it too. It is a symbol that captures my temper. For example, when I'm really tired, I can feel "homicidal" when someone interferes with my values. When I'm refreshed the obstacle is merely annoying.

Americo.

P.S. The week turned into three or four, I know. I apologize but I can't feel guilty. I'm very busy. I'm trying to finish The Man Who Laughs. I am reading about the Founding Father and the Mafia for my next novel: A political theme is how government regulation is responsible for such a phenomenon as the mafia, and the mafia is in my story a universal archetype that has always existed from the time of primitive man to the present; Hitler is a mafioso. The theme is bigger than that but that is part of it. Anyways, If I don't answer quickly this is why but I do appreciate your poetry.

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Well, there's nothing I can reply but some

            Words for Pictures

Joy in work means joy in life,

And where none shirk there is no strife.

Bear down there, young man;

The wheel's in your hand.

Steady, set to it;

You know you can!

Side by side, in perfect pride,

The river roars down,

The boat puffs up.

I know what I know;

I see what I see;

No socialist government

Will ever stop me.

Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh,

Whose labor have you not lightened?

Whose roads and houses not rolled or nailed,

                            hardened, strengthened?

What magnificent cities sparkle now because of thee?

Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh!

"Well, dog, you better run;

I'm going to work!"

This poem is hard to decipher. Because of the first line I wonder whether you wrote it solely to respond to me. If so that is remarkable. And if it is in your personal anthology then it is still impressive. If I read it subjectively, it feels as if the poem is directed at me, as your Pittsburgh--because I smoke--because I'm busy--because I'm growing--because, althoug I need reminding of it, I'm mighty--and because I often tend to inspire people but very few people inspire me like artists do. Objectively it is a bit harder to decipher and it will take some more time. Maybe you can help me. Every Objectivist can certainly take some inspiration from it. It is a reminder of their value as a creator.

Can you please explain the last two lines? Currently I think it a shot at me for not responding right away because I have to work. I also have the idea of not shewing the dog away but integrating him into the industrial productive process. Not merely as a guard dog, per se, but as a dog who pulls a load or something like that. In The Man Who Laughs, Homo is such a dog.

C'est tout. S'il vous plait repondes.

Americo.

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Brian Faulkner:

Although my poems are good, and with them I approach your talent, yours are better than mine. I just read them all out loud and am impressed, touched, and teary eyed. In my poem Love among verses, I longed for Rand poetry, and since I don't have her examples before me, yours are them. You are the best Objectivist poet I have encountered. Congratulations! I must say that you are a soul mate. If you have more poems in your archives, I want to read them. If you want to send them privately, go ahead. I'm surprised that this topic doesn't have as many hits compared to other topics. Thanks.

Americo.

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  • 4 weeks later...

Hi. I was Brian Faulkner, now I'm back as B. Royce with a poem which was a song, but since I don't write music it's only in my head. I love its benevolent sense of life.

The Pilot's Song

On steel wings I sail the sky, I go.

A shining line of mastery I am.

I rise above the rising sun;

I claim the night when he is done;

The sky surrenders everything;

A silver-shining steel wing am I.

I fly up into the feather blue;

I glide above the mountain dew;

I even skim a cloud or two;

A going, flowing, glowing thing am I.

If storm surrounds my even way

I bolt on through and burst away.

With power-flash and thunder-roar

I lift my wings and soar-----away!

And flying, flying, flying over the land,

I look below and see a waving hand.

Out of the clouds, into the sun,

Lookin' away, give it the gun!

And speeding, speeding, speeding, I am free!

To make my bank or go on out to sea.

Out of the clouds, into the sun,

Lookin' away, give it the gun!

Now cities raise on up to me

Their radiance of jewelry;

I gaze, and glide on by.

New factories are smokin' low

To make the many things that go;

I near, then veer up high.

Then diving, climbing, driving over the train!

It takes the oar to make another plane.

Out of the earth, into the blue,

Now it is old, now it is new!

And soaring, soaring, soaring I do go;

I love this place that has no trace of woe.

Everything's fine, all I can see;

Happy to sign, give it to me!

On steel wings I sail the sky, I go.

A shining line of mastery am.

I rise above the rising sun;

I claim the night when he is done;

The sky surrenders everything;

A silver-shining steel wing am I.

I see upon a future time

When next to me one, too, will climb;

Her face will show the mastery, I know.

We'll sail into the morning air,

Or twilight air, or midnight air;

We couldn't care, we go!

Then diving, climbing, driving over the train!

It takes the oar to make another plane.

Out of the earth, into the blue,

Now it is old, now it is new!

And soaring, soaring, soaring I do go;

I love this place that has no trace of woe.

Everything's fine, all I can see;

Happy to sign, give it to me!

Brian Faulkner

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Here is a poem I wrote about twenty years ago. I was trying to write with the smoothest flow possible. My inspiration was my girlfriend, plus a recording in ancient Greek of a poem by Sappho, which I found on a partly warped record in a thrift store. I didn't understand a word, but it was the most beautiful spoken music I had ever heard. I finally understood why English poets praised her so much.

Wherever Eyes Of Lover

Wherever eyes of lover gaze up into eyes

of lover taking, all time's hours stop.

And Falsehood's hands may cover no bare fact

nor any modest innocense whip passion back,

But he, lead chutist, soars freely

down to rushing earth, to feign no more of fear

And dream no more of Fate.

The stirring grasses sigh into the heart

as "Life is selfless" dies.

It lies so joyfully with death

the passioned chantings of a flashing bird

Change to elation every banished word

and "Love is my selfishness!" flies!

Yes! and shall not we sing, too?

Only yesterday I knew your heart in mine;

I knew the truth of you.

A new intentness set to send us, too,

As one due day rides sunward,

and your eyes in my eyes soared into

A flowerwise chaining of unchained desire,

a flaunting, high conspiracy

That saw no end of time.

We were as trees are, apart, yet rooted

not to earth but to our strange brows shining,

Glad with fire and mad with sight.

A brighter radiance shone in May not ever,

A cleaner air or a purer rain;

made of our thoughts severe long wings together,

Caught up our hearts in a jest of pain.

Then marrow rang! Then breath departed!

for only Delight there fanned and sped.

'Round every flower a freed wind wended,

bent the petals from head to head;

Between bold boughs strong gold descended

and in young leaves old dreams arose.

High swirling grasses sprang up to our thighs

and brushed the veins of Paradise;

Darkness saw your rare long hair wrap 'round him

and knew not darkness, saw dewy lightness

Sing upon your shoulders, rang out his joy,

and died.

Aye, I, too, I, too, knew lightness,

searing lightness of strained desire,

And like a half-wet flame I laughed aloud

to see a gentle tree lean out to me,

A yearning, stretching, smiling tree,

now all aflame as I.

Arms and branches swing into the sky

and touch away the sunlight as a cloud.

Leaves and faces seek each other's places,

gaze on hidden spaces and entwine.

Now four curling hands of fire

rake lightning through the pyre,

Uproot the tree Desire and pull the woodman down!

The swirling grasses, flowing,

Grow high red storms of knowing,

learn love that leaps up glowing

And is not bound!

All over eyes of flowers the lover's eye devours,

devours all Time's hours, devours Space and Light;

And where Love's breath flows sighing

the soul of Death goes dying,

The Final Fate is flying,

and burning Day is bright!

Brian Faulkner

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A few days after writing "Wherever Eyes of Lover" I wrote this:

To Beauty

Who longs to hold all love

within his whole live heart forever

Might here now sing all joy on high.

For where your fairness shines upon

the dimming eyes of he who's seeking,

And that rare bright ringing voice of thine

impales bare beauty on his fainting ear,

The touch and smell and feel of thee

ache into his marrow like a blade of fear,

But that no pain, but only pleasuring

stainless fire that taught his soul to fly.

O Love, thou art a goddess,

and all thy heart is mine to worship,

Mine alone to carry me uplyring

through a very choir of praise,

A roar of tidal rapture for thy pure

unshaded thought and fiery isle of face.

Yes, you, the first and true Love's lover

and the star-high dreamer's dream.

Yet e'en more than these are, more than any

of the best of these may ever deem,

A flash of eternity sparking through the night,

with rosy-budded flesh to crush all through,

and the gentle fragile breath

that sings my lips in two,

Divinest Spring-made spirit

of a clear mind's cleanest light.

This timeless, perfect hour, raised within

your radiance, and born to be

The purpose of my life,

here in heart and hand shall all time's fate

Command, command all joys and fames,

all flight of glad good names,

All triumph's height.

Here at last may one man say

what all men would but never could,

"Now I cast all dreams away

for all my life is good".

Brian Faulkner

I soon followed this with a sonnet:

The Grandest

Are you the grandest being in my life?

No tidal storm could roll as grand a sheet.

As oft' I look I see no held back strife,

But even free sea-gazes, calm and sweet.

Way-out theories sweep within your eyes;

Bending light frowns bare cliffs size. (as in "to size up")

But better this, and keener than the radiant sun----

The beams of your lips when a fierce way's won.

And now you really come like dawn upon your way,

Swift joy within your body, hands and feet----

Sighting joy, that sings to me, "Tis day!

Be taking now, and make your life complete!"

We swear together in our treasured strife,

"You ARE the grandest being in my life!"

Brian Faulkner

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Thirty years ago I walked into a small restaurant in Athens, Georgia. I was the only customer in the early afternoon hours, it being summer and the majority of the population---college students---gone. I was drinking my coffee when a young woman walked in and sat right across from me at my small table. We began talking in the most easy, relaxed manner, as if we had known each other for years. A day later I wrote the following poem:

Stoned

"Death by stoning"---the "fatal', "dread" decree;

Rocked out of pain, slung at Death's Goliath eye,

I skipped upon the waters when you stoned me.

You've thrown me down a welling dream of hope;

I sing, and I pebble the universe with love.

The wonders of your eyes can will my soul to rise,

And down upon the rock I roll the slope.

You struck me with an open look;

You hid nothing, and you pillared me;

The avalanche of your simplicity has crushed me sure.

Words? They were not words you spoke,

But lava-leaves hard'ning into steel,

Hot stinging little shards of freed desire.

From the blossoms of your lips

A merry sadness slips,

A crumbling rock that flies like sand away.

On the mountains of your breast

A planet lies at rest,

And I will travel space not any more.

There are gardens in your sight

With heaps of apples, bright,

And earthly joys;

While in your voice I hear the choiring sea.

My hands gather eternity.

The tiniest granule now could lightly knock me down;

Some butterfly might lift me high away;

The weakest wind that blows my body slay.

"Free by stoning"----the great new law we see.

Soaring high above,

Sculpted by the pure soft hand of love,

I touch the holy sky when you stone me.

Brian Faulkner

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Well, It's a new day, with a lot of festivities in Jacksonville. Guess I'll have my own parade right here.

The Marcher

I'm marching, I'm marching,

I'm marching down the street.

I'm singing, I'm singing,

And everything is neat.

The windows are shining,

And polished every door.

Oh, look! there's a marcher!

I couldn't ask for more.

I'm dancing, I'm dancing,

I'm dancing down the lane,

To buy me, to try me,

A drum to beat again.

A storm, it is starting,

I know it's gonna pour,

And if there is thunder

I could not ask for more.

The Highnote is open,

The keeper square and tall.

I point to a round thing

Down low upon the wall;

But quickly he gets it

Although his hair is gray.

I flip him a gold piece

And I am on my way.

It's windy, it's cooler,

The heavy sky does throw!

The lightning's a-flashing,

The people laughing, Oh!

They know that their city

Will never stop for rain;

The trucks keep on whizzing

The goods around again.

But breaking now, men jump on out, conveyor wheels go;

Unloading freight so grandly fast---they never heard of slow.

Boxes, boxes, all about, with gloves and many a hat;

Coats and shoes, umbrellas, too! unloading after that!

I'm beating, I'm beating,

I'm beating on my drum.

And louder, and louder,

I never had such fun!

Oh, look! there's another

Who could not stay within.

Oh, Wow! what a marcher!

I wonder where she's been?

A piper is coming,

He's coming down the street.

He's piping and piping

That everything is neat.

And dancers are dancing,

They dance down every lane.

They know that their city

Will never stop for rain.

----------------------------

The clouds, now, are passing

And planes are in the sky.

The sunlight is streaming

Upon the towers high.

And here comes that marcher

Who could not stay within.

She steps right beside me,

Oh what a way to win!

We're whirling, we're twirling,

We're swaying down the street!

We're singing, we're whistling,

'Cause everything is neat.

The windows are shining,

And polished every door.

Oh look! there's a marcher!

I couldn't ask for more!

Brian Faulkner

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About twelve years ago, after reading OPAR for the first time, I spent a very happy week writing happy songs. Here's one:

Leap Champaigne

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

My Love and I are going,

Like every night before,

Where melodies are flowing

Ceiling to the floor.

The band is heating up, now,

The violins I hear;

There is a time for everything

And everything is here.

We tap, we twirl, we swing, we whirl,

And now we tap again;

We spin around and turn a---way

Then sway on back again.

And smoothly slow, and graceful, oh,

While she is smiling more,

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest I adore!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

We take a flame of Leap Champaigne

And lightly toast our love.

We say to each "You are the lofty

Thing I'm thinking of".

And when we toss away the glass

It tinkles, crashing so;

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest that I know.

The chandeliers are sparkling,

And eyes are sparkling, too;

The confidence of dancers

Flashes every hue.

And when a song is over

The Crashing Wall is there

To take a throw---oh don't you know

How often we are there!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

Brian Faulkner

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About twelve years ago, after reading OPAR for the first time, I spent a very happy week writing happy songs.  Here's one:

Leap Champaigne

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

My Love and I are going,

Like every night before,

Where melodies are flowing

Ceiling to the floor.

The band is heating up, now,

The violins I hear;

There is a time for everything

And everything is here.

We tap, we twirl, we swing, we whirl,

And now we tap again;

We spin around and turn a---way

Then sway on back again.

And smoothly slow, and graceful, oh,

While she is smiling more,

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest I adore!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

We take a flame of Leap Champaigne

And lightly toast our love.

We say to each "You are the lofty

Thing I'm thinking of".

And when we toss away the glass

It tinkles, crashing so;

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest that I know.

The chandeliers are sparkling,

And eyes are sparkling, too;

The confidence of dancers

Flashes every hue.

And when a song is over

The Crashing Wall is there

To take a throw---oh don't you know

How often we are there!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

Brian Faulkner

uewmmnnnahhhh ... Wow! That was very good. There's a feeling that I've only felt recently. And my hope certainly applauds the proclamations of this poem. No one on this forum I have loved, but I have met someone I have loved. And the confirmation I have hoped for is the essence of this poem. Thank you "B"!

I'll continue to write to keep you here. (By the way, Brian--just in case you think it so, though, we are merely poetical traders: you're not the man "I LOVE:" THAT is reserved for someone else ... and then ... eventually, of course, for THAT one else.

Americo.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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Wherever Eyes Of Lover

Wherever eyes of lover gaze up into eyes

of lover taking, all time's hours stop.

And Falsehood's hands may cover no bare fact

nor any modest innocense whip passion back,

But he, lead chutist, soars freely

down to rushing earth, to feign no more of fear

And dream no more of Fate.

[....]

All over eyes of flowers the lover's eye devours,

devours all Time's hours, devours Space and Light;

And where Love's breath flows sighing

the soul of Death goes dying,

The Final Fate is flying,

and burning Day is bright!

My God, this was a joy to read.

How long did it take you to write it, if I may ask?

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My God, this was a joy to read.

How long did it take you to write it, if I may ask?

Zeus, I'm glad it gave you joy. The time spent writing it , except for tinkering with a few lines over several days, was probably a few hours. This is of no real significance, however. I have spent days working and re-working one four-line stanza to get what I wanted. Some things only seem to get written relatively fast,

but the speed is possible only because of a lot of past effort of thought and practice. When I'm writing I never think about how fast I'm writing; that would be distracting and pointless. Don't allow yourself to get caught up in irrelevancies in your own creative endeavors, whatever they may be.

The following poem was written in 1980. I was experimenting with rhyme and assonance, attempting to echo beginning-line sounds with end-line sounds.

To Follow One's Thought

To follow one's thought in the swallow

When sorrowful leaves hang low;

To scatter delight like the sparrow

And banish all night and woe;

To enter the storms of the winter

And cower back clouds with song;

To flower like Spring in her power

When hours of rain seem long;

To walk to a wood that is calling,

To edge through a hedge where it bids,

To push back the leaves of old bushes

And find there a shrine that was hid;

To see through the house of one's being

With eyes that are calm as the moon,

And hear, with no reason of fleeing,

The cheer-colored chime of its tune;

To open the door of one's knowing

And fear not the hero inside;

To flow as a free wind flowing

And never a true thing hide;

To fashion a friendship with gladness,

To sire a love that inspires;

To raise, over rivers of madness,

White wings of unfailing desires;

To stream up the height of one's dreaming

And strain beyond height, beyond star;

To soar out of touch with all seeming

And be_ all the joy that you are;

To give not a glance to self-pity,

To spring a world-challenger, true,

Then stray not a day from this daring----

That flight is the light called you.

Brian Faulkner

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Now and then, religion's disapproving stance against human nakedness becomes irksome, to say the least. One short response of mine was first published in David Gulbraa's monthly Radical Romantic, 1993. Unfortunately, he no longer publishes.

Who Is This?

Who is this Miss

Who speaks against God?

Where is her divine fine lively mouth?

Are her hands red with tossing of crosses?

And has she kissed her fingertips all the night?

Who is this god

Who walks over God?

Would she worship her and man in one?

Does she really think she can match the sun?

Ah! she comes! Her eyes are bright!

Look how joyfully she walks!

Her breasts gleam blessings to the earth and sky;

Her flashing thighs glance and smile.

And Lo! what happy feet!

Lo! her swinging hands are pure white!

Brian Faulkner

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