Month: June 2022

Beyond Emptiness

Absent Evidence, by Douglas Pinson. Digital painting, 2022.

Nagarjuna

Wherever you go
I want you
Need you
Need the emptiness to end

An emptiness that is empty itself
Like a jar in Tennessee
That no longer exists
In the state of nature

Or on any map
Because the maps
Themselves are empty
Like books

Without type
Simile
Metaphor
Bridges

Or rationale to be
In libraries
Because they hold
Nothing one could call

Knowledge of Self
Or the Other
Thing
Person

Place

Six times
I said this
And the seventh
You appeared

Empty as always
Of everything but love

 

—by Douglas Pinson

God: an Anatomy, and Other Recent Readings

Francesca Stavrakopoulou, in her most recent book, God: an Anatomy, presents a vivid portrait of Yahweh, primarily as seen by his ancient devotees. She takes us on a journey throughout the Levant and Mesopotamia, covering thousands of years, multiple empires, and dozens of gods and goddesses. It’s rigorously researched throughout, and she (literally) gives us chapter and verse for each point along the way, using Akkadian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian, Greek, Roman, and Jewish texts and art to support her portrait.

The Yahweh of her book evolves over time, his body changes, his focus and activities shift. Starting out as a Canaanite storm god and fearsome warrior, a deity among many other deities, he’s usually depicted as a young god, but morphs over the centuries into a supreme being in his own right — from the son of El to the father god himself.

Gabriella Garofalo: Waiting for the Blue

Waiting for the Blue

 

Light never strikes, OK?
Ever seen the growers tending
The mighty flowers of my anger?
Can you see ‘em? Sure?
But I kept pure and unsoiled for you,
Yet only stray dogs and beggars keep stalking me-
By the by, are you my first prey?
Poor you, Light, you grim playground,
Empty ‘n’barren on a Sunday lunch time,
Kids too busy tucking away the scrumptious cakes,
And now getting even worse than wildest storms-
And you, my winter, your mother
Made you a wannabe Caliban,
Ever jealous of merry lovers,
Ever trying to play nasty tricks to lovely dreamers-
Anyway.

John Grey: Three Poems

MY ROSE, THE HUNDREDTH TIME TODAY

You caught me in a lie.
I called you “my rose”
though you know full well
that you are not a woody perennial
of the genus Rosa
but a middle-aged woman,
young-looking for her age,
who dresses well
and has a decent-paying job
in the city.

But I can’t help myself.
Metaphors drip from my tongue
even the simplistic ones.
You’re not an erect shrub.
You don’t have thorns.
So as to avoid seeing
you as you really are,
I seed a garden between us.
Those roses sprout, grow and blossom
and I mistake them for you.

Scroll to top