Prime Octave, 1-6
Being an original poetic form & poesy
I contain: Executor’s Summary; Note on the Script; Prime Octave 1-6; Argument.
Executor’s Summary: To replicate the poet’s formula, produce on one side of paper a poem of 3 parts (5 lines each, of couplets and single lines). This will be side A. On the reverse side, a poem of 8 lines, with the first three each being single lines and the next five being two couplets and a terminating single line. This will be side B. Produce photographs and transcripts of each poem and let them tell a story of progress through layers of meaning, just as in an octave each step up in tone tells a story of progress toward the tall expanse of the All-Octave.
Note on the Script: First, whatever words appear there entering your head, they will seem choppy, mercurial. Second, that literacy you’re applying would seem to be ‘kicking in.’ Now, hypnotized newly alone, we may comfortably get stoned–for soon, there may come others who destroy us.
Prime Octave 1 (A: Desert violinista; B: Wings that think)
PO1A. “Desert violinista”
As soon as you can
You must leave
This desert–
Why remain
In a desert?
Why remain
In a memory
Of your today,
My yesterday,
When now is then?
When then was now
Now then, where was I?
I was on wings,
Strung out violinista,
Seeker from violence.
PO1B. “Wings that think”
I wept on wings,
Lived, died, & leapt on wings,
Presented rings,
Repented things
I said when
I couldn’t know,
Or even couldn’t
Think.
Prime Octave 2 (A: Desolation; B: Gloomy engines of souls)
PO2A: “Desolation”
It takes immense
Skill, & enormous
Concentration,
Shedding these lines
Their short linings’
Consecration.
She might in past tense
Pick up my Conair comb
Plucking each hair like a wince,
Out through this mirror at my tomb.
Yes, I hoard poisons,
Blessed to be tested at coils;
Hard-boiling house guest,
Guess what a desert wind spins:
Desolation.
PO2B: “Gloomy engines of souls”
Guess less, ye witless moth;
Your anthills slave in their shade,
But sun’s face is up–
Up, up away upward,
Out of all days
And of fun words–
Downbeam of gleaming,
Gloomy engines of souls.
Prime Octave 3 (A: Viper melodies; B: Antsy)
PO3A.: “Viper melodies”
Yes, I am not
On the clock;
You guessed this,
Does that elevate
My stock?
Doth it what you may,
The paperlight, it supplies
High-beam sumerian
Memories!
Surprise! Silent melodies!
Passions are not what vapors
Empty grampas &
Grand mals,
But endings being embraced,
Like* by vipers.
PO3B.: “Antsy”
Splice thee soon so this one
Soon might slice thee open upon
Sky-dreams so smooth and new!
Nightmared fancy! Do it
But antsy about
Being ants
In the pantry
Of giants.
Prime Octave 4 (A: How silent I am; B: This tool)
PO4A:: “How silent I am”
I don’t know
How silent
I really am.
Do you know?
Have I ever met you before?
I don’t think so.
I believe I was told
By you just now
To enter, but then
I don’t really* remember
What I’m supposed
To be doing
Or to do
To you
And/or myself.
PO4B:: “This tool”
One of us is alone right now;
Am I right that it’s me?
And am I right that it’s not?
Shelf this one away, too,
Why don’t we, memory?
Stuff this one-too-many tool,
This writing this spree,
And let him please be free?
Prime Octave 5 (A: I am; B: Silver cells)
PO5A.:: “I am”
Rest in power, O’Shae Sibley.*
Yeah, I’m out of breath
Cuz I’m at the studio.
I’m a dancer, & I have cancer–
A terminal danger. I have
No fear: I am.
That I am will
Not be stopped–
That I am still
On that mountaintop,
Spilled on that mountaintop
Of no fear–there I am,
Having vogue in front view of
Everything & Everyone,
The sound of Brooklyn, of Philadelphia
Full breaths, standing up: no fear, I am.
PO5B.:: “Silver cells”
I am anger and am loss–
Disown God.
I swear on my own death–
Those who murder,
Let them be surrendered
Out of every shell,
By every living covenant.
Has thy Jesus a cell worth its silver?
Prime Octave 6 (A: Entity, or octavision; B: Echoic memory)
PO6A::: “Entity, or Octavision: Enmissioning the Octave as Poetic Object & Science”
I’m picturing the octave
As the poster at my dad’s
Doctor’s office:
It’s a humming string,
Strumming rhyme of lyre.
Known as the needle’s sting,
Blowing up our time on fire
Blushing unenviously,
Whooshed into ecstasy
Vined to the live-wire
Entity
A mind unwinds in endlessly,
Relentlessly, host of science
World’s unholiest appliances,
Hollower of trees.
PO6B::: “Echoic memory”
Follower of these & others’ sentences,
Does it lift your sunglassed hours
To have it beseem so plainly this?
Echoic memory,
The twinkling
Little dust–
It’s always dwindling
& It’s always thus.
Argument: Expect poetry to enliven, to heighten, and above all, to suffer ecstasies.
Hello, so I obviously know and think this is a good sample of poems, but I want also to know from those online, abroad as it were, what should we do with good samples of poems on the Internet?