Voice of Grace

 

(This live performance from 1966 sounds better on audiophones)

Grace really is slick: articulate and intelligent.
Listen to her wisdom. Pray for her salvation.

INTERVIEWS

00:00 Sally Go ‘Round The Roses 06:35 Didn’t Think So 10:00 Grimly Forming 13:57 Somebody To Love 18:20 Father Bruce 21:57 Outlaw Blues 24:26 Often As I May 28:10 Arbitration 32:12 White Rabbit 38:24 That’s How It Is 43:00 Darkly Smiling 45:35 Nature Boy 48:50 You Can’t Cry 55:30 Daydream Nightmare 1:00:06 Everybody Knows 1:02:42 Born To Be Burned 1:05:57 Father

Say Lovely Nymph, where dost thou dwell?
Where is that Secret Silvan Seat,
That Melancholy, Sweet retreat,
From whence, thou dost these notes repel?
And moving Syllables repeat?
Oh! Lovely Nymph, our Joyes to swell,
Thy hollow, leafy Mansion tell.
Or, if thou only Charm’st the Ear,
And never wilt to sight appear,
But dost alone in voice, excel,
Still with it, fix us here.

Where Cynthia, lends her gentle light,
Whilst the appeas’d, expanded air
A passage for thee, does prepare,
And Strephon’s tunefull voice, invite,
Thine, a soft part with him to bear.
Oh! pleasure, when thou’dst take a flight
Beyond thy common mortal height,
When to thy Sphere above thou’dst press,
And men like angels, thou would’st bless
Thy season be, like this fair night,
And Harmony thy dress.

Anne Finch 1696

Möbiustripshow

pre-Genesis,
she adumbrates in artifice
as you orate, then hesitate
before the portal of unnamed being,
reconnoitering.You gather your forces
to exploit her resources
aroma of Soma:
illimitable subliminal bliss
limned in liquescent lucidity. . . Tantric hat-trick:
pull a white dove out of the universal yoni
when her lingam penetrates your third eye
your chakras align and you hit her cosmic jackpot:
all sevens in unknown Proto-Indo-European tongues.
https://i0.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/Slot_machine.jpg/800px-Slot_machine.jpg?zoom=2The apsaras invite all the devis over
for Christmas in Jerusalem
Pangea cracks, spreads apart in differentiation;
incontinent continents drift
then recombine
in individuation . . .Your anima gets an enema
as the Beast melts down
and the heavens descend.

Then clean it all up
and look for a beer in the cosmic fridge.

Annunciation by Mati Klarwein: 1961

 

 


PROMPT #28:

Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem.
It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory
or another significant space from your life.

(off-prompt today, with apologies to Emily Dickinson)

 

Journey to the East

Sitars, meditation, enlightenment…

that exotic spirituality of the East…

this song puts it all in truly transcendental perspective.

Make sure you read some/all of Hermann Hesse’s novels
and don’t forget to tip your Guru!

Hindoo Thing

MORE Cosmic Brotherhood HERE
BEYOND COSMIC BROTHERHOOD HERE

IMAGE CREDIT: shutterstock.com

Counterculture Recounted

Beatniks got hip until hippies got beat
by their own rock’n’roll and by riot cops
as they made love and war in field and street:
spoiled rebel children, psychedelic flops
who thought their youth made them immune
to lies from gods that pipe that tune.

Beatniks leaned first toward hip existential,
breaking out of the fifties mental mold.
Culture’s Petri dish turned pestilential;
drugs, deviance and rebellion: dull as old.
Yet novel did it ever seem
to souls exploited for their dream.

The Hippies took that bongo tea-house scene;
added acid’s naked technicolor:
freak-outs, love-ins, the normalized obscene;
politics of outrage, now made duller.
Impulsivity their passion.
(Sin is never out of fashion.)

Youth’s dissident victory incomplete
they glimpsed on flowery fields of battle
kaleidoscopic visions of defeat:
the psychedelic baby’s death-rattle.
Allen Ginsberg’s perverted freak.
Now reached its Himalayan peak.

Trace back in time this cultural malaise;
the poisoned sources where doubt first enticed.
In retrospect we diagnose their ways:
anti-God, anti-family, anti-Christ.
Oh no, you say; that was just youth—
we had to follow our own truth.

What did we learn in your San Fran cafés
poetically dense in plume-clouds of smoke?
That arty nihilism’s just a phase
and transgression of morals a tired joke.
(The Man will always make a buck
off fools who live to smoke and fuck.)

That mystic idols are not Truth . . .
blown minds will never save a soul;
Faith and Wisdom, both alien to youth,
in child’s-play, play a minor role.

That beats burn out and hippies age;
we’re no wiser for their excess.
Unwashed ravings, Bohemian rage
contain no truths—much less, success.

What did they teach us while tripping and stoned ?
Could it nourish at all, their cosmic brew—
their cult of youth, their dying gods bemoaned,
their howls, their road trips, their breakings on through?

Only this, Daddy-O — now dig my writ;
my be-boppin’ speed rant, my acid rock:
that drug-addled rebels who scrawl half-lit
fumble with a key that cannot unlock.

 

I wonder sometimes
How Haiku got popular
When it is so DULL