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Contemplative, Jack Spicer, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeJack Spicer

A Diamond

A diamond Is there At the heart of the moon or the branches or my nakedness And there is nothing in the universe like diamond Nothing in the whole mind. The poem is a seagull resting on a pier at the end of the ocean. A dog howls at the moon A dog howls at the branches A dog howls at the nakedness A dog howling with pure mind. I ask for the poem to be as pure as a seagull's belly. The universe falls apart and discloses a diamond Two words called seagull are peacefully floating out where the waves are The dog is dead there with the moon, with the branches, with my nakedness And there is nothing in the universe like diamond Nothing in the whole mind.
ContemplativeJack Spicer

Radar

No one exactly knows Exactly how clouds look in the sky Or the shape of the mountains below them Or the direction in which fish swim. No one exactly knows. The eye is jealous of whatever moves And the heart Is too far buried in the sand To tell. They are going on a journey Those deep blue creatures Passing us as if they were sunshine Look Those fins, those closed eyes Admiring each last drop of the ocean. I crawled into bed with sorrow that night
ContemplativeJack Spicer

Afternoon

The sky asks afternoon for a word. --- "It is 1:36. A black cloud Has crossed one of the white clouds. 13 empty boats And a seagull." The bay asks afternoon for a word. --- "The wind is blowing Southwest at nine miles an hour I am in love with an ocean Whose heart is the color of wet sand. At 1:37 13 empty boats And a seagull." Afternoon asks the ocean, "Why does a man die?" --- "It is 1:37
ContemplativeJack Spicer

Debussy

My shadow moves silently Upon the water in the ditch. Upon my shadow are the frogs Blocked off from the stars. The shadow demands from my body Unmoving images. My shadow skims the water like a huge Violet-colored mosquito. A hundred crickets try to mine gold From the light in the rushes A light born in my heart Upon the ditch, reflected.
ContemplativeJack Spicer

Friday, the 13th

At the base of the throat is a little machine Which makes us able to say anything. Below it are carpets Red, blue, and green-colored. I say the flesh is not grass. It is an empty house In which there is nothing But a little machine And big, dark carpets.

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