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Book of Records


brings grief
shakes common truths about

determined to stand
on ground
beneath which depths are yet to be  found
a no
as deep as it can go
becomes a way to soon address
a yes




Tick tick tock
the cosmos is a clock
push pull bang clang
to be measured without awe
nothing more

 The brain’s born a blank
An empty tank
to be filled by the world
and whatever is hurled
as truth and rule
In the air or at school

Voices within
equal meaningless din
emotions devotions notions
what is felt inside
must be denied
as not on the track
from atom to star
and back

Poetry art music
inspirations that coax
at best a hoax
a game by name
to ease and please
the  mad and sad





With nothing left to keep
Confess a guess

For poet and poem
What source if not the universe
Of course

The cosmic norm
Create  transform

Thus for us

The mind of humankind
The same as that from which
It came

To feel is real
The voice inside Is guide
And link to all that’s ever been


Say beauty’s reach
If rarely    barely
Holds a truth to teach

The way and play
That sweeps away what is
And blindly gropes
For new and true
Marks poem and source
The universe—again—of course
Search for the words
Even when words bend with the bending
                                        Of time
Prevail      Fail
No choice     Rejoice


  1970’s Cosmology news

the clock in the clock is no more
the deafening prayer to the unreal is subsumed

It is all pulse
shimmering hoops bonding into the stuff of concern
wonder   negation   trial

Through the thing
into the forming of the thing
into the forming of form
into the patterns of forming form
into one’s own pattern of forming form so that the thing
in its wholeness    resolved  perceived  enclosed
strengthens and expands the origin of its making
the field of its keeping
the thrust of its being
into the swell of
made  making
thing into thing
through the thing
into the shining of the thing




LET US assume with the new physicists and cosmologists and the old, traditional mystics that the twirl and whirl of everything small and smaller--down and down to the blanket of beginnings and up and up past the apron of the sky through the veil of the stars to as far as far can go--the all in all--was born in a reservoir of nothingness infused with infinite--immeasurable potential--a vacuum
awakened to structure by a ripple--a teasing void whose virtual foundation for the dynamic of an ongoing creation--the universe--bubbled up--bubbled up---vanished until something stuck--came together in a way that pressed and presses still toward further and further complexity--variety within wholeness--that weaves together from what was what has never been before through a process that may be likened to the making of a poem when the doing involves that rare rare miracle of immediacy--directness--pre-consciousness--a creating that flings out images beyond the poet’s experience or scope of knowledge--that makes reality instead of abstracting from perceptions of reality or memories.

SO THE UNIVERSE as a poem in the making and the poet--at moments labeled
inspiration--catching the threads--never the whole--but even in a miniscule catch of reality--living and setting down the way of creativity at the level of nature to infinity--which is to never know for certain what will be from what is--but to understand that the way of what is must be followed to its dissolution--through understanding of its limits---through reducing its elements into a dance of energy so free it allows for not mere change but what has never been before---concretized by testing and choosing among elements of newness created .
A CYCLE then---what exists ground into purest energy for release of what can be which comes to be through processes finally resting on the hardest needs of reality wed to the imagined…..the found …the gift.

1960’s through 2006

visions     and     alarms

pauses for contentment


Parable II

Is the way always down from the trees?
Or out from the swamp   crawling?

Freeze the past to escape the day

The heavens extend their mysteries
Laughter prevails
without cause



Ancients’ chant

We come not to reclaim our gifts
But to beg forgiveness

How could we not know
That by guarding our Ways
As fiercely as eagles their nests
Or foxes their pups
We would bring our youth
To the last days of their future?

Oarless we set them in waters unmarked
Our children swallowed by rapids
Drowned or thrown broken into forests
Weeping for home

Remember us grieving
You sons and daughters in the mist
Forever closing the circle we bequeathed you
Out of love

© Hopman
     GERALD HOPMAN                   Home       Poems 1956-2012       Latest Works       Bio       Statement      Contact