Thank you, Celia, for sharing the Gift of your Love.
“Love and death are the great gifts that are given to us; mostly they are passed on unopened.” Rainer Maria Rilke
“if we remembered every day that we could lose someone at any moment, we would love them more fiercely and freely and without fear. Not because there is nothing to lose, but because everything can be lost.” Unknown
Hello Celia, you infamous “AIDS denalist” (Wi[c]kipedia) you, thank you for being you. As e.e., fellow poet knew, that is the hardest thing to do.
During the first lockdown here in Auckland, New Zealand, circa March 2020—which I was against from the start and was fired from a teaching job because of my rebellion (“A man who says No is also a man who says Yes”)—I began extensive research into AIDS intuiting it was the prototype for what has become the Global Covid1984 Totalitarian Takeover Attempt.
As a Libertarian, 1992 (Voluntaryist since 2000), in Big Bear, California with my Other Half Katharine, then still my wife and life to be, I was reading Michael Fumento’s The Myth of Heterosexual AIDS, and concluded that CIA sanctioned very acrid acronym stood for Acquired Intelligence Deficiency Syndrome (now post Covid1984: Aggressive Information Duplicity Syndrome).
I read/viewed Duesberg, Scheff, Null, Scovill/Maggiore, and you. I was particularly drawn to the story of Christine and Robin (thank you for your all too human reporting on them), their two children and utterly courageous battle against the AIDS Mafia with truly Greek Tragedy finales, and in 2020 contacted Robin and exchanged emails, Memento Mori. What a woman Christine was, is, and I posted on my Facebook 2020 (banned today) a tribute to her and Robin putting a wonderFull video song by Pat Metheny that to me celebrates her life and mourns her death for those of us who have reached Humanhood. Pat Metheny “From This Place”
I am grateful for your Rebellion, Celia, stay strong, safe if possible, but always free, Jack in Castor Bay, New Zealand (email me, one poet to another: responsiblyfree@protonmail.com)
Life Come To, Through You Love and Italy–Poem by Jack Carney
(In memory of Katharine; with gratitude to Martha)
The entire poem below, is illustrated and read by author on YouTube:
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing. Yes… It is unbearable to feel oneself a committed and impotent part of beauty that is dying through the fault of others. Committed in one’s breast and impotent in the movement of ones mind.
I’ve been look for a Stephen Levine poem on dying that seems to disappear from the internet after he died. It starts with something like The feet/ soles are sensitive like the palms …
Was half watching Virgin River on Netflix recently (I know) and as I’m prone to do I noticed embedded programming… this time around the anguish of grief. The actors show us what do do like a mother’s cam face tells a kid how bad their scrape is (sans nurturing intent of course). Despite being an empathetic, therapist and fairly hard griever, it came to me that we’ve been told so many times how terrible death is bc fear of death is a big controller. Not a new insight to the world but still an “aha moment” clicked for me. And I thought of all of the v accidents and covax deaths and What if they are wrongful deaths but not bad on some level? I/ most of us live more in the physical that spiritual, but something to contemplate.
I grew unafraid of death when my mother abandoned me, ignoring my legitimate fear of it when I was age thirteen. As I awaited death alone, I gradually began to long for it. It was then I knew for certain that she did not love me.
Forgive me. I am finally free of SSRI's after thirty five years of numbness. My feelings have returned, and now I can grieve and cry all that was bottled up inside. This is hard, but not as hard as being unable to cry. Tears are healing...
I’m so sorry for your loss. What a heartbreak. Bravo to you for getting through the withdrawal, and for feeling your feelings. You haven’t abandoned yourself.. I’m sending love and prayers and wishing you support and comfort.
For you and others here who may find useful: great resources on alternativementalhealth.com for its name including withdrawing from meds. DrKimD.con offers impactful resources for healing and thriving in all areas of life, many for free online. And emofree.com and TapwithBrad.com are great. And cptsdfoundation.org for daily free calls and other great support. And R20.com for anyone looking for a pro health recovery virtual community witb free daily meetings and many other great and very affordable offerings). Thanks for your courage to share.
My personal style is short and sweet. I mean, the way i write them. This one was published in: POETRY’S NOT DEAD - A Collection of Poems from Southern Punks, published in 2016. (Available everywhere) Where I am 1/6 of the authors:
Hypocrites, Half-Wits
& Hypnotized Heads
have Mastered the Masses
with Mesmerized Meds
Blinded by Bullshit
& Bolstered with Bribes
Tricked all the Treaters
& Tortured the Tribes
- jamie dlux
I write all different kinds though. Heres one of my favorite limericks I wrote around the same time (though not published in book):
There once was a concept called time
Often thought of in linear lines
Though the hands of the clock
Tic around as they Toc
It only exists in our minds
I have many more too. They’re fun to write. Like putting puzzles together. ❤️
I once had an extremely intense experience as a young lad. Probably about 4 years old. I can still see the little tan shorts I was wearing, or bearing. I may not have had a shirt on.
I was upstairs in parents bedroom watching TV. I saw an image, of a man, seated on ground. Threadbare, soiled garments. Weakened state, from forced malnutrition. Shrunken face, hollowed shoulder, & withered clavicle.
He was waving off camera's detailing, & historical, pictorial, gathering. For posterity's sake. But he felt, the clutches, of eternity's wake, with tethered, & metaled, rake.
He within, was forlorn & begging, "See me not, see me not. For I AM not, what once was a man, to be."
(The cameraman, I imagine now, meant no offense. But rather, felt the claw & the maw, of Mankind's horror).
I began to weep, as no child, who at such an age, should ever, render, such tears.
My solar plexus, was heaving, & weaving in 'n out, in 'n out, like a tortured accordion.
I flew from the televised room, down our homed wooden stairs, to floor.
Searched & found mother in kitchen. Explained, as best I could, what I had witnessed & what it imparted, in the insides, of me.
I can still hear my own little explanation. Discordant, unknowing of the lingo, bereft of historical play, with its unrighteous unfolding.
I grabbed her by the hand, & dragged her upstairs, for a sea, of the seeing.
I can hear her NOW, explaining the history, of what I did see.
Perhaps you can help? I've looked for the author here, but have come up empty. It has touched me a bit, and I might like to perhaps use it and properly credit it in the future. I haven't dug into it all that deeply, but do you know who wrote it? Ken (kenneth.peaker@yahoo.ca)
It seems to me that life is poetry. Another way of saying this is that everything is God, or, there is nothing but God. The trick is to see it. Somewhere between the juncture of wisdom and the fool – both of which we misunderstand with our hungry minds – is the space where this trick can be learned. And I think that's why we incarnate.
I love the way the three poems you selected work together by the way, and how they are so apposite.
But I don't have a favourite poem any more than a I have favourite daughter. Right now, however, in this historical moment, I keep remembering "If" by Kipling. Also very apposite in my opinion: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46473/if---
Another 'poem' I love is the film "The Tale of the Princess Kaguya". As of all true art, to describe it is to harm it.
Love both of these, thank you for sharing them!!
In Loving Memory Of Barry Farber HD 720p
70 views May 7, 2021 A memorial film for radio legend Barry Farber, made by
his daughter Celia Farber, on the occasion of the one year anniversary of his passing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fY2tFSdGpy4
Thank you, Celia, for sharing the Gift of your Love.
“Love and death are the great gifts that are given to us; mostly they are passed on unopened.” Rainer Maria Rilke
“if we remembered every day that we could lose someone at any moment, we would love them more fiercely and freely and without fear. Not because there is nothing to lose, but because everything can be lost.” Unknown
Hello Celia, you infamous “AIDS denalist” (Wi[c]kipedia) you, thank you for being you. As e.e., fellow poet knew, that is the hardest thing to do.
During the first lockdown here in Auckland, New Zealand, circa March 2020—which I was against from the start and was fired from a teaching job because of my rebellion (“A man who says No is also a man who says Yes”)—I began extensive research into AIDS intuiting it was the prototype for what has become the Global Covid1984 Totalitarian Takeover Attempt.
As a Libertarian, 1992 (Voluntaryist since 2000), in Big Bear, California with my Other Half Katharine, then still my wife and life to be, I was reading Michael Fumento’s The Myth of Heterosexual AIDS, and concluded that CIA sanctioned very acrid acronym stood for Acquired Intelligence Deficiency Syndrome (now post Covid1984: Aggressive Information Duplicity Syndrome).
I read/viewed Duesberg, Scheff, Null, Scovill/Maggiore, and you. I was particularly drawn to the story of Christine and Robin (thank you for your all too human reporting on them), their two children and utterly courageous battle against the AIDS Mafia with truly Greek Tragedy finales, and in 2020 contacted Robin and exchanged emails, Memento Mori. What a woman Christine was, is, and I posted on my Facebook 2020 (banned today) a tribute to her and Robin putting a wonderFull video song by Pat Metheny that to me celebrates her life and mourns her death for those of us who have reached Humanhood. Pat Metheny “From This Place”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJZ--WNq_II&list=PL65KT5jyW20nBduaZPPSlSl-e3QknhQGk&index=6
I am grateful for your Rebellion, Celia, stay strong, safe if possible, but always free, Jack in Castor Bay, New Zealand (email me, one poet to another: responsiblyfree@protonmail.com)
Life Come To, Through You Love and Italy–Poem by Jack Carney
(In memory of Katharine; with gratitude to Martha)
The entire poem below, is illustrated and read by author on YouTube:
https://www.resourceforyoursource.com/26_jack-reading-his-poem
1.
Willingly, overwhelmingly your flesh
Wells, the lightning flashes. Stunned
The night opens its legs and we come
Bearing our shared body of consciousness.
Your new moon smile traces my birth
In tongues sapient with the timbre
Of Italian time that seasons even death.
Hush of crushed herbs on the breeze,
Tempting bite of the lemon sun,
Your lips soar with gulls to the endless
Horizon behind the released teeth of Yes.
The Ligurian Sea stretches its bluest skin
As Riomaggiore sketches pastels on stark cliffs.
I dress you in the purest ache of nakedness.
Outside, Chianti stained pansies pour
Through the crack’s door of light, while
I fall through you falling through me
In a stall of when, where my mind
Knows itself at home and finds just
Love in every cell of your sex.
2.
Tell me about joy, when I stand up
To your flowing over, and we rise
Together lithe with longing into love
Knowing nothing but the understanding
That enables what cannot be withstood.
First urge, can you touch the sleek
Ease that trusts? Show me my mind
Within the museum of your moment’s body.
Limits begin to extend our ends
As your cries proclaim the code of beauty.
Whose dawn does the mountain climb
As we shine to encompass the world?
Textures of time tighten into a pattern
We recognise as each in the other.
3.
Simple caress of the Italian sun
Upon slipping water that blesses ledges,
I come to you as a supple ripple
Which runs just under your skin
Extending forever. Fountains flower out
Of your source as my mouth blossoms
Discovering your life ripe with truth.
Our flesh presses purest olive oil,
The light of our bodies burning
On the breath above death.
No release but the tension
Of the sweet string that brings
The melody across the emptiness.
Freely given at great cost, accept
The offering of me that I value as you.
4.
My past sown with dutiful futures
Working the weight of Being borne,
I am in Italy with you, love, and not
With death. My fingers touch, neuron
By neuron, patterns of sifted beauty
Saturated with chestnut blossoms’
Fragrance along the Adige, in Verona,
Our life together gathered here
In this sweet hive of stinging words.
How have I come to make this
Love and dirge to Italy and you?
“The remedy for dying is living” –
The Chinese proverb proves the rose
Knows what to do with the sun.
Grow. And I do through you.
5.
In San Fermo Maggiore cathedral
I light a candle in the sunlight
Stained by Saints who are trying to forgive
Life with death. I am trying to forgive
Death with life, as the bells begin
Widening the chasms of history
To test the strength of my desire’s span.
You too, love, I would bridge with
My life to come, now, remembering Italy,
San Stefano near Ponta Pietra, where
The sacred molders under the groined vaults.
Loving you in sheerest moonlight I ladle
Your molten flesh from one hand to the other.
The Adige river flicks white scarves of lace
That swallows chase in the late spring spate.
6.
We were so alike in our differences,
So it was too easy for it to be
Too difficult. So, I stumbled
Pausing to stand over you with No,
That knife I put between death and life.
Then I chose to learn the truth
That will earn your love with mine.
I would be yours, not yet for sure,
Never for cure, but as the unknown
Willing to be known. After so
Many deaths of those I joined with,
What have I left but the deft right of loss?
I toss one life after another up
Into the air and they never return
To touch again. Juggler of jeopardy
In the strobe light of evolution’s mind,
I see life in frames of flames that come
And go, separate yet connected, rising
And falling, fearful love surrounding
The wick burning down into the dark.
I would hold you holding me,
Nested care and loveliness engendering
The world we choose not to refuse.
MISSING STANZAS ON URL LINK NOT ENOUGH ROOM HERE
21.
My end begins with what your lips
Teach when they touch. Your tongue
Lights the torch of my life and I burn
With your breath. Eros del tipo arciere,
Flashes the stone face of obliterated
Flesh in the museum above the Roman
Theater, Verona, as the storm hits
And lightning riddles black into white.
I watch the hail from centuries of whims
Flung up to fall back: each uniquely
Layered You separately left to know
Its common ignorance of earth.
We lie alone and only tell the truth
In pairs where praise equals pain.
So come to me, love, test my life
Again to tell the story of our time
Together. Italy whispers in our ear
Tristis eris si solus eris, as Ovid
Wrings words out of fear to tally
Our years in crystal worlds that crash
Into the earth to urge the seed out
Of itself. Love, give me your lips
Which double the doubt but alone
Soothe the truth of death to be lived.
Damned to be divided by Scire Licet
The self staggers beyond salvation
To complete its task in wanting you,
Love, to become life’s reason, knowing
Apart from must be turned into a part of,
As love of wisdom into wisdom of love.
Thank You Celia. Maria Rainer Rilke keeps me grounded through these times.
What Links Us
Bless the spirit that makes connections,
for truly we live in what we imagine.
Clocks move alongside our real life
with steps that are ever the same.
Though we do not know our exact location,
we are held in place by what links us.
Across tractless distances
antennas sense each other.
Pure attention, the essence of the powers!
Distracted by each day’s doing,
how can we hear the signals?
Even as the farmer labors
there where the seed turns into summer,
it is not his work. It is Earth who gives.
Rainer Maria Rilke Sonnets to Orpheus I, 12
Thank you for the detour... The first two poems really spoke to me.
What I’m witnessing lately keeps reminding me of Hemingway’s shortest story... not sure it’s a poem though.
For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.
I’ll circle back with something more beautiful, since that’s where I’d like to land.
What other form is there to so describe the excruciating pain of reality? Thank you for sharing these, Celia.
FULFILLMENT
~Author unknown
Lo, I have opened unto you the
gates of my being,
And like a tide, you have flowed
into me.
The innermost recesses of my spirit
are full of you
And all the channels of my soul
are grown sweet with your presence
For you have brought me peace;
The peace of great tranquil waters,
And the quiet of the summer sea.
Your hands are filled with peace as
The noon-tide is filled with light;
About your head is bound the eternal
Quiet of the stars, and in your heart
dwells the calm miracle of twilight.
I am utterly content.
In all my being is no ripple of unrest
For I have opened unto you the
Wide gates of my being
And like a tide, you have flowed into me.
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing. Yes… It is unbearable to feel oneself a committed and impotent part of beauty that is dying through the fault of others. Committed in one’s breast and impotent in the movement of ones mind.
I’ve been look for a Stephen Levine poem on dying that seems to disappear from the internet after he died. It starts with something like The feet/ soles are sensitive like the palms …
Was half watching Virgin River on Netflix recently (I know) and as I’m prone to do I noticed embedded programming… this time around the anguish of grief. The actors show us what do do like a mother’s cam face tells a kid how bad their scrape is (sans nurturing intent of course). Despite being an empathetic, therapist and fairly hard griever, it came to me that we’ve been told so many times how terrible death is bc fear of death is a big controller. Not a new insight to the world but still an “aha moment” clicked for me. And I thought of all of the v accidents and covax deaths and What if they are wrongful deaths but not bad on some level? I/ most of us live more in the physical that spiritual, but something to contemplate.
This is another good one by Levine ..
Millennium blessing
There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.
It does not come in time,
…….but in timelessness
when the mind sinks into the heart
and we remember.
It is insistent grace that draws us
to the edge and beckons us surrender
safe territory and enter our enormity.
We know we must pass
…….beyond knowing
and fear the shedding.
But we are pulled upward
…….none-the-less
through forgotten ghosts
…….and unexpected angels,
luminous.
And there is nothing left to say
but we are That.
And that is what we sing about.
Stephen Levine (July 17, 1937 – January 17, 2016)
I grew unafraid of death when my mother abandoned me, ignoring my legitimate fear of it when I was age thirteen. As I awaited death alone, I gradually began to long for it. It was then I knew for certain that she did not love me.
Forgive me. I am finally free of SSRI's after thirty five years of numbness. My feelings have returned, and now I can grieve and cry all that was bottled up inside. This is hard, but not as hard as being unable to cry. Tears are healing...
I’m so sorry for your loss. What a heartbreak. Bravo to you for getting through the withdrawal, and for feeling your feelings. You haven’t abandoned yourself.. I’m sending love and prayers and wishing you support and comfort.
For you and others here who may find useful: great resources on alternativementalhealth.com for its name including withdrawing from meds. DrKimD.con offers impactful resources for healing and thriving in all areas of life, many for free online. And emofree.com and TapwithBrad.com are great. And cptsdfoundation.org for daily free calls and other great support. And R20.com for anyone looking for a pro health recovery virtual community witb free daily meetings and many other great and very affordable offerings). Thanks for your courage to share.
Thank you for your kind response and prayers. I will check out the references you provided. God bless you...
let's go out there
and see what's beyond the line
where the light fingers at the darkness
there's a wind blowing up something
out there
a creation of beauty
a simple stroke of the brush
and we're gone
-- Unpublished, untitled poem by a gentleman who goes by the name of Beautiful Rust on YouTube
Read out loud by Beautiful Rust, here:
A drive to Sugar Grove, WV
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIBzR9etwk0
Sugar Grove, WV is located in the NRQZ, known colloquially as The Zone...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_National_Radio_Quiet_Zone
I want to go there, to the Quiet zone
My personal style is short and sweet. I mean, the way i write them. This one was published in: POETRY’S NOT DEAD - A Collection of Poems from Southern Punks, published in 2016. (Available everywhere) Where I am 1/6 of the authors:
Hypocrites, Half-Wits
& Hypnotized Heads
have Mastered the Masses
with Mesmerized Meds
Blinded by Bullshit
& Bolstered with Bribes
Tricked all the Treaters
& Tortured the Tribes
- jamie dlux
I write all different kinds though. Heres one of my favorite limericks I wrote around the same time (though not published in book):
There once was a concept called time
Often thought of in linear lines
Though the hands of the clock
Tic around as they Toc
It only exists in our minds
I have many more too. They’re fun to write. Like putting puzzles together. ❤️
GREEN WATERS,
& TEAL SEA TEA,
GRAY GRAVELED SANDS
& A MOUNTAIN-ED
PICNIC BENCH
FOR TWO...
WITH A VIEW...
~ Marco Forno
{Explorer, of Images.
Horse rider, swinging mallet within hand, upon the land}
https://unsplash.com/@marco4no
A CHILD ONCE SAW...
A SEA, OF HUMANITY
IN ONE FACE
TORTURED
...BEYOND SENSIBILITY
I once had an extremely intense experience as a young lad. Probably about 4 years old. I can still see the little tan shorts I was wearing, or bearing. I may not have had a shirt on.
I was upstairs in parents bedroom watching TV. I saw an image, of a man, seated on ground. Threadbare, soiled garments. Weakened state, from forced malnutrition. Shrunken face, hollowed shoulder, & withered clavicle.
He was waving off camera's detailing, & historical, pictorial, gathering. For posterity's sake. But he felt, the clutches, of eternity's wake, with tethered, & metaled, rake.
He within, was forlorn & begging, "See me not, see me not. For I AM not, what once was a man, to be."
(The cameraman, I imagine now, meant no offense. But rather, felt the claw & the maw, of Mankind's horror).
I began to weep, as no child, who at such an age, should ever, render, such tears.
My solar plexus, was heaving, & weaving in 'n out, in 'n out, like a tortured accordion.
I flew from the televised room, down our homed wooden stairs, to floor.
Searched & found mother in kitchen. Explained, as best I could, what I had witnessed & what it imparted, in the insides, of me.
I can still hear my own little explanation. Discordant, unknowing of the lingo, bereft of historical play, with its unrighteous unfolding.
I grabbed her by the hand, & dragged her upstairs, for a sea, of the seeing.
I can hear her NOW, explaining the history, of what I did see.
https://youtu.be/mXttp8_xSHQ
THE SALT OF WATER
***
"For The Lord
Maketh The Waters
& Our tears
Of the same substance.
For the former
Washes the body
& The Latter
Cleanses,
The Soul."
~ Quoted once, by JFK
Perhaps you can help? I've looked for the author here, but have come up empty. It has touched me a bit, and I might like to perhaps use it and properly credit it in the future. I haven't dug into it all that deeply, but do you know who wrote it? Ken (kenneth.peaker@yahoo.ca)
~ Enya
https://youtu.be/5BXTdLbz4qI
HE KNEW, THE MOMENT OF SURRENDER, HIS EYES BARED BLUE, UPON HER AZURE SKY
REBORN & REBIRTH
Turns of centuries
Bear witness true
Of flowered streams
Flowing fields & rivers few
Standing ere she
A sculpture
Already formed
Hand of God, sewn
Slender to form
Music to ear
Heartbeat soars
On coasts, of shore
Feelings born
& Emotions borne
Over God's Treasure...
Gladiolus torn
Knowing all this
And all the more
Music played by she
Strings stum, her symphony
Ears alive
& Eyes wide
Fulsome wavefront
Crest untold
She stands liltingly
& Speaks spark-a-ly
Pure communication...
...Flows...
Words of wisdom
Gathered into
& Upon Soul
From deepening depths, shown
From whence ?
Doth she ?
So see
He wonders, wonderingly...
Oh, there it is !
She bathes
In morning's stream
Naked & exposed
No no !!
Not a trifle
Not a rifle
Positioned toward self
But a Reflection
A Substance of honeyed self
A fragrant morning
A fragile truth
Beyond mere pose...
***
He alone, once went
To The Met
& Gazed upon
A mural-ed wall
& Doth she did stand
Streamlined
So fair
Bathing in & within
A morning stream...
Bare.
*
(not the Dutch master,
But far far far better,
Delicate, Serene, & Still)
It seems to me that life is poetry. Another way of saying this is that everything is God, or, there is nothing but God. The trick is to see it. Somewhere between the juncture of wisdom and the fool – both of which we misunderstand with our hungry minds – is the space where this trick can be learned. And I think that's why we incarnate.
I love the way the three poems you selected work together by the way, and how they are so apposite.
But I don't have a favourite poem any more than a I have favourite daughter. Right now, however, in this historical moment, I keep remembering "If" by Kipling. Also very apposite in my opinion: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46473/if---
Another 'poem' I love is the film "The Tale of the Princess Kaguya". As of all true art, to describe it is to harm it.