
       FULL BLACK Q
       ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Black
  black
  black
  ten to eight
  black
  the night stalks everything
  there are shadows in which we cannot dwell
  others dwell in them
  you dwell in them
  like mirrors that explore
  the wrong side of you
  you who are lost
  you who are the seekers in the desert
  of african violets
  you find only scorpions
  you find only poison asps
  hot sand
  black night
  even stars don't shine
  black pawn
  in a jungle of deposed kings and queens
  you try hard
  try harder - it is the darkest night
  and the brightest day
  grey day
  paynes grey
  black non-colour
  mixed with white
  full colour produces
  grey
  grey
  black and grey
  darkest night
  the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly
  about old men waiting for their demise
  which has already come so long ago
  young men lost to emptiness
  everyone lost
  broken bottles
  drinking drunk
  stumbling falling falling
  it is the abysmal alley
  through which we stumble
  in which we fall
  it is the alley through which we walk
  drunk and drugged
  hoping for the night
  the day
  hoping for anything
  it is woman
  it is life

  it is a dragnet
  which is all that is gathered
  it is the poet gathering
  he gathers everything
  the tree might grow
  but it doesn't grow fast enough
  it is books and dust
  books and dust and
  repetitions
  it is periods of this
  it is periods
  the ending of a sentence
  the next paragraph does not begin as easily
  as the next note
  what is the next note
  what is not
  streets
  walking up and down the
  streets
  walking up and down
  one's past
  poems of the
  notebooks of the
  journals of the
  passing of the
  past the indecision
  the decision that
  gathers
  what to do
  or not to do
  the words
  angry words
  sullen words
  words without a hope
  of evidence
  that we exist
  letters
  answering letters and
  telephone calls
  and noise
  bearded men and
  lovely ladies
  poet's verses
  sunshine maybe
  perhaps clouds hide it
  hide everything
  there are clouds in my eyes
  your eyes
  everybody's eyes
  the eyes that see
  the eyes that don't
  the ears that hear
  and the ears that won't
  read read

  read the
  blackest poem on the whitest page
  in this monotony
  seated by the open window
  years ago
  dreaming
  dreams still come and go
  dreams still do a lot of things
  but we mix them with reality
  reality
  fine illusion
  like the tv set
  are there really actors
  are there really people who write this stuff
  are there really poets
  can there really be poets
  this cant be true
  truth is stranger than fiction
  fiction is the stuff of dreams
  dissected into fact
  and how we conquer it
  how we want to conquer it
  how we have a wish to conquer
  what is there
  what is left
  take stock - fifteen thousand pages
  fifteen thousand ages
  in a world a-swim
  and how the world has aged
  how we turn the page
  how the world has bled
  for understanding and for knowledge
  calling wood and city
  country places
  cars and bicycles to work
  I just realised how alien this is
  I just realised I was realizing
  nothing that has been the same
  stale conversation
  stagnant poem
  like the stagnant and polluted waters
  of the world
  whales and oceans
  saviour and society
  telephones
  snags in all communication
  it's a wrong number
  always the numbers one wants not
  out of order
  passed away
  ten years ago when the world was younger
  it was aging still

  this poem stretches back ten years
  it stretches back to shape and form
  upon an unknown canvas
  just exploded in my mind
  it ages back to everything
  old and new
  the past that is the past
  which was once before the future
  one searches and one finds
  renew yourselves
  yes thank you
  works of art are incorrigible
  everything is
  people of the roofs and jars of
  opium
  disturbance in the audience
  the audience is on the radio
  everyone should know that
  what
  yes yes
  whatever is
  whatever's not
  all of us
  chains do not unlock
  they make such pretty sounds
  clanking through the corridors
  go down do go down
  deep wells of wisdom
  filled with garbage
  on the beach a bottle
  and no message
  in the bottle
  cold wind
  and a dead gull
  white black
  feathers ruffled
  by a living wind
  pages
  black
  white
  peanuts and
  squirrels
  blue jays
  music
  photographs
  not liking one's own
  the image in the words
  the images on porcelain
  and the mirror of picasso
  the lives relived in words
  and photographs
  only surfaces
  too romantic to be seen
  in true flight

  why couldn't i have been born earlier
  when the world was young
  and people stuck together
  in their feeling for each other
  and their art
  all of us
  what have we done
  we have seen our heritage
  diminished
  we have shrunk from our duty
  as citizens of the world
  we have made a sham of everything
  fragile planet
  birds
  rows of birds are art
  everything is art
  nothing is
  where do we stop
  where do we go
  where do we see these things
  we do not see
  what are these words
  these images
  these repetitions
  what are these poems
  with no rhythm
  these poems with no rhyme or reason
  reasons being out these days
  the poets are such simple people
  who like to think themselves much more
  they know as much about a poem
  as they know about themselves
  nothing
  we are all dumb
  broken
  shattered
  vanquished
  dumb
  it is boredom that we are afraid of
  we play games
  it is games that we aught to be afraid of
  it is panes of window glass we see the world
  through
  see through everything
  writers cramp
  of course
  everything's the curse of need
  machines break down
  and can be fixed
  like democracy
  at ten a.m.

  rain
  clouds
  dark and black and
  grey
  paynes grey
  of the voices
  voices that communicate
  voices that fall silent
  that can't
  some have no ears
  some only scars
  some are devastated
  some collect their ingenuity
  and smoke a cigarette
  and talk to pretty girls
  about their civil wars
  in bed
  break
  pause
  back grey day
  day that must be rain
  fingers of prague
  rain that must be shadow
  without sun
  salt
  and pepper
  rain on all of us
  blue roofs
  darkness in the streets
  don't shave
  when morning comes
  like a lark on fire
  singing
  songs of torture
  but the morning isn't
  good enough
  don't look in the mirror
  even if it cracks
  don't look at people
  they might just look back
  don't do anything
  pace the room
  pace it up and down
  shout
  scream
  drink
  get drunk
  forget to forget
  everything
  the blackness in your heart
  the too full jungle in your mind
  contrived in spaces
  that are inaccessible
  to anyone but god
  and who can boast
  of being god

  my guts ache
  they don't write poems
  like that
  they copulate
  like that
  the dregs of earth
  the lowest of the low
  that grace the lips of satan
  in eternal hell
  what's the use
  disguising in the world
  the good and bad
  the sun and moon
  what togetherness is not
  good poems do not lie
  they twist the truth
  society tells the lie
  and why not
  we're only here for the duration
  of eternity
  we can never do ourselves
  the harm to put ourselves away
  what we do not finish in one life
  we finish in another
  what is the use
  what can we do
  of love and of devotion
  love what
  devotion to whom
  STOP
  and as the sign bearer stops
  everything also stops
  black
  notice that there
  are no stars
  the last one having been
  outdone by the dawn
  the pregnant dawn
  all our images are broken by the dawn
  the blazing dawn
  society depends upon the dawn
  the ageless dawn
  everything depends upon the dawn
  the dawn of what
  another day
  a new beginning
  question yourself
  the dawn of what
  i just want to top
  the dawn of
  what
  we know everything
  nothing
  the nothing that we know is everything
  only we don't know it yet
  isn't that a laugh

  the birds are on their southern journey
  give a warning sign
  they are going on vacation
  we only lock ourselves
  into our prison cells
  it is like we would be if we were not
  or vice versa
  with ladders climbing to the sky
  the rungs are broken
  we all think we can climb the ladder
  we try
  we only fall down trying
  and still think that we succeed
  we get nowhere
  the higher we get
  the further we get away from what we had
  and what we had
  has been our solid base
  we are in outer space
  the solid base is weightlessness
  how long will it last
  chains rust
  but to actually cast them off
  that takes courage
  how much courage do we have
  what is freedom
  will we ever dare again
  were we ever in danger as today
  do we have each other
  do we know any more
  do we know ourselves
  were all these things as important then
  are they that important now
  the art of fighting
  without philosophy
  yes yes yes
  they are important
  the saviour is society
  we are the witness to the truth
  we are the witness
  to the silence we equate
  with full communication
  if we could
  only learn the language
  of community
  if we would only listen
  to the cars and the
  machines
  and where the footsteps end
  upon a barren beach
  where is the wind
  where are we
  and do we really know ourselves
  do we really know anything at all
  do we really care

  are we so broken as to think that we are together yet
  and look at what we lose by losing
  look at all of it
  all the wonder
  the light
  the different light
  that permeates everything
  as open to the sky
  as love envelops us
  the blue cerulean
  the wonder of this studio
  with outstretched arms
  the radium sun
  heightens us in shadows
  shadows of our nature
  shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes
  let is leave the darkness of this city
  let us leave the darkness of all cities
  let us walk into Beethoven's pastoral
  and let us seek the quiet place
  where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds
  and breathe the freshet air of harmony
  beneath the gentle universe of stars

  it is late
  and it is early
  and the voices of the night are silent
  and the voices of the day begin
  another clamour
  i will say no more
  i will let the word come through
  of its own accord
  forgive me reader if i've said too much
  i will say no more

  Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara.
       Shantih shantih shantih...


                            - Night of 21/22 Aug 1975

                            - Klaus J. Gerken
