Variations on Charles Olson, with Deference to Anaximander and Yājñavalkya

I. Pollen sneezing in the night

answers drumming ‘poorwill.

Old Heidegger’s not too sharp;

bee-stings start, to make me smart:

nature does not heed my Dasein.

Upteen-point three kalpas after the big bang,

once again begins the punishment;

heat’s to counter cold, for its adikia; thus

equinox (a pox be on’t).

Lonely languor follows

lust -- left within old

lady thumb and her four daughters.

Pain pounds, hatred motivates my typewriter;

half a million aching finger beats:

angry magnum opus.

Christ arose this season;

crazy religion.

II. Ecstatic, hearing birds,

I sniff: how nice, the mums,

the lilacs, daffodils, etcetera

I get fresh honey for my tea,

and sip; if I’m insipid,

who cares?

This ordered cosmos one more time

brings day to equal night. How just!

My fingers lovingly caress

the keys; I write, erect, erotic

masterpieces.

Old God was in the throes of straight

spring fever: shouting down the skeptics

to make the world.

III. Marx put it thus on birds, etcetera:

The best of bees is still no architect.

My tool is Brahman; we make

pleasure, pain, the cosmos, Dasein, all the gods

In one burst.

Tell it, typewriters!

(5/86)                                                 

[Cf. Olson, Variations Done for Gerard van de Wiele; Anaximander fragment 1; Brihadāranyaka Upanishad 3.]

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