[ .night.treads. ]

[ .night.treads. ]

I live at night
in the wet streets
in the dry whispering trees
and in the echoing foot treads
that I leave behind


© Bryan McLean April 24, 2010
030/100:2

{ .the.faces.. }

{ .the.faces.. }

i wear
all day
all night
faces

i carry
all the words
inside my pockets
tucked away
out of sight
how much I think
you are just so
out of sight

i worry
all day
all night
that I might fail you

i hide
all the faces
inside my thoughts
tucked away
out of reach
how much i wish
i could stop being
out of reach

i bury
all day
all night
my real face

© Bryan McLean April 23, 2010
029/100:2

[ what.am.I? two ]

[ what.am.I? two ]

am sinking in you
the depths and measures
all the rational distances
deepening our intimate relations
deepening our climbs
deepening our passion
passion that knows no bounds


© Bryan McLean April 22, 2010
028/100:2

[ .what.am.I?. ]

[ .what.am.I?. ]

petals of rain
filling the glasses
clinking like lovers lips
the mouth setting upright

and as I sink slowly again
to the bottom
I watch my golden reflection
slowly pass
to my resting place


© Bryan McLean April 21, 2010
027/100:2

in the tropic of pohems | 100 Days of Pohems

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ~Leonard Cohen

On the Topic of Pohems | 100 Days of Pohems

▪ So why Poetry.. what is it?

Poetry : Literary Art, or prose. / has been well defined as "the measured language of emotion." / the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.

the list goes on.. however, poetry surrounds out daily lives; the music we listen to, the song of birds, thunder of skies or highways.. words placed in print or digitized.. email, marketing, jingles, posters, everywhere, almost so much as to deafen our senses to it.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. ~T.S. Eliot, 1920

So the why here, for myself, lies in the fact that I chronicle my life through stories; not just mine but everyone I encounter and those characters I create.. sometimes saying how you feel or what has been going on in your daily events does not describe the intensity or depth of the matter.

I've been at this personally for over a decade, writing, plotting, travelling, meeting new & old friends.. and just writing things down as the come, capturing stories, or writing when something needs to be plotted out for the sake of art.

▪ Laine cannot spell... Pohem?

To explain.. from my most recent work on The Syndrome Papers (free download); to my past writing on Amore*pheous Works, Cantos for the King of Fall, The Judash Diaries, Harsh Mandolin, and The Mephestopheles Books, All of which are produced under the 'Seconds in Silence'lh model of assemblage thematics and often touted as bohemian poetry, or my (p)reference the word, pohems.

bo·he·mi·an (b-hm-n)
n. A person with artistic or literary interests who disregards conventional standards of behavior.

Some better known poets of the twentieth century, such as Jack Kerouac, Leonard Cohen, Dylan Thomas, Ezra Pound, ee cummings, Jim Morrison, Pablo Neruda, Gordon Downey.. they all had a tactical approach to writing in their own styles.. some from the head, body, or heart, some within their own landscape of rules and design.

▪ Poem authoring, so how does he do it?

obsession.. there is so much in the universe to learn and observe from.. and I have such an unhealthy love of all things, insatiable thirst to absorb everything around me. Originally trained as a fine artist, I seem to find the composition in all things, not just images or events, but music, works, and actions. The Abstract Expressionists, The Dadaist, and so many post-modern movements and artists, like Marcel Duchamp, Jackson Pollack, Robert Rauschenberg, Mark Rothko, all stole elements of collaboration and finding new or different ways to express something much larger than any artist had done so in the past.

Dadaism was a cultural movement, beginning early WWI, primarily involved visual arts, literature—poetry, art manifestoes, art theory—theatre, and graphic design, Its purpose was to ridicule, through anti-art, what its participants considered to be the meaninglessness of the modern world.

So although much of my work has previously been characterized by my personal turmoil, I've often sought the bigger events reflecting and revolving my life.

▪ Poems.. whyfore?

as journaling was a heavy western way of keeping biographical notes, british authors like Auldous Huxley, or the more common sea captains.. ancient cultures held oral traditions, and journals of a tribal history was best kept in a story and style that could easily be passed on, to teach future generations. a vast majority of Chinese literature, especially the poets of the high Tang 唐 Dynasty, such as Wang Wei, Li Bai, Du Fu, captured their lives & struggles, all as portraits of their moments in history.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things. ~Stephen Mallarme

Regardless, I've enjoyed the long journeys & moments I've been able to capture on my own; learned that sharing the events and my perceptions have given some insight and inspiration to others.. so I continue to do so and hope that by giving these words a home, that I've also given them their own voice.

Again, thank you for reading yet another year of 100 Days of Pohems.
+luv.Laine+

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. from Dead Poet's Society

[ .in.the.near.dark.by.the.light(switch). ]

[ .in.the.near.dark.by.the.light(switch).]

find myself by the lightswitch, always passing, touching,
yet ignoring its wonder, its magnificent purpose of being..

so are humans, so gifted, that they are, in passing,
only a lightswitch, we briefly touch and pass right on by?


© Bryan McLean April 20, 2010
026/100:2

[ .in ... bed.iii. ]

[ .in ... bed.iii. ]

iii

ghost the gone way, the errant calling passing hands, the hurt that halls still hold.. ever wandering hands, run the length, shoulders, set sides, matching each curve, and curling bone, matching every time, breathe, catching breaths, that are slipping from eager grasping palms.


© Bryan McLean April 19, 2010
025/100:2

[ .in ... bed.ii. ]

[ .in ... bed.ii. ]

ii

blind, in bed, in the archlight, hidden in the ardous; would it feel better, feel more right, if we lined the outside, all sides, mark the maker, heavy in the sulvacious sides we reside in.


© Bryan McLean April 18, 2010
024/100:2