Monday, March 28, 2016


(Work in progress, all rights reserved copyright alex ness)


"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."
Albert Camus

Some dreams we have are pleasant, and comforting.  I dream of different worlds, universes and the people who dwell there. I dreamt of places that cannot be understood by words, nor described by any means.  I have dreamed of worlds where people live mundane existences without passion or hope. 

I have also dreamed of worlds that are afire with conflict.  Some remember glories of a past war rather than the fears born of such a war.  There are dreamers who dream of worlds in epic and majestic creation.  The greatest dreams are those where beings rise up and first change, then recreate the world they live in.  Some refer to this as changing history, but that is false.  It does change the flow of the river of time in the future.


Upon a distant planet, called Earth there is a war.  In the midst of a battle, one of the empire’s slave warriors broke his hand blade.  In the long run of things it might seem a minor loss should he thereafter fall, but it was greater than that.  He wasn’t just a number.  He wasn’t just a slave.  He had gone through too much to die so simply, and he had become more than simple property of another.  

“Fingers broken, pain, the blade wrecked… I am lost.” The hand is mangled, blood streams down his arms. “Gods beware, if I am about to die, know that wherever you send me, I am going to continue this fight…”

It has been argued that we bargain one life for many in the case of war.  It isn’t really even a matter for debate.  But that happens when by giving a life for a cause, it saves many.  In a world with kings and queens, slaves and peasants, some lives are worth more at birth.  Other lives born are cast into roles that have less worth.   Some find themselves clawing their way up from the bottom.  Many have no idea they are swimming at the bottom, so they just tread water.  The warrior in my dream was like many, he was a slave, but was different, because he strove to be more than what he was cast in life to become.

During a famine his parents sold him into slavery.   He was four years old.   They missed him, and sorrowed their act, but they had food for the week, at least they consoled themselves with.   Of course it wasn’t enough, eventually the family died of the starvation they sought to stem the tide of, with the sale.     He never remembered his name, because from the beginning of his time in bondage, he was referred to with a number.   It was easier, the slave master said, to keep track of things that way.

“Strength spent, weaponless, the rest are dead.   Make a run for the top of that mound…”

Survival for the youth, now numbered 112 came from the desperate act of his parents to survive, and the opportunism of a businessman to acquire slaves for his fields, at a price that was a minimum.  Was it a great deal?  The slave master wasn’t yet certain.   Each time he bought a young child from a desperate family he was gambling that the famine hadn’t destroyed or harmed the child’s ability to work.  The choice for the parents was a horrible one, the choice for the slave master was one of economic efficiency.   Neither choice allowed the child a childhood.   But famine didn’t allow much room for survival let alone a childhood.

The routine of waking before the sun rose, and working until after it set was, by the early teens, a familiar one.     However, it was neither a welcome one, nor one that allowed the child to be anything but exhausted.   The slaves of this this slave master were well fed, even in the famines, because food was all there was as a form of payment.   So despite the ravages of a slave master discipline, the youth grew strong.

Every lash, every whip across the back, was a reminder that he was not a free being.  And every day he went out to work, was training for the time when he would not be under the lead of someone else.

“CAN’T BREATHE, the air is lousy with stink from death.” He falls to one knee, his body failing, and the weight of numbers covers him, he is overwhelmed by the many.  But he refuses to fail, he can’t fail or he will die.

He grew strong enough to overcome those who thought that he was their property, the guards, wardens of the field and his ultimate slave master.    One time too many the whip slashes a small groove across his flesh, and that one lash of the whip became too much to bear, and resolved to never let another lashing take place.  

The next lash was caught, twisted around his arm, and pulled the bullwhip from the hand of the warden.   A struggle followed, wherein the section warden and later his two assistants were quickly overwhelmed by the youth and eventually kicked and beaten by the others, so a minor incident turn to a full out rebellion. 

Every section warden, and crew of guards were all captured and killed similarly.   Quickly the slaves learned that their numbers were a great advantage, and now, they were armed.   The master’s home and entourage lay within sight, and after only a brief struggle, the slaves overwhelmed the guards, and killed everyone inside the building.  

Taking food, and weapons, #112 took a horse and ran away, far from the fields of his former master.  He had had more than his share of lashings for his disobedient tongue, and more for his lackadaisical attitude towards planting and harvesting crops.  But that was over, and he was free.

The numbers of warriors and dead men on top of the mound, and of 112 caused the surface to break.  Without warning the masses break through they find themselves now lying in a ceremonial grave, a mass grave of the honored warriors.

A slave thinks like he is allowed to, and a free man, no matter how young, thinks without those boundaries.  The former slave youth, without a name, 112, grew up different than many in his situation.  He believed that he had a destiny, and that life would afford him an opportunity to realize that destiny.  Being free now he decided to offer his services to the leader of the empire opposed to the country his former slave master had served.   What better way would there be than to strike back than to directly attack the state that guided the hand of the now deceased slave master?

The former slave organized a cadre of former slaves and trained them to fight, to survive.   He knew that the world they were about to enter was unforgiving, and it was ironic.   He was a former slave, offering his service as a fighting slave, to achieve revenge against the country that enslaved him.   But it was the most direct and effective way to go about his desired path.   Revenge itself might not be a wholesome, moral, kind thing.  But it was the thing that burned in 112’s breast.  It burned so, that he couldn’t think of anything else, like love, normality, hope, faith, dreams or anything a normal person might dream of.

He’d grown robust in height, fully strong, and muscular.  His long hair went down to his buttocks, his muscles rippled through any clothing he wore.   If he were a noble, in proper attire of the nobility, he’d be thought a great symbol of the state.   Instead, he was a roguish looking wild warrior, who looked well able to carry out his dreams of vengeance.

The fall stunned everyone, but 112 was the least wounded by the fall, and looked for a weapon to use.   The nearest weapon was a stout sword thrust downward at the head of a grave.   It was two handed great sword, a sword of the elite class of warrior.

Every scar he had from the whip, he refused to ignore or forgive.  Every moment of humiliation and fear he remembered from his childhood he made certain to use as motivation.   The world he knew was not beautiful.  The world he hoped to create was one where the people who made slaves work as he had, would be destroyed.   He was of course short sighted, but he wasn’t an educated man, or rather, his education came from observation, reflection, and experience as a slave.   He believed in destroying the system he was created by, and his mind, however able to see beyond the system, was poisoned by the cruel realities of being part of the system.

Screaming 112 began to wreak his final havoc among the dazed enemy.  Heads and body parts began to be separated, and the blade and 112 were as one.   Quickly the dozen or so who had tried to grapple and take him down, were now bloody remains.

The wars of the ancients were brutal, fought without mercy, and, were not efficient by any stretch of the imagination.  Should the cadre of 112’s be successful, and win their battle, those who fought the best would supposedly be offered freedom.  If freedom mattered to anyone, it mattered to slaves.

The first encounter with the enemy was without glory, honor, or greatness.   A group of scouts from the enemy collided directly into the gathering forward units of 112’s army, and the action was furious.  Before long, the land was covered with ichors of battle, entrails and red.   Few were moved to fear, or joy, but the battle did set the tone for the cadre.

112 addressed his cadre before their next action…

“We weren’t born slaves, we were born men.  We weren’t born warriors.  We were forced to become that.   I was never given a name, and I’ve refused one ever time I’ve been asked.   Our fate wasn’t to be free, it was to fight, and maybe die, or fight and maybe live.  We aren’t alive.  We aren’t flesh.   We are beasts inhabiting flesh.   We are fighting slaves.   So instead of worrying about tomorrow, or what we might get out of life, let us worry about one thing, how many will we kill before we die.  Then the enemy will give us names in our passing.”

It wasn’t long before the main body of enemy troops came to fill the void where a previous wandering march had been slaughtered.   The two sides engaged quickly, and once again the hand to hand combat left no question as to whether there would be mercy given, or prisoners taken, there would be none.  The din of combat was beyond loud, the mist of red and pink blood and flesh in the air was putrid and vile, and soon the warriors in the combat were wounded, dead or dying.  112’s hand blade broke, and he worried it was the end.    In the masses the loss of your weapon could and often did prove fatal.

In the midst of battle, inside the haze of it all, warriors are making battle, falling dead, the air stinking of death, sweat, blood, and bile, and they move as one.  The masses engage one another without anger, without any sort of knowledge of the lives the other live, they exist there simply to fight, to win, to live or die.  The stinking putrid cloud of war, covers them all, a fine mist of blood, entrails and more grows heavy as both sides of the slave wars pale from the bleeding white.   The broken hand blades, the two handed mauls, the great axes that are used up, upon the flesh of the warriors, lay upon the ground, covered in the bodies of those who used them in battle.

"If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed?"

James Russell Lowell

And here 112 stood, but his body was covered in wounds.   His cadre was dead. Save for him, both sides of the battle were dead.   Blood covering his body, entrails from those he had killed painting him, and his weapons broken, he dropped to a knee, and took a breath, and surveyed the field and asked, “For what have we all died?”   But he didn’t die.   His heart was broken with sorrow, his mind reeled to see the bodies broken, from both sides of the battle.  But he vowed inside his mind, to never allow this again.  And he didn’t.  

What he saw laying upon the ground was not his comrades intertwined with the enemy.   It was victims of the system of war, slavery and bestial conquest.  Many great thinkers have pointed out that only the family of a slave mourns the life of a lost or killed slave.   This isn’t quite true, owners of the slaves mourn the loss of their property.  They are property to some, performing tasks, serving as laborers when others are too valuable for such a task or the task is too dangerous.   Therefore, the lives of slaves are worth less by virtue of their being used.    112 had been used.   Had thereafter escaped and volunteered to be used again, and led others into further servitude.  He felt guilt for his role in the system, what he then came to consider, the machine, grinding out human labors, and human violence, without mercy, without passion or cause.

Leaving the battlefield, the mist had fallen, the sun was dimly shining, and there was a silence broken only by the birds of prey harvesting and the birds and beasts who scavenge carcasses for food squabbling over the dead.   There were no angels singing over the dead.   There were no choirs and anthems sung over the lost.   The silence and unsung nature of the dead, allowed 112 to see that the deaths had no purpose, that the piles of dead were one, and that they were victims, nothing else, of the empires who had employed them in battle.  As he walked, his wounds still bled, and his throat was parched dry from his exertions in battle. But he dreamed too.  He dreamed of the end of the world that allowed slaves to fight in the stead of free men, where the cause was righteous, and where wars were not sport for the common man to witness.

The rest of his days, however short in number they might be, he promised himself, would be devoted to the liberation of slaves, and the destruction of any state that employs them.   And then he’d choose a name for himself, as then he’d be worthy after such a feat.

My dreams continue, but I dreamed no further of this warrior. The records show the result of his determination. “The scribes who kept the annals of history of the land recount that a single slave, who’d been enslaved on both sides of the slave wars, grew a rebellion, and familiar with both sides of the conflict was able to cause grave defections in the ranks on both sides of the wars.    In the end the third side, the free “slave army” gathered and then crushed the armies of both empires. They then opened the gates of the slaves pens, so that nowhere would slavery exist.”

“The naming of a man should come from a parent’s heart.  The naming should reflect the hope of a new life, respect for the family past, and determination that the child would grow to be as great as the talents given by his gods.  I am not a number.  I am a warrior.  I will decide my name should I lead my people to victory, but until then I will wear this number upon my heart, so that no one will forget why we fight.”  

"Is not this the fast that I have chosen: to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?"  The Bible, Isaiah 58:6

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Ares Our Father

He does not offer grace
Or mercy
He is not kind,
Nor is he gentle
He is Ares
God of war
He speaks to our beast
Our savage hearts that burn
He commands that we listen
When the blood that boils
To savagery
Rise the apparition
Of glory
Of victory instead

We want to win
So much that it becomes
An addiction
We submit to the temptation
Of bloodlust
Oh the stories
That would be told
All true, we trust
Vanity stroked
More than the desire
For gold
We are to be legends

We will destroy the enemy
Because to let them live
Does not trigger our destiny
Our God Ares approves
We are his children
We are moved
By his blessing
And we are more
By our killing
Than by building
More by destroying
Than creating

Now from the present
We look upon our bloody past
We wonder why
Was spent so much energy
Fighting and killing
Until the sorrow wouldn't last
We tell ourselves
That we love peace
And that war is a last resort 

But with the 20th century behinds us 
We can see
That we are even more guilty
In the present
We will use force
Death is our friend
War is his comrade
And Ares is our consort
We are guilty unto
Perhaps come eternity
As those who came before
We are the very same to our shame
As Ares' Children we kill for sport

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Yukio Mishima made his life into a poem.

Yukio Mishima (三島 由紀夫 Mishima Yukio) is the pen name of Kimitake Hiraoka (平岡 公威 Hiraoka Kimitake, January 14, 1925 – November 25, 1970)

Yukio Mishima chose to write in every form, prose fiction, poetry, plays, and essays.  He was gifted in his chosen profession.  And, he perceived what he did as being an act of creation.  That is, he wrote but he also made himself into a muscular male, to become a perfect male specimen.  He used his appearance to work as a model as well, to address the desire to be beautiful/handsome.  He created a private organization called the Shield Society, within which he encouraged them to restore Japan to the form of government that existed prior to the Meiji restoration and modernization.  The Emperor was to be kept and worshiped, but not the governance system would not be a secular European based system. 

So, with every act of writing, spare time, and public appearance, Mishima endeavored to be a living poem.  His life came to an end shortly after he completed the final book of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy.  But this was not an accident.  He completed his final work, gathered his closest "samurai" followers from the Shield Society, and he set out for the nearby JSDF training center.  He and his small crew took a high ranking officer hostage, demanded an audience with an assembled unit of troops, and Mishima spoke to them.  He harangued them about the past, about the need to return to greatness, and honor, and how he alone understood that.  The assembled ranks mocked him, laughed, called him bakayaro.   Disgusted Mishima went back into the room with the officer being held hostage, disemboweled himself, and after some attempts, was beheaded.

People called him crazy.  But what he was, was someone who understood the cost of being who he was, and someone who had given his life to become a poem.

Crazy is a relative thing.  Many westerners called the Kamikaze crazy to do what they did.  But when it was over, the US Navy had lost 57 ships sunk by kamikazes, damaged 368 others, killed 4,900 sailors, and wounded over 4,800. 14 percent of Kamikazes survived anti aircraft measures to score a hit on a ship; nearly 8.5 percent of all ships hit by Kamikazes sank.  Crazy perhaps to one way of thinking, but, in a fight to defend the homeland, perhaps reason and rational concepts are to be ignored.

Mishima will always be seen as crazy to those who do not understand.  But his work was magnificent, and he chose to make it resound, by proving to others his sincerity by taking his own life.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

The Female Poets from America


I try to write from a perspective of having read enough, or experienced enough that I can make intelligent commentary.  But upon the following poets I can only say they are great.  I have not read much of their work. I have read works by them, and have read a few critical pieces regarding them and recognize their importance.  Since this blog involves a shitload of my preferences I thought I should just express why I can't go into detail, I am not familiar enough with them to do so.

Taste and how poetry works on each individual is why I have to step outside of myself to explain my bias.  I can, as any can, read a great work and recognize that it is great, but, also, recognize that it is not moving to me in particular.  People have different talents and skills, yes.  But this bias is about experience and taste, not quality of the poet.

They have great talent, great skill that was obviously honed by edits and rewriting, as any great poet does.  Of the poets here I should say, all of the works I've read I like.   I enjoy particularly the works of Emily Dickinson, but there are Pulitzer prize winners here, so any delving should result in a great reward.  Of the books here you might only not be familiar with Sophie Cabot Black, but, from my readings, she deserves to be on this page, her work is special, and will be remembered long after she is gone.


ANNE SEXTON links 1 2 3

SOPHIE CABOT BLACK links  1  2  3

SYLVIA PLATH links 1 2 3

MARIANNE MOORE links 1 2 3

H.D. or Hilda Doolittle links 1 2 3


MAYA ANGELOU links 1 2 3

Sunday, March 13, 2016

POET FEST Continues

(All images are copyright their respective owners.)

I will share a look some fine books to pursue, but first...

Sticklers upon number of works written might take issue with my assignment of Yukio Mishima as a favorite poet from Japan.  But, I believe that it is not only accurate, it is more accurate than calling his prose and dramatic works by their generic terms. 

Being a poet is more than the work created, but the way a writer looks upon life.

Listen to some of his quotes...

“Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.”

“What I wanted was to die among strangers, untroubled, beneath a cloudless sky. And yet my desire differed from the sentiments of that ancient Greek who wanted to die under the brilliant sun. What I wanted was some natural, spontaneous suicide. I wanted a death like that of a fox, not yet well versed in cunning, that walks carelessly along a mountain path and is shot by a hunter because of its own stupidity…”

“I still have no way to survive but to keep writing one line, one more line, one more line...”

“When silence is prolonged over a certain period of time, it takes on new meaning.”

“ is merely the chaos of existence...”

And here is his glorious work named Icarus from the book Sun & Steel.

“Do I, then, belong to the heavens?
Why, if not so, should the heavens
Fix me thus with their ceaseless blue stare,
Luring me on, and my mind, higher
Ever higher, up into the sky,
Drawing me ceaselessly up
To heights far, far above the human?
Why, when balance has been strictly studied
And flight calculated with the best of reason
Till no aberrant element should, by rights, remain-
Why, still, should the lust for ascension
Seem, in itself, so close to madness?
Nothing is that can satify me;
Earthly novelty is too soon dulled;
I am drawn higher and higher, more unstable,
Closer and closer to the sun's effulgence.
Why do these rays of reason destroy me?
Villages below and meandering streams
Grow tolerable as our distance grows.
Why do they plead, approve, lure me
With promise that I may love the human
If only it is seen, thus, from afar-
Although the goal could never have been love,
Nor, had it been, could I ever have
Belonged to the heavens?
I have not envied the bird its freedom
Nor have I longed for the ease of Nature,
Driven by naught save this strange yearning
For the higher, and the closer, to plunge myself
Into the deep sky's blue, so contrary
To all organic joys, so far
From pleasures of superiority
But higher, and higher,
Dazzled, perhaps, by the dizzy incandescence
Of waxen wings.

Or do I then
Belong, after all, to the earth?
Why, if not so, should the earth
Show such swiftness to encompass my fall?
Granting no space to think or feel,
Why did the soft, indolent earth thus
Greet me with the shock of steel plate?
Did the soft earth thus turn to steel
Only to show me my own softness?
That Nature might bring home to me
That to fall, not to fly, is in the order of things,
More natural by far than that improbable passion?
Is the blue of the sky then a dream?
Was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged,
On account of the fleeting, white-hot intoxication
Achieved for a moment by waxen wings?
And did the heavens abet the plan to punish me?
To punish me for not believing in myself
Or for believing too much;
Too earger to know where lay my allegiance
Or vainly assuming that already I knew all;
For wanting to fly off
To the unknown
Or the known:
Both of them a single, blue speck of an idea?”

“I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends.”

And lastly, 

" I want to make a poem of my life."

How can he not be a poet?  

Because I have focused upon American poets so often, I am sharing books to pursue if you are interested in broadening your poetry mind,  from Poets who come from across the globe.


Mainland ASIA



RUSSIA & Soviet Union


The United Kingdom

Search for more information on poetry collections, Poets and books at

Poetry Foundation

Saturday, March 12, 2016

What a Surprise! Poems, Poets and Poetry

I often try to avoid speaking too much about poetry since it is a smaller area of interest for many people, and as such if I focus upon it I get very little response and few views.  However, I decided that, I love poetry, my work is mostly focused upon poetry, and I read it, enjoy it, think about it, and why should I not talk about it.
We are all different, of course, but this is not meant to push poetry down anyone's throat.  But it you do not like it, please do not complain.  Just look at it as a different form of art that you do not find moving.

Archilochus was a poet warrior from ancient Greece

Charles Baudelaire along with Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine was part of a movement of young fiery poets in France.

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet who moved from beautiful Pre-Raphaelite lyricism to more modernist realism in his work.


Poets are not all alike.  They don't look alike, think alike, write alike, live in the same geographical regions, nor do they have the same histories.  The point is not that I think they should have all those factors in common.  But, I have to say, the poets that move me, are almost all male.  The likelihood that they move me due to common experience is pretty minimal.  But I do think there is a commonality of outlook that makes their words appeal to me most.

The image of different poets of both past and present shows a wide cross section of race, gender and nationality.  Also, probably, there is a great difference in the accessibility and success of works by the shown poets. 

What is exciting to me, is how the poets of the deep and ancient past, especially the great ones, were writing the new and normal works of the day.  The language of the day was found in verse, about the gods, the heroes, the tragedies and comedies, and the morality tales that were so very much absorbed and loved by society.  The poets of the Greeks, Romans, and in general ancient Europe were the rock stars of their day.  Philosophers were well thought of, but were also mistrusted as having a possible agenda.  Maybe those smart bastiches were secretly teaching our children to think or something...

The growth of poetry into the highest form of writing can be celebrated with the many collections of books.  Complete collections, analysis of works, thorough considerations of poems with the use of both historical and sociological considerations or using artistic analysis, or even considering poems as types of code, poetry reached a pinnacle of excellence by the mid 1800s, and nothing could push it off that very high place.  Except for every new medium that was more exciting and those which required less thought and effort.

    Many poetry works could have been used here, but these books are all quite good.

There are places to go to improve your writing and learn how to grow in poetry.  They might cost money, but, there isn't anything wrong with that.  The three listed here are not, by any means, the only ones.


Woodland Pattern Book Center

The Loft Literary Center

There are places to support books in general, but awesome places to buy poetry books.  They are moral, support their community and are a great place to build your own personal library of books.




Friday, March 11, 2016

Who is she?

 We are the Whore.

The Whore of Babylon is said to be the queen of sin.  But it is not a woman, not a single person nor a single gender, it is a metaphor for a group of people or a thing.  In this case it is a False religion that leads others astray due to its desire to worship itself, and the worship of consumption.  In the past it was considered the Catholic church.  In more recent times it has been aimed at Jerusalem and Mecca.  But I believe if we are in the end times, and I am uncertain, it sure feels like it though, that it would have to be Hollywood, or America.  We preach to the world our beliefs about democracy and free markets, and watch as countries fall to ruin due to massive debts and corruption, as they are unable to change due to the profiteers.  We tell people to do things but then stand and watch as they starve, while we have wheat that ferments from spoilage in our silos.  We are surely teaching a lesson, but not one of sharing, not one of how great democracy or capitalism are.  We teach the world that they should aspire to be like us, and then make porno movies, consume animal species until they go extinct, and we refuse to help others unless there is a profit in it for ourselves.

I am not saying all Americans are bad.  I don't even think most are bad.  I think most are good.  But those who acquire power and a voice to share with others, have achieved this through the institutions of the Whore, either business or politics, and they are unlikely to care about the consequence of how their acts hurt others, unless it hurts them personally.

Many wealthy people share money, and many politicians go into their career trying to fix the world.  I realize that.  But many more are seduced by power, and by pleasure.  And because we refuse to change the world ourselves, we all have a part in the guilt.

A vote for Clinton or Trump is a vote for business as usual.  So I intend to vote differently.  Just how, I don't know.  But I will.