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Warren Falcón
Warren Falcón New York, NY / United States, Male, 65
Profession :
Jungian-oriented counselor
Education :
Masters in Counseling
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Warren Falcón's last comments on poems and poets

  • POEM: Serpents, Bread Rain, And On & On To Somewhere We Remember - A Theological Ditty, Mores The Pity by Warren Falcon (5/23/2017 8:17:00 PM)

    Tis a dizzy roundalay, I'm afraid, without refrain. A moebius script? More a Beckett Lucky's speech somewhat blunted qua qua qua qua on the other hand in regard to and some must sing or try. Mircea Eliade wrote, Birds sing to keep from asphixiatiing and he a kind of religious scholar of sorts. I prefer, what's it Master Theodore Roethke wrote? Oh, this:

    A dark theme keeps me here though summer blazes in the vireo's eye

    Who would be half possessed by his own nakedness?

    Waking's my care.

    I'll make a broken music
    or I'll die.

    I'm with Roethke on this one unless light beams other worldly or this worldly with there is another world but it's inside this one-ly (Paul Eluard) strike my (mind's) eye (or thigh) and I happily cave and claim (or leave) comfort root room (Hopkins) .

    Lucky's speech (is miraculous indeed...the actor's performance in this staggering instance proves something there is divine in the word/speech though utterly scrambled and broken but more than token meaning is wrenchingly humorously tragically slap stick conveyed) :

    https: // v=eGQToJ9RR-4

    There must be some psychiatric term for one who footnotes only poets and scholars in his speech spoke or writ (but never when laughing or weeping) . Must try to coin it.

    Thank you for responding, Denis.

    Good poems and always insistent muses to you.


  • POEM: Upon Reading Ancient Chinese Poets 3 Am Manhattan by Warren Falcon (5/10/2017 1:50:00 AM)

    The link I posted to the longer poem from which the above is excised doesn't work...just go to my page or enter FIND window, this title, Regarding Madly Singing In The may check out my Han Shan poem if ye wish, not obliged, of course, Even Pretty Buddhas - Rumors Exist Of Han Shan's Unfettered Inscriptions Of Wind...try this link for this one....I think it works. It too needs some serious slash and burn editing.

    https: //

  • POEM: Upon Reading Ancient Chinese Poets 3 Am Manhattan by Warren Falcon (5/10/2017 1:40:00 AM)

    Thank you, Daniel. Your comment moves and heartens me. I have indeed had these old companions since my yoot...found them when I lived in a hut beside a mountain stream in the Blue Ridge mounts, rhododendrons rattling leaves against old cabin walls and the continuous rush of the close stream loudly suggesting HUUUuuuushhhhhhhhh to my noisy self chattering to the pines. Rereading and immitating (a legit Asian teaching style in anceint times, the master takes the hand and sometimes the ear to guide the eye and tongue toward that Tao in things writ, painted, etc.) Kenneth Rexroth translations, Lucien Stryk's translations of the Japanese masters and the then contemporary (and contemporary still) Shinkichi Takahashi, his zen surrealism, surreal zen, while the cornbread baked and the tin roof scratched its head with the broad cedar limbs always at its musical service variant depending on the gust of wind moving through.

    I read your 4 Taoist poems and greatly enjoyed them...will give them another read in the morn when I'm up with some red eye and need some Tao to orient the day...I love the suggestion of the teacher you had, to write while still feeling the presence and power of the Tao...

    The poem above is excised from a longer one writ last Fall (I think) , trapped in Manhattan East Village tiny studio and longing for my Blue Ridge hut at the foot of Mount Mitchell, pines and rattlesnakes to keep me (too much company, the rattlers) where I read those constancies, companions, from ancient China, Japan, Korea...I found Sunflower Splendor,1000 Years of Chinese Poetry (translations of course) which is where I found the might Liu Tsung-Yuan, a poet in exile and wrote muchly of it and his image of floating clouds often in his poems to describe such exile, the freedom and subtlety available in exile. Po Chui came from Aurthur Whaley's early translations as well as those of Li Bao and Tu many of them...

    Here's the longer poem, still needs some sand paper and whittlin'...

    Thank you again for your taking the time to respond to the poem here...most go unresponded it's gratifying to hear from the occasional reader.

    Oh! wait! I did not mention Han Shan who had a major impact (does still) since I lived about a 30 minutes curvy drive from NCarolina's Cold Mountain...I read Snyder's translations, then others, and would always carry some of the old poems in my backpack to read when finally arriving to the large outcrops of snowy quartz at the end of the trail to Cold Mountan...I read this one below and the other few by Han Shan that survived the many years since he wrote them (on rocks and fences and such) ...fortunately someone had the presence of mind or no mind to write them down...I bow to them for that.:

    Red Pine poem 18:

    I spur my horse past ruins;
    ruins move a traveler's heart.
    The old parapets high and low
    the ancient graves great and small,
    the shuddering shadow of a tumbleweed,
    the steady sound of giant trees.
    But what I lament are the common bones
    unnamed in the records of immortals.

    I could go on and on in non-Taoist fashion (he who thinks he knows doesn't know, etc) but I'm an old Westerner with Taoist cracks that grow wider and deeper by the day (there's a liniment for them too but it's hard to find possum fat in NYC and parts surrounding) . So I say on and on meaning well since I am or will be soon a floating cloud...I'll be loud about it while I can cuz silence will win in the end.

    https: //

    All the best,


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