Five Poems by George Woolley
Contents
Foreward
Included here is an introduction to my poems
plus five of my favorite poems.
Both the introduction and the poems were written in 1975 or earlier.
I've changed the introduction a little and done some minor edits to the poems.
George Woolley - October, 1997
Introduction
My poems are a work of love, a manifestation of being, a celebration of oneness. The object of poetry for me is the open expression of the self. It is an intimate revelation. It is a distillation of an aspect of self without defenses.
Poetry is not discursive because the self is not, the world is not. The world is one. It is not an aggregate of inherently separate entities that somehow happen to be together. Rather it is all one, but is one in such a way that it can be viewed as such an aggregate.
Viewing the world as an aggregate has advantages if one's object is to control something with a view to achieving certain goals. However, it has drawbacks philosophically in that it leads to paradoxes and psychologically in that it leads to alienation. In the long run it may not even work fo the purposes for which it is most suited. This is because ecologically there is no suitable environment for an alienated man.
Poetry is not a world apart. It is as natural an expression as eating, breathing and making love, and has a great deal in common with all of these.
For me, poetry is ideally presented in an intimate environment, say late in the evening, sitting in an overstuffed chair or lying on a soft rug near a warm fire place. The object of listening to poetry is not to judge, but rather to feel, that is, to be.
Joseph and His Yellow Scarf - How he lost it
He wore a yellow scarf,
Not so yellow as the sun,
But perhaps mixed with brown,
A heavier, calmer color
Than the light that lights the sun,
A magical, comical, truthful color
That ought to light the sun.
And a girl he loved
On a moonless night
Made off with his scarf.
When I met her the night was stale
the party new born.
Her hair looped on top of her hair.
Her eyes danced a thoughtless song.
The shadows danced with the flames
In the fireplace.
And appearance and disappearance
were one.
My eyes shoulders and fingers said hello.
My hands touched her cold hands.
My feelings were shatteringly Vodka pure.
We left the chatter and reasons and smoke.
We spoke of poplars, shadows, moons
and shapes,
of seasons, ear rings, ribbons and lakes.
Cold against warm
touched again.
Diamonds against diamonds.
Splintering of black rainbows.
Silence.
More silence.
And at last, nothing.
Hear her laugh, if you will.
Here she is.
Feel her seemless lilty laugh,
if you will.
Kiss her brown and downy hair
and bow bent quiver lips
and her cold and magic hands
if you will, if she will.
And she will, if you will.
And you will, if you will.
Hold her hand gently
as a sword,
or she will melt or slip away
traceless in the night or snow.
Here is a chess board of laquer tiles
the pieces black or white.
The ocean water frothing clear and green
Interrupts this gambit of the queen.
Now a piece moves high above the other
Ignoring the players of the game,
It moves to no known pattern.
(Stop it!)
It is not awaiting its turn.
It zags, zigs, meanders and knights
across, over, under and through the green board,
skips, trips, tumbles and fights its way.
(It stops!)
It takes a sip of Grand Marnier.
This improbable piece
contemplates some improbable non-move
which will shatter the rules of this ancient game
and give it a name which is not the same.
This is the turquoise giraffe.
It can make you love.
It can make you laugh.
A party.
A girl with an apricot complexion.
She smiled and told me of her mandolin,
And how she sang,
And how she'd sing.
And she asked me the meaning of the turquoise giraffe
I'd made from clay,
And why it laughed,
And where it played.
I told her a story of ages past
About a boy - about a lass.
I kissed her eyes, her hair, her nose.
I held her hand.
I called her a blue rose.
She stole my heart
With her hands and her laugh
And by wondering at all
About the blue giraffe.
Copyright 1975, 1997 George Woolley