More to come... Other writings can be found in Wild Places and Travels and in Writings. Watch my blog for updates as well.
See Life at Sea for more poetry
The world is blooming before us--
bubbling into a multiplicity of form--
duplicitous in scope, rich in array--
more stew than cosmograph:
simmer in its seasoned depths--
tasting
its mar-red marinade
soaking
in its quaint quandary
bubbling into a multiplicity of form--
duplicitous in scope, rich in array--
more stew than cosmograph:
simmer in its seasoned depths--
tasting
its mar-red marinade
soaking
in its quaint quandary
On Looking for Love (Warning: Some adult content)
February 2nd, 2020
PRESENTING pointless ponderings precisely pertinent per 02022020:
Perhaps palindromes portend positive purpose?
No, nevermind--noon never neutralizes negative news.
Alternatively, absurd alliteration always abhors abject answers...
PRESENTING pointless ponderings precisely pertinent per 02022020:
Perhaps palindromes portend positive purpose?
No, nevermind--noon never neutralizes negative news.
Alternatively, absurd alliteration always abhors abject answers...
You Know You've Made It
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2018)
"The thing about [my hometown] is you know you've made it when you get out." -anonymous
Based on The Road Between Here and There by Galway Kinnell
Here I walked through thorny woods—the hidden passageways between pines and suburban asphalt—arms and legs cut, but I didn’t care.
Here I collected shopping carts in the humid heat, sweat sopping through ugly green uniform shirt, too thick for the weather, before I found refuge in the dairy freezer with the lonely company of a magazine I pulled off the store shelf.
Here red clay stands in sharp relief to vibrant green, bursting out in a thousand ways, contrasted further with great white sheets of rolling granite, speckled with lichens whose varied display rivals a night sky on the Fourth of July.
Here I returned home to my parent’s house in the latest hours, hiding in bushes, crouched and wide-eyed like an animal, waiting for the impossible opportunity to enter unnoticed.
Here I shattered a windshield with my body, pressure-washed dangling toilet paper out of decorative trees, and dropped a dented trombone once again onto the floor of lost aspirations.
Here the brush has retaken the hard work of a youthful project to restore a neglected cemetery of unmarked graves, where the stone bird-bath can only be found with patient scrambling, and where stands a faded, tilted sign marking the twice-forgotten.
Here are my last memories of grandfathers—each gray-haired, slightly plump—photographs tucked away in the congested, suburban strip-mall of my dreams.
Here time seemed to stretch on in infinite supply, and thus could not be fully appreciated, like this great continent once appeared to a pioneer bound for the unknown west.
Here I rarely return.
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2018)
"The thing about [my hometown] is you know you've made it when you get out." -anonymous
Based on The Road Between Here and There by Galway Kinnell
Here I walked through thorny woods—the hidden passageways between pines and suburban asphalt—arms and legs cut, but I didn’t care.
Here I collected shopping carts in the humid heat, sweat sopping through ugly green uniform shirt, too thick for the weather, before I found refuge in the dairy freezer with the lonely company of a magazine I pulled off the store shelf.
Here red clay stands in sharp relief to vibrant green, bursting out in a thousand ways, contrasted further with great white sheets of rolling granite, speckled with lichens whose varied display rivals a night sky on the Fourth of July.
Here I returned home to my parent’s house in the latest hours, hiding in bushes, crouched and wide-eyed like an animal, waiting for the impossible opportunity to enter unnoticed.
Here I shattered a windshield with my body, pressure-washed dangling toilet paper out of decorative trees, and dropped a dented trombone once again onto the floor of lost aspirations.
Here the brush has retaken the hard work of a youthful project to restore a neglected cemetery of unmarked graves, where the stone bird-bath can only be found with patient scrambling, and where stands a faded, tilted sign marking the twice-forgotten.
Here are my last memories of grandfathers—each gray-haired, slightly plump—photographs tucked away in the congested, suburban strip-mall of my dreams.
Here time seemed to stretch on in infinite supply, and thus could not be fully appreciated, like this great continent once appeared to a pioneer bound for the unknown west.
Here I rarely return.
The 8th Day
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2013)
God wasn't finished
He had one more thing to say,
"All this I have created and I called it good
But I've given it some thought and I see the error in my ways
It's up to you to deconstruct it, to redo it as you please
Split the Earth open and pull out its bowels
Its metals and its minerals
Its fossils and its fuels
Leave nothing in its place,
Move it about as you wish
Pull down my forests and put them in your mills
Sacrifice my wild creatures; lock them in your zoos,
Make of them foodstuffs and microwavable meals
Recreate life and land metallically
Of silicon and steel
Seek out new eyes, seek out new skin
Let your veins be wires, your heart diesel fired
Let there be bananas in Maine
Let there be diamonds in Antwerp
Let there be plasma televisions anywhere and everywhere
This world I have created and left here for you
Nothing is completed, nothing is through
But after you have finished your largely futile quest
And everything’s purpose is lost in ancient morass
Don’t expect a new creation, a delusional new earth
No amount of blood sacrifice can atone for your sins
So here is my creation, transform it as you will
But no other will be given so remember this in all that you do”
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2013)
God wasn't finished
He had one more thing to say,
"All this I have created and I called it good
But I've given it some thought and I see the error in my ways
It's up to you to deconstruct it, to redo it as you please
Split the Earth open and pull out its bowels
Its metals and its minerals
Its fossils and its fuels
Leave nothing in its place,
Move it about as you wish
Pull down my forests and put them in your mills
Sacrifice my wild creatures; lock them in your zoos,
Make of them foodstuffs and microwavable meals
Recreate life and land metallically
Of silicon and steel
Seek out new eyes, seek out new skin
Let your veins be wires, your heart diesel fired
Let there be bananas in Maine
Let there be diamonds in Antwerp
Let there be plasma televisions anywhere and everywhere
This world I have created and left here for you
Nothing is completed, nothing is through
But after you have finished your largely futile quest
And everything’s purpose is lost in ancient morass
Don’t expect a new creation, a delusional new earth
No amount of blood sacrifice can atone for your sins
So here is my creation, transform it as you will
But no other will be given so remember this in all that you do”
On the Other Side of Nihilism
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2014)
Darkness teems just under the surface of things,
Dissolution and destruction tempting possibilities.
It’s simple.
Just fall into yourself – deeper and deeper.
Until all memory and possibility of an outside world is forgotten.
Where are you?
What does it feel like?
You’re nowhere. The world is distorted and dissolved.
It’s out there somewhere but you’re buried away.
Deep distrust – everything becomes an enemy.
Aching, splitting, rending – yes you’re falling apart.
Thinking, thinking, no sleeping, tenser and tenser,
Colors appear, madness is near.
Why is this Self in the way?
Did you choose this descent into self?
Or were you forced there by a collision?
A self that is impossible to reconcile,
A deep commitment to truth and right,
A deep desire for exposure and openness,
Clashes with the presumed necessity of secrecy for survival.
Is this nihilism – a total lack of world?
Is this the bait that Nietzsche took?
An irreversible plunge into the dark depths of self.
On the other side
Of nihilism
Stands presence
And vulnerability.
by Chris Dunn
(Written 2014)
Darkness teems just under the surface of things,
Dissolution and destruction tempting possibilities.
It’s simple.
Just fall into yourself – deeper and deeper.
Until all memory and possibility of an outside world is forgotten.
Where are you?
What does it feel like?
You’re nowhere. The world is distorted and dissolved.
It’s out there somewhere but you’re buried away.
Deep distrust – everything becomes an enemy.
Aching, splitting, rending – yes you’re falling apart.
Thinking, thinking, no sleeping, tenser and tenser,
Colors appear, madness is near.
Why is this Self in the way?
Did you choose this descent into self?
Or were you forced there by a collision?
A self that is impossible to reconcile,
A deep commitment to truth and right,
A deep desire for exposure and openness,
Clashes with the presumed necessity of secrecy for survival.
Is this nihilism – a total lack of world?
Is this the bait that Nietzsche took?
An irreversible plunge into the dark depths of self.
On the other side
Of nihilism
Stands presence
And vulnerability.
Flow Like Water: Moving Amongst and Between Bush
by Louzy T. Zoo
From Brush and Bog Magazine
(Written 2013)
Easy cannot exist without difficult,
Soft cannot exist without hard,
Rest cannot exist without exertion,
Control cannot exist without relinquishment.
All things are bound together in cosmic harmony, in interdependence and interpenetration.
Traveling through a wild land is no different.
For a step to be called easy, some other step must be called difficult.
Brush is no blight on the land, but a part of the journey.
Like so much of life and nature, it cannot be resisted.
You cannot “beat” the brush.
Rather a proper comportment is necessary, both within yourself and without.
The brush slows movement but it must not be seen as an obstacle.
One mustn’t make the mistake of seeing walls where there are none.
Opening and closing, the brush alters its density,
Open yourself to find its spaces.
Move amongst and between, not against.
Water flows, it is soft and flexible,
Let your body be water amongst the reeds, bending, flexing, rolling away and within.
Water’s path is crooked, it twists and turns.
Let your path meander also, let your body twist and turn in tune with the moment.
Springs flow into creeks, creeks to rivers, and all things to the sea.
Mountains rise and crumble according to their nature.
Nature does not hurry, yet all things are accomplished.
Does all this mean that it is best to literally stay with or in water when crossing the land?
No, of course not, though there are times when this is in fact the best course.
What then does it mean to flow like water?
This:
The brush stands between you and your goal – you have no control over this – you must face this situation honestly and openly.
When at your worst, when completely swallowed on all sides by thick stands of growth, and no end can be seen, no direction can be discerned, at this moment you have lost control, yet you must continue. Anger, frustration, desperation – there is a way – the way will present itself to you.
To flow is to understand relinquishment and flexibility.
A sage once said something like this:
When it is at its worst, remember that it will pass.
It is just a moment.
When the walking is open and good,
Again remember that this too will pass.
For you will again confront the brush.
All events and all things move and pass.
Do not cling to any moment.
Realize its temporality and simply move through.
As with bush, so with life.
*“The gentlest thing in the world
overcomes the hardest thing in the world.
That which has no substance
enters where there is no space.”
by Louzy T. Zoo
From Brush and Bog Magazine
(Written 2013)
Easy cannot exist without difficult,
Soft cannot exist without hard,
Rest cannot exist without exertion,
Control cannot exist without relinquishment.
All things are bound together in cosmic harmony, in interdependence and interpenetration.
Traveling through a wild land is no different.
For a step to be called easy, some other step must be called difficult.
Brush is no blight on the land, but a part of the journey.
Like so much of life and nature, it cannot be resisted.
You cannot “beat” the brush.
Rather a proper comportment is necessary, both within yourself and without.
The brush slows movement but it must not be seen as an obstacle.
One mustn’t make the mistake of seeing walls where there are none.
Opening and closing, the brush alters its density,
Open yourself to find its spaces.
Move amongst and between, not against.
Water flows, it is soft and flexible,
Let your body be water amongst the reeds, bending, flexing, rolling away and within.
Water’s path is crooked, it twists and turns.
Let your path meander also, let your body twist and turn in tune with the moment.
Springs flow into creeks, creeks to rivers, and all things to the sea.
Mountains rise and crumble according to their nature.
Nature does not hurry, yet all things are accomplished.
Does all this mean that it is best to literally stay with or in water when crossing the land?
No, of course not, though there are times when this is in fact the best course.
What then does it mean to flow like water?
This:
The brush stands between you and your goal – you have no control over this – you must face this situation honestly and openly.
When at your worst, when completely swallowed on all sides by thick stands of growth, and no end can be seen, no direction can be discerned, at this moment you have lost control, yet you must continue. Anger, frustration, desperation – there is a way – the way will present itself to you.
To flow is to understand relinquishment and flexibility.
A sage once said something like this:
When it is at its worst, remember that it will pass.
It is just a moment.
When the walking is open and good,
Again remember that this too will pass.
For you will again confront the brush.
All events and all things move and pass.
Do not cling to any moment.
Realize its temporality and simply move through.
As with bush, so with life.
*“The gentlest thing in the world
overcomes the hardest thing in the world.
That which has no substance
enters where there is no space.”