Fevers of the Mind

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate Ron Whitehead

1) 
Crow and Outlaw

Crow was the first outlaw.
Crow wrote the I Ching.

Crow whispered in Fu Xi's ear,
"The creative works sublime success,

furthering through perseverance."
Fu Xi simply wrote it down.

Crow was the first existentialist.
Crow was the first to say,

"We are always in the process of creating
who we are as life unfolds."

Crow whispered in Soren's ear,
"The authentic individual is willing

to be one's own self."
Kierkegaard simply wrote it down.

Outlaw defies civil society,
therefore the outlaw is not part of civilization.

Outlaw occupies the space 
between and outside past and present.

Crow and outlaw occupy the space
within and outside the limits of human knowledge.

Crow chooses to fly outside human laws.
Outlaw and crow are partners.

Crow and outlaw sing and dance poems and songs.
Outlaw and crow are wanderers.

Crow and outlaw defy gravity.
Outlaw and crow are declared illegal by society.

Crow and outlaw refuse authority, refuse conformity.
Outlaw and crow refuse civilization and its discontents.

Crow wrote The Book of Revelation.
Crow whispered into John the Elder's ear,

"I am the first and the last,"
and John simply wrote it down.

And now I, Outlaw, listen to Crow,
and simply write this poem for you.

2) 
As Carlos Clara Gomes Plays The Music of Decolonization

Beneath the ancient pink stoned Portuguese castle
taste the turquoise sky

under the purple tree of Torres Novas
from the family of Bougainvillea

I lick the sea's salt
from my lips

as Carlos Clara Gomes plays
the music of decolonization

Wandering through the north of Portugal
Clinging to paper and pen I take

the tight one lane curves
of Routar then Viseu

through wildflowered mountains
to industrial Bragga

climbing ever skyward to Bom Jesus
then west to Porto beautiful Porto

the Ca'lem caves
and Eiffel's bridge high above

the River Douro flowing into
the sea and by sea I fly

to Lisboa for eternal days and
nights breathe the Mediterranean

African sky
beneath the ancient pink stoned Portuguese castle

taste the turquoise sky
under the purple trees

from the family of Bougainvillea
I lick the sea's salt

from my lips
as Carlos Clara Gomes plays

the music of decolonization
and in Alfama old Lisbon Portugal

narrow streets centuries old
cobblestones handmade

tram rails electrico 28
trams unlike any other orange and lemon colored

painted trams decades old in mint condition
trams dance slowly up and down narrow old Lisbon

cobbled streets clothes hanging stories high stories high
three four five stories every street filled with stories myths alive

fairy tale streets the clothes tell stories in gentle rain in turquoise
sunshine and fog on Rio Tejo foghorns ships boats headed to and fro

river ocean Atlantic mists in the morning church bells and trams
at 5am pigeons loving rooftops singing dawn

I sleep under the stars
the night sky my ceiling doorway to the moon

at 2am after Fado beautiful Fado I wander meander down and up
narrow stairs streets alleys listen listen I stop and listen 

and all I hear is the soft and gentle sound of silence
at 2am Alfama old Lisbon no sounds no dogs barking no horns blowing

no church bells singing no cars grinding no boats no planes no talking
only silence stillness at 2am in old Lisbon what beauty

no other city in the world can say silence at 2am no sound only
silence stillness silence

at daybreak I hear a gypsy violin drifting through the pink dawn
the music melts my heart

watch out for the trams step into a doorway or die
spring is here orange and lemon trees pregnant with ripe fruit

at Portugal’s largest bizarre street market block after block
someone says look and there lo and behold there I see a tree filled

with big bright glowing green parrots never seen before the people say
never before has such a sight been seen global warming they say has

has thrown off their migratory patterns the birds
the green birds look over the bizarre and in unison yell further further

as they depart headed to
who knows where certainly not me I drink espresso

in sidewalk cafes blue skies ancient bright not withered faces
old wise eyes groceries markets restaurants on every street run by

generations fresh food fruits vegetables meats seafoods
daily fresh wine ports the best in the world palm trees Atlantic and

Mediterranean breezes it is spring in Portugal Morocco Tangier
out the window spring breezes songs poems dances

the dance of life world beat rhythms magic alchemy mystery
the poem of life the poems of love

I dance in Alfama old Lisbon in Portugal
from Quinta da Regaleira

the water of life the eternal natural springs
wash purify and transform me

sweet angel of the fountains
of the natural springs of seven mountains

oh angel of water
baptize me

oh water of life
make me new

O Privilegio dos Caminhos
trazem a sua arte a Lisboa

num encontro
entre poesia canto musica e danca

Santiago Alquimista
ola

Obrigado
birth life friendship love death

Alchemy
Sintra

the journey below and above
Pessoa poet boulanger alchemist

poetry song dance
the bread of life

manger du livre eat the book
and the word will set you free

in Alfama old Lisbon
in this strange this mystical land

Fado destiny synchronicity
trams and church bells

at 5am
meditation prayer

laughing woman
with a broom Tia Aida

Tejoo Bar Pedro at midnight guitared poems
freedom portal

keep the flame alive
the flame of freedom

Master of Ceremonies Pedro sings and drinks
and recites poetry every night at The Tejoo Bar

world music world rhythms
the beauty of rhythmic movement of sound

measuring space with magically rhythmed time
romantic alchemical mystery Portugal

in Kentucky it’s raining Portuguese poems
Pasteis de Belem Piriquita

the gypsy violinist plays and sings until dawn
on the threshold of the gods

Quinta da Regaleira
Sintra

Fount of Abundance
alchemical Portugal

the threshold
the doorway

to the creative imagination
to spirit realms

Lord Byron’s Café
Pessoa’s Hotel

by plane and train I travel
I walk

from Oporto to Braga Bom Jesus
the Azores Sintra

to old Lisboa Alfama
to Faro to Tangier

to Terceira
Luis Vaz de Camoes Fernando Pessoa

Ana Paula Inacio Luis Quintas Rui Coias
Fado Amalia Rodrigues

old Lisboa oh Lisbon oh Portugal
I sing your songs

I whisper your poems
obrigado obrigado obrigado

Obrigado
ola

taste the turquoise sky
under the purple trees

from the family of Bougainvillea
I lick the sea's salt from my lips

as Carlos Clara Gomes plays
the music of decolonization

3)
The Poet Eats The Book of Life

What is poetry?
Why do I write poems?

Why am I a poet?
Does the poet possess the magic

of evoking feelings and situations
and provoking emotions in those

who listen to or read poetry?.
Poetry is hard to define because

poems penetrate everywhere,
poems influence all the arts, all life.

Poetry is dreamlike and realistic,
sensitive and sublime, comprehensible

and encoded, wild and wise, pensive
and subversive, tender and rebellious,

dada, surreal, lost, rock n roll, romantic, beat,
symbolist, textualist, minimalist, taoist,

philosophical, free, condemned,
human, interplanetary, extraterrestrial, zen.

What is poetry?
Why do I write poems?

Why am I a poet?
Poetry grabbed hold of me

and made me an instrument of poetry.
The poet does not act freely,

in pursuit of a merely private end.
Poets have moods, free will, personal aims

but as poets we are bearers of humanity,
carrying and shaping the common

unconscious life of our species.
The psychic makeup of poets attracts attention

but each poem is the bedrock of inquiry
when directed toward understanding the poet,

for the poetic disposition adheres to a charisma
that attaches to the poet and has collective aspects.

Why do I write poetry?
As a poet, what do I do? What tools do I employ

to perform my work? A poet paints moving pictures
of the past and the present, and dreams of what

the future might hold. The poet reveals how
and where we, as individuals and societies,

have erred, gone astray, in the past and redirects us
for the future. But a poet does much more.

A poet is a person who reveals what can, may, or will
happen in the present and the future. A poet proclaims

what is revealed by the still small voice within.
A poet turns inward to see, then outward to express

the vision of what is seen to those who choose to hear.
The poet is a mystic in the sense of being one who

understands, experientially, what is hidden in meaning,
what is enigmatic, what is mysterious, what is unknown.

A mystic is one who believes and knows that truth
can be known through intuitive insight that is independent

of but translatable through the mind. Mystical may be defined
as the secret meaning beyond human reason and

understanding and may be translated through word images
that become symbols. A mystic, through an enlightened,

therefore natural, vision is capable of seeing beyond
the phenomenon of materiality to the transcendent.

Through mystic vision, having developed and initiated
the gift of seeing, the sense of sight, of discernment,

the poet achieves insight, enlightenment, exaltation.
Enlightened mind is not special, it is natural.

There is a deep need in poets to discover life's secrets,
life's mysteries. For poets, life is a relentless search

of the depths and heights of being, of art and life,
until answers to the riddles are claimed. The poet

travels to the places where there can be discovered
a juxtaposition and possibly even a synchronization

of apparently irreconcilable differences. The poet
shares those discoveries in the form of poems.

A poem is a juxtaposition of
apparently irreconcilable differences..

A poet is not a savior. The poet is an iconoclast
who destroys and creates. The poet struggles

with personal demons, claiming victories, poems
which are acts of mercy, of inspiration, of love,

of passion, of compassion, of forgiving and giving,
of cracking society's thick shell. The poems bring

peace, quiet, calm, for a moment or two. But
the poet is soon drawn back into the battle.

The poet understands that any idea that changes
our sense of reality, or allows us to see the

probability of possible other realities, has a
transformative power. The poet knows that to

move forward one must first move backward.
The poet finds the courage to steal into the past,

claim a poem, then escape, if possible, burning
bridges if and when necessary.. And the poet

doesn't expect peace and quiet upon return.
Looking into the past often initiates turmoil in

the present. The poet cannot correct past errors
but the poet must start anew. The poet recognizes

failings while questioning what failure actually means.
The poet faces and embraces failure and by doing so

moves from death and despair to the hope
of awakening and resurrection, in life.

There is no profit in depriving life of all its poetry,
of all its dreams, of all its terribly beautiful mysticism.

What is truth? The poet moves forward by the aid
of symbols. The poet continually changes those symbols

while moving forward. The poet is a shape shifter,
a change agent. The poet is in quest of the numinous,

of the terrible beauty and mystery, the big bang epiphany
that is poetry. Poetry is life. Life is poetry..

The poet eats the book of life
and becomes poetry. 

4) 
Love Under A Pandemonium Moon
He
Dreams
Of
The
Desert
And
Rolling
Mountains
Of
Sand
A
Crystal
Clear
Pool
Of
Water
Palms
Gentle
Breeze
The
Pulsing
Night
We
Waltz
Down
Your
Holy
River
Found
Naked
We
Swim
Translucent
Caress
The
Stars
Shine
Through
Us
We
Dance
The
Bone
Dance
Of
Life
Of
Love
Of
Death
Lovers
We
Waltz
Circles
Round
The
World
Of
Gloom
Paint
Pink
And
Blue
And
Purple
Until
We
Fill
Our
Oasis
With
Love
Under
A
Pandemonium
Moon

Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate



Excerpts from interview with Kentucky Poet Ron Whitehead from 2019 in Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest Issue 1
 
Poetry: Spasm Dreams collaborative poem by Ron Whitehead & David L O’Nan