The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor

a clearly articulated perception, though coherent and concerted,
is not simple or sensible to poverty.
it is not merely a question of giving,
nor reabsorption of the idle that will cure.
what is the means to its remedy?
since perception measures no functional values
only an irreducible experiment will do.
a clumsy dialectic of making and selling now stand,
where perception once stood alone.
the toil, sweat, and blood of laboring souls
find favor in the affirmation of value
and a certain force of moral enchantment.
where once perception stood articulate,
now sits the absurd silence of poverty.
in this Garden of Eden perception knows only shame,
as it wallows in the thistles and weeds of the untamed.
what is the means of its replacement?
a new space invented by the toil of society.
a new world deriving ethical transcendence
from the clearly articulated Law of Work!

a clearly articulated perception, though coherent and concerted,
is not simple or sensible matter to poverty.
it is not merely a question of giving,
nor reabsorption of the idle that will cure.
what is the means to its remedy?
since perception measures no functional values
only an irreducible experiment will do.
a clumsy dialectic of making and selling now stand,
where perception once stood alone.
the toil, sweat, and blood of laboring souls
find favor in the affirmation of value
and a certain force of moral enchantment.
where once perception stood articulate,
now stands the absurd pride of poverty.
in this Garden of Eden perception knows only shame,
as it wallows in the thistles and weeds of the untamed.
what is the means of its replacement?
a new space invented by the toil of society,
a new world deriving ethical transcendence
from the clear articulation of laboring souls !

Perception is the shadow that steps beside me
Faithful friend to follow me so
Yet, though I walk high or low
The journey with me is to disagree.

obstructions to my passion
push like copper knots,
arresting my aspirations
with common trivialities,
smearing red bright red
my adulations,
freezing successes
crafted from the causal
peculiarities of my obsesses.

Dreams of promise. Then, shall there be apposite placement of
The Cedillas beneath those difficult, banal words. No longer
Marked by the dark, polar-cold barrenness that scripts the
Malodorous solemn task of renewing a faith. Defiance hinders
Others will claim their own diacritic mark. For their doubts hinge
On the fallacy that such events are transitorily short,without
Righteous reclaim. Au contraire! It is the ventures born in the
Genius of a vitreous epistemology that burn bright the light of truth
No armor or valor to sway tomorrow’s aim, all things coeval
Reclaim, surreal, melody, mystery, malodorous. . .all truth’s aim!

i sit inside my soul to suck the air and wait
out the moments spent with white wraiths,
of swirling, twirling expectations churned
into crisp, fried dreams, now burned.

where are the answers once I knew,
before even God my future drew
or deigned to give me hope in a box
for a destiny without gilded locks?

i sit outside my soul to blow the winds of motion
past the pumps of time with their progressive notion
that life is more alive when outside my soul is lived
the life alive…no longer to sit or dream as hid.

had it been that such a thing either has or never has been written,
what would we be led to believe? Would any other such piercing
sockets than those languid eyes of our hearts testify to such a
preponderant existence? Not simply that it would matter to anyone
else, and, one would suppose for that matter, why should it? What
are the determinate factors, infinite actions and reactions,
unexpected possibilities, the almost of today and the maybes
of tomorrow. . ..the written and the unwritten,
and the read
and the unread. . .
all of that may or may not mean anything to
all the world. The real question is not this, we know. We know
that whether our world reads us making the right choices or
the wrong choices, one truth stands the fire of human sinew
itself. . .. . ..stands the fire of all that was,
that is or that which shall be written.
for any single moment in time has an infinite number
of possible actions or reactions or outcomes.

waiting, i am waiting…to touch beauty so far from me.
her spirit near me in stolen, secret seconds now frees
the cosmos from prefigured form. in mystic motion she flees
the doubting spheres born deep inside the holes of me.
how moves such enchantment that no one dare explain its power?
it spirals like sinuous seizures unfolding fully flowered
from dreams of the me, of which, i hope…i seek…i sigh…i see.
i lie across a mystic expanse in dewy tonality to amply seed
love’s lucent arising unfurled from falcate, celestial seas.
a chemistry of sky and skin dance, covertly configuring
icons erotic. nude darkness unsheathes to steel love sabering
athwart seamless beams, floating unseen upon vast tears of air.
imageries thread vaporous webs, snaring flares of luring lairs.
she in airless rooms commands the mind of matter’s breaths
to forge true love from crevices now veiled by crouching crests.
dreams rippling with tempered hope map well the skyward trace
of hidden, blue brooks and secret swells. ascend to places
hewn from cliffs of silky clouds, building love now wise.
far away,two hearts do rend everyday until the sun doth rise.
far away,love spheres transcend the blue in airy disguise.

in shock, and the world watching
yellow police tape adorn
left-over bombs and explosives,
balloons, bows, and wreaths of flowers.
tale to tell and questions to ask
recreated in temporal sequence,
to hammer home to all
the space of its occurrence
as separate and separable is.
and the manner of its telling
of our spatial and moral locations,
places of the dangerous Other
and spatial imaginaries. moral spaces,
which emanate from beyond,
to the realm of unimportance
around a collective self-casting
with insidious shadows posing
libidinal images of other traces,
of moral places within the bounds,
of moral spaces in authorized places.

This perfect love begins on the ocean shore
Upon the timeless sand we walk, anxious hearts soar!
Easy are the words falling effortlessly from our lips
Under a full moon and surely bound by its grip.
Tranquil is the ocean breeze that tenders our skin
A Sweet mist fills the air as ancient emotions contend.
With enveloping music a sedulous angel composes
Now two beats in rhythm, we lay upon a bed of red roses.
Mythic etches mark new secrets in the moonlit sky,
A furtive treasure for all eternity this perfect love signifies.
Ocean waves undulate, creating motion, and so we go
Back to the village with fresh caught love, our faces aglow.
In a seaside cafe, this perfect evening is wondrously done
With noise of waves and champagne, now two the single one.