My most successful year figuring as a true gained Collegiate Experience, now is in longing to be regained back, if possible. These fragmentary poems are capturing my moments of my life in Delgado Community College, and its progresses, while struggle of prevalence, now lasting via online study, merely continues, even though with a justified breaks, presently.
These selections of a purely a school-inspired poems bearing large amount of an autobiographical material. To one in particular I care on mind to express this, (in case of many the memories are too precious to be way too open yet as far my candidness goes, none the less, it’s a matter of my own, but also a true nature of a Nabokovian sense in it in Q of a privacy, overall) as to that of The “Emanations,” (‘Knight’s Revolt,’) dominating as a first significance, beginning a sort of a meandering part before the Coronavirus had taken its position as placed presently representing by a one particular poem; easily to be discerned accordingly, as I suppose.
First commentary; An attempt to eliminate non-clarity
Fragment I.
George M Cummins IV
The poem is very significant not for its E. Dickenson’s directness; quite the opposite. For how otherwise the entire message would be so decoded in the poem itself? – It states for “something unseen,” which is actually being felt as “seen way-too-much,” and sometimes therefore inappropriately. Whatever “that” is. It is the fraction of picture of the accepted “real” and the basis of comfort dwelling in composition of compensation between personal and “persona” life or living imago of myself, or rather to be specific: How I am to deal with people, and how I struggle to balance the demanded from my inner side, all the natural, with that, which is demanding, the inevitable real, and tentatively, so painfully misconcepted very frequently, especially as far as if it touches me.
By depicting my excitement from music and its influence on my senses, also a moments enjoying certain book of the mentioned author in the poem: Most remarkable on the scene comes the idea of the “Knight” dealing with “might,” and “night,” that is who “capes me,” and gives commands, but I am not letting him, as the poem closes the stanza. As regard to my “leaf,” the precious memory, is practically also somewhat a “dead leaf,” for it is, and must be concerned almost as “Wretched embryo” of any inspiration I have on this earth, as if not being allowed, since it was actually in spite of all offered to enjoy as I was born. But the sense of “marking” is a sense for clues, to follow my path, even through the unnatural, which is trying to make my “embryo” unfulfilled.
The invented phrase purely for this commentary [juts a draft of the commentary], as any other phrases used here-- of that “Wrenched embryo” is being associated also with the phrase “I let them know.” The “universe unseen” can be interpreted both ways; as my inner nature, same as the natural “nature” of the “outer.”
Piano Gallante
A Series of Poems
George M Cummins IV
Lost Last First Moments I
Enraptured in Greta’s eyes
More than plump noisome bagatelle-- indeed you yourself are not.
This and that morning I let and left the dusk once more frame the night
In windowless light mirroring my wall.
You and your hands full of useful tools
I sat dawn first,
But still I was after –
Or was I before you? …and sat once more, my obtuse! and
As more than meticulous
I wrote down my notes.
And now I listen…
Once more I heard the iritic piece of your nocturno…
Do you lie when while, and…
And… if you ever play…? Turn aside to the room mild smile,
Can I ask why?
So prismatic as white can be the corner of your look, and
To, to the squall of our mutual glory ‘s frame, framed in
Shameless eyeglasses fearlessly fresh as
Those beyond behind the curtained flesh of faces’ fame you do not dare,
They, they surely knew much more, and then the ringing voice.
I dare not to look there once again. I know—
Where?
Oh, of her hair’s black I roll a dice, those eyes, and, and yes, once again!
I would give a stroll.
Where?
To reach the last quest of the Universe.
Of course,
You ask why do I give the tribe to strife
More, at, and to the look, look of all your imaginary statue’s impose!
Like what?
Plain, modest, rich and I mark—
Is it the dark long fondled hair, or
The missed blink of light and bright might modesty of all what is black on you!
I ask, “What is my type?”
I fried my ramp in bar last night
Drinking absinth when ester bathe the star.
Sat, February 15th, 2020, New Orleans
Valentine’s Day…
George M Cummins iV
…And the day after,
As I paid my debts by walking the Friday’s empty cafeteria, now my thoughts way back,
Solicitude, multitude of nonsense,
Expectations whirled thereafter, mundane cloud of my umbrella’s gray
Was the gift of the Monday’s—
…And I feel the gray laughter,
The old, wise bronze trumpet.
Teacher gazes through-on thoughts, and who’s
Face is full of his hands full or his own arguments, resembling run-on sentences
Fluffing about,
And I,
Dive under events,
Expect my reverence
While amazed entwine in conversation mute…
A bit more than ponderous
I wonder that day… perhaps later, and
I asked myself once again:
“Why the lipstick is so brown,”
Suits the energy’s formula on the tip-hanger
As her crisp offer to my look,
And I would write and have a sliced this time
Last remaining dark fudge under reflecting tune of laughter, screen over the Counter;
But the same as the teacher’s, remarkably enough,
Explains the explanation
Of empty room
In the bedroom
Of building no 1’s rooms
While all those chances, offered blank chances walking their rounds
I lower the ground,
Turn aside
…and cover my face with forgetful sunny snow
And walk back home, young, and beautiful, full of hopes, remarkable, as I am, still, passionate, and thirty-three years old.
Mon, Feb 17th , 2020, New Orleans
Birthday
George M Cummins IV
I am the emperor of decadence,
I give my agony flow and pass the flute
Through those finger’s aged magnificence;
But it now my in my own red-white dew;
The relevance
Remaining occurrence
Of these petrified, raged--
To sent an invoice of feelings,
My languor, or that is that so as: dive under events,
I, by repentance files flies, and finds
Its remorse
But why to stumble if no humble
Torch to mumble…Why should I not to
Light up the forest while I can maybe later all this apply…?
God knows why…
I am the emperor of decadence lost
In my own verse
Which will last
While the spread
Until the last minute shall surpass
While I erect monument of the mass
My time of my own magnificence,
I will dwell rested as they meant
By the door – and what more!
My verse will be crossing pass
My own coffin’s eloquence. Let it be --
As my sentence’s fragment’s reverie.
Picture me!
I live a bohemistic life!
I sit on a park bench
And with a dazzling nervous anxiety I am
Swiping my coat off from buzzing flies,
Perhaps,
Bees they are, which signifies…?
And you would also?
Drain me on my liaison?
You, Who cannot plan,
Deceive, manipulate, lead or turn,
Persuade, thought –bang!
I cannot even gain the night-time to burn, and
My page of quietude emeritus
I cannot dare to ask…
Who gave me this mask?
Allegory of my fate
I think of him frequently.
Who shall render
Voice meek, tender,
Gentile or Jew—
Mendel, weak voice of…
And—again I owe a loan, loins, soul my force
Paroles full with
Romances scream in the dark:
Music most and foremost!
Poetry,
My perhaps century-year-old sister,
Tender,
Who shall render
Your bright blue eyes, tulip, skylark, and lily-white –
Poetry,
And you -- My mister! I, a Band Sinister,
Chess Grandmaster! And that of self-indulgence,
You-- not a girl! – A woman rather, and me, as of feather,
Symbol of blemished art of life--
Dedalus.
Stomach ulcer.
Meticulous.
I do not wish to mar my voice in vain
I state my life and manifesto in face of name:
Verlaine. But not sure…
Poetry,
Your pale-white years, skylark, my lily-white,
I will make the miscommunication last
As your virulent shawl
Or scarf of mine
Entwined in the dark shadow
A statues’ rhyme
I am being aware while
The blue diadem, I clime
By languor over the scar’s rain
No, I do not disdain--
I treat you.
My heart in twain—
As I always do
And you do—
And that is so:
With love.
New Orleans, March 3rd, 2020
Experiments with verses #2a
George M Cummins IV
I.
Revolts from the
“Knight” of Reality
(Emanations; Part One)
Touching modest rich and kind,
I found my framework —
And sparking wine.
That framed me; yes and no,
And I was the most to let them know.
He, wise serpent of such night
Off an inspiration from mankind.
Closing the bridge with austerity,
I felt the pulse and let it go
As music trapped me by its might,
Who stepped, caped me,
But just in my own mind.
I felt easy, just and peace,
While reading Baudelaire —
Crossed my smile with an obelisk.
I felt myself as a leaf inside the book;
I felt that ponder which I love
And shared my nook
With universe unseen,
For by this I quiver —
As that leaf —
If my book will lose its mark
While I shall move the lamp astray,
And burry me once more:
In the sleep of sane multitude.
(Therefore fashion moves its pace,
Same as the manners of disgrace,
Minding of trust with truth—
As if I were, here and there; for other rout. ) Wed., June 10, 2020, New Orleans
Lines addressed to the time between my work
George M Cummins IV
Not needed to elaborate what other people think
Not need to hear why I hammer into keyboard
Needless to say that all my room coughs in ink
Useless to swear I love music, poetry, philosophy,
Or even what and why I hoard.
March 7th, 2020, New Orleans
Sense I feel when…
George M Cummins IV
The sense I feel when my day
May glance into my for-stays;
The manifest of my devotion
The load of our obligation, now
Leads me to damp, and lay
Into the giving hand of my landlady…
Soft palmed me by a handful of soaps;
I walk away forgiven. Coronavirus.
March 12th, 2020, New Orleans