David Tucker is the Poet Laureate of the Quantum Revolution. A Vermont-based poet, David is an insightful commentator on our internal and external cultural, spiritual and political milieu.
Here is an introduction, from David. And then below the introduction, is his poem Yearning (Autobiography).
Dear Reader,
I was born in a desolate little oil town in the southern San Joaquin Valley of California. I was raised in a dysfunctional family. I became a poet. Was my art merely a compensation for my inability to deal with my life?
My childhood, adolescence and young manhood were such a failure. Then, at the apex of my turmoil, poetry began gushing out of me. No, not compensation. The poet was locked inside that hick kid. The failures were the rocks to break down the gates. Let him out. The failures were a comforting proof of the order of the universe.
In the light of that understanding, I must approach my work, always, with the intention to speak from that country that is often hidden on the other side of the gates. From that country I hear the injunction to never seek applause, approval or money. To listen, carefully, for the rattle of the keys that unlock the gates of the soul.
But I am ambitious. Ambitious to the extreme. I am here to help change the way the blood circulates in the heart of the world. That it circulates up into the light of love and compassion. Not down into the bile of self-absorption, war and anger.
I write in order to share this love of the Spirit with all who are hungry to hear. I hope you are one of those.
With much love,
David
davidshawnee@me.com
Yearning
(Autobiography)
Now,
as sure as Hades
cannot hear the sound of joy,
new snow has begun to fall
on all the footprints
mark my path
through life
will disappear
because I burned
the scripture written on my youth:
‘Love the money not the kiss’.
Watch.
You’ll see.
I now must wander
the pathless sky because
my longing for the breath of God
has welded
shut my purse
in which I carry
my old compass,
my pride,
my wish for the praise of women.
And, my mother says,
worst of all,
I do not care.
I toss it all
for just a taste,
just a tiny shiver
from the sweet breath
that lights the dawn!
I would do differently
if I could.
I would be responsible.
I would be ambitious.
I would be good.
I would be the poster child of mental health
if I could
but I can hear
death sniff the wasted minutes
of my past
looking for a way
to slash my life
and drag into the dark.
And….
in the forest
of the hammer blows
of time
and age
and sick
and death,
a bright certainty rises
like a new planet
over the ocean
of my soul:
no one moment
is wide enough
to acquire the light
that breaks the grasp of night
unless God grabs my minutes
like an egg
cracks me open
to plunge herself
into the very
center of my soul
like a wall of colored sound
that whispers all the secrets
of all the universe
from Antares
to the beaches where lounge
the Shepherds of the Sun.
Plunges
and plunges
and plunges
until
my minutes become as wide as the reach
from Orion’s shoulder to his toe.
Come, Divine Lady
who turns the stars
and bakes the light
that tingles in the belly of my soul,
break the shell
in which I hide,
burn the darkness
out of every moment
of my dusty life.
You
the Queen
who sprinkles honey
on the tongues of butterflies
have knocked me to my knees,
cut the tendons of my will
and tied me to your bed.
I’d sell everything I own,
give up all my money
just to live in the peace of your constant kiss.
Wouldn’t anyone?
© 2010
David Tucker
802-488-0138
davidshawnee@me.com
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