FREE VERSE

Following the lead of poets who sought to free* poetry

from strict and restrictive meter and rhyme and set patterns

which were often artificial barriers to the truth of natural speech,

L P N adventurously immersed himself in poetry

which sought an unconstrained and authentic voice....

Thus, lots of free verse unraveled from his haloing heart,

mixedup mind and troubador throat,

following in the footsteps of Whitman, Pound, the Imagists, W C Williams,

the Beats, the Black Mountain group, the New York school, etc.,

not to mention the Bible, the Chinese drunkards, and other holy utterings.

Detours & Returnings

This practice of free verse admittedly was made easier

by being able to play in alternate fields as well:

ongoing attentions to songwriting especially

allowed an irresistible indulgence in the charms of rhyme,

pattern, repetition, and tight rhythm,

along with continuing returns to set forms,

western and haiku..... plus as Kabbalist-Poet

Navon has latterly focused most on composing

many original Hebrew mantras quite mathematical;

all of the above easily accessed elsewhere on this site.

Still, though largely lapsed in recent years,

L P continues occasionally to return to the open stance

of poetry in which 'form follows function'

and where the heart and mind may unfold most uniquely.

* None advocate and urgently promote

the necessity and sheer joy of Freedom

more than the Poets....

THE VISITATION I saw a small cocoon-like-thing descend, Slowly at first and with grace; It was-- At an astronomic height-- Suspended from a branch of birch; Knowingly with sudden jerks It stopped Halfway, as if to wink. Its thread as thin as wizard strings In a little but strong brown leaf, Down, swaying, down, quick it came, And, epitome of anonymity, made A daisy home. WHY IS JAZZ JAZZ why is jazz jazz well jazz is just jazz: it’s a musician’s disease he sees this germ of an idea n rolls it in the bottled)battle of his cool & shady eardrums pow! now sparked instinctively in the distinct cata- tonic instantfar off but becoming increasinglycloser opening fire,o he’s Ready & he slides along those keys he’s ready & he slides along those Keys he’s ready & he Slides along those keys his heart swaying from the first second to the cursive ship’s percussion ( sticks in the garden of a thunderous confrontation ) Driving Him On : yes it’s Yes it’s bass & horn colliding the challenge of a steamedup team keeping on Beating on their narrow seats where the bones temper a- ture dis- appears deflated Ecstasied & (AaaaaaahhhhhhJ newly creative they *SWITCH* & something in the bloodstream feverish/ escaping/ disjointed just will not (won’t) let them ever stop -- so hop thebbbop n That’s why jazz is jazz ,cool cats oh yeah .GOLD CURTAINS / BLACK BLANKET Lover of nightI become increasinglyas I age and bowto creeping deepening shadow For the bravado sunhides the seas of starsthough it be but oneamong billions, seeding the dark Thus does brief day blind usdenies pervasive Emptinessits gold curtains framingour gaudy matinée Praise then mute nightthat endless black blanketrevealing (while cushioning)the gorgeous awesome terrors of time tears truth and tideas dark and light paradeA BLUE DANCE DAY It’s a blue dance day:Shadows on the peaches,Something in the air. The painter paints the riverAs his twins, watched overBy the questioning sun,Watch the painterSuggest with an orangeThe suddenness of clouds undone:Breaking new ground. Reflecting on the watersChanging colorsWhere the riverSnakes underThe bridge’s belly, it all becomesToo much to capture: The painting’s clock--The sudden sun--Fractures and the watersQuiver, forever. Alone At home, his lady can neitherIgnore (nor abide)These hints of the moon at noontideBluegreenly through the air. Slivers. She hearsAnd watches through windowsFrom beyond the maplesThe minor chordOf painted birds glancing off of the quiet peach in its nice niche in the big bowl on the polished rosewood table. PRAYER OF LATE NOVEMBER STEEL the first snowI saw itpast autumnand the giant craneby the highwayseemed to seekto cup iton the custom tipof its roving tonguebowing before it: oh the gentle snowingTWO CHILDREN SEEING THE FIREWORKS (JULY FOURTH WEST POINT) It’s so pretty Oh I never sawA pink sky beforeBut I just did It’s a circleand it crashed Now a green skyNow a orangeNow white It fizzled outWhistlingIn alldifferent directionsDid you see Maybe the cannonsDid that shot Hey lookThat one’s likeA parachute…And on the groundIt’s a fountain I’m going to stayUp all nightAnd watch the lightsOo that was quick

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Resurrecting Father