Words from the Mountain @vladimirerimou - Tumblr Blog

The hills are speaking binary, now;

the falcon has killed the falconer.

Anarchy reigns supreme

from the towers built

by the new gods who have slain the old, seeking immortality in their fear

of death and the day of judgement.The mountains groan, The trees cry out for rain,their roots thirsty for blood.A voice rasps in the bony wind:"I am what happens when you try to carve God out of the wood of your own sinful hungers.Remember the fate of Sodom;for you commit the same sins."The hills are speaking binary, now; the falcon has killed the falconer. Anarchy reigns supreme from the towers built by the new gods who have slain the old, seeking immortality in their fear of death and the day of judgement.The mountains groan, The trees cry out for rain,their roots thirsty for blood.A voice rasps in the bony wind:"I am what happens when you try to carve God out of the wood of your own sinful hungers.Remember the fate of Sodom;for you commit the same sins."

It is time to sharpen thy knife and curse the sky

For the world is hollow

And I have touched the heavens

And felt nothing but pain and emptiness.

Like inside my heart.

A corpse, cast aside the road,

Food for the ravens.

Would that I be emotionless,

So that I could lift myself up

Where my suffering does not reach.

But instead, I feel the ache and need

For things which will never be fulfilled.

Time is preservedonly at the center strata

Where the bones and shells of

the dead wait entombed;

Monsters of old, and of new,

Of the mind and of the soul

Wait to devour me again.

Two steps forward, one slide back,

The struggle never ends.

A constant battle in the mind and heart

Where I must be eternally vigilant,

Lest one slide leads to my death.

There is no rest for the weary,

No requiem for Methuselah.

It's just that a year ago today,

I knew where everything was going

And where I was heading,

I was in love, with a woman I dreamed of

being with for years and now

That path is shattered like

So many fragments of pottery

Ground into the dust and

I feel like there is no future for me,

and I am trapped in the

path of the overwintering Solitares:

Endless gin and endless deserts,

And all this work I'm doing is for

Nothing at all but

Mere shadows and symbols.

Pedregosa Dreaming (II)

As the stars wheel above,

My hands caress

The wind and water worn

red rocks while the mushrooms kick in,

Mycelium spreading through

my soul, mind, heart,

And into the deep vastness

Of the time before time mattered.

"Tell me more," my friend,

a sheltering Rowan tree,

bent in the night breeze

Whispers to me through the distance.

"About what this place was like, so long ago?"

The mushroom drive kicks

Into full gear as my hand

Sinks deep into the moonlit stone.

I open my eyes and see

the edge of the lost Permian Pedregosa sea,

Lapping on sandy shores.

Towering dunes,

an equatorial blue desert sky

The skeletons of dead annularia

bleached white by

An unforgiving ancient sun,

Reach like skeletal fingers

While a few scattered brachiopod shells

Greet my wandering eyes.

While in the distance, a dog-sized

stem-mammal snorts through

a dune searching for roots.

All this while the scent of sour salt air

assaults my nostrils

Like the world's largest dirty martini.

I thirst.

I enjoy the world

while my mouth translates

to my eager friend,

a litany of facts like

a paraklesis for a lost world

While the moonlight dances in her eyes.

I really should do things like this more often,

I think to myself

as my hand emerges

from the ancient rusted erg.

I wonder where, and when

we should travel to next.

American Metaphors

Waves crash on the shore

Of aged, polished Numenor

Where sea eagles soar among

Great chalky crags

As the white tree falls

The charnel house begins

And the faithful flee to safer shores

While the mob sacrifices all

for greed and power.

My road leads into the desert,

Amidst tokens of ancient seas,

And bent, twisted cypress who

Slowly twist their way into fossil dunes

Like corkscrews into aged wines.

It leads past the secret pools

Hidden in the canyons

Where the Scrub jays drink

And the frogs gather in summer

To sing of ancient homes in stone.

Under the wings of zone-tailed Hawks

As they soar disguised

Ready to pounce upon the unwary,

Those who hide their true selves

Amidst cactus and mesquite.

I may wander wide,

But the desert is my land,

The creosote my bride,

And I am a friend known to

Sparrow and Solitaire alike.

This is my secret.

This is my road,

This is the route of my soul.

It is what it is;The ravens know.

I have a problem; I am unable to be level In my emotions and When I fall in love I give it all, unable To modulate the depth And mood of my feelings.

It has scared away at least Three "Ones" that otherwise Might still be at my side and I am unclear how normal people Hide their emotions so easily.

Time for some Aztec wetwork, Where I take the laughing flint knife To my heart and shave off All the parts where emotions reside; For it will be better To have none at all Than to attempt to Hide how I feel.

I cut under my breastbone, Knife hand wet and The ichor of life sparkling Upon the smiling blade. I reach on, and carefully Grasp my heart, All scarred with past loves lost.

It throbs in my hand like The wings of a hummingbird, And is just as fragile.

Step one: I take the edge of the painfully sharp blade And gently Whittle away the scars of the past. Exposing raw flesh to the daylight.

When I am done cutting, I hold my heart over the fire lit by copal and frankincense, Wave the sweet-scented sage and rose incense for the Holy Virgin And dry my blood with powdered tobacco and blue cornmeal. I wrap it in a bundle filled with soft Conure feathers; I slide my heart back into my chest.

I don't know where Emotions lay in the heart. I have no map. But the surface seems A good start. Maybe that will be enough.

"Huetzcatecpatl"

As a moth dances Before a lantern light Orange wings flashing in What seems like the darkness of the seemingly eternal night...

We must remember the Moth Like ourselves Is constantly striving To be one with The image of God within our respective hearts. So go dance in The light of lanterns Or in summer thunderstorms. Go try and be one with your heart So you may be one with God.

---"Mothlight," Vladimir Erimou

When the stars aligned At the end of all things And you blinded me I chose the road that Lead into the desert. What choice was there? You stole from me The other roads and paths Leading to family and peace, Love, partnership, and joy. No longer will I see Your russet hair blowing In the prairie winds, Hear your laughter, your words Spoken in the accent from Across the sea. But you blinded me, Crushed my heart Like dried flower petals And cast them into the fire. What other choice was there? My road now leads into the desert. A sea of thorns and stones. No company save prickly pear And cactus wrens. It is the path that Will kill me soonest But you never really cared About all that...

---"Into Deserts," Vladimir Erimou Did you?

Pippin and I tore apart

your crown today

Under a plumbeous sky

Laiden with rain.

That crown of light

you wore when

You danced with me

among the vines

In Sonoita under the stars.

You promised

in that moment

I was stuck with you

Until the end of time.

I rejoiced in that.

I loved you.

I said to you then

this moment

Under the wheeling stars

would become a poem.

At least one of us keeps

Their words as truth.

This was not the poem

I expected.

Now I vomit at

The lack of your voice

And words in the morning;

An absence like

a missing tooth.

So we stare down

into the dumpster

at a twisted piece of plastic.

Just another piece

of goddamn trash.

#poetry #poems #the geologist cycle #star-crossed lovers #breakup poetry

You cast me aside Into the limestone dust Lurking under the cryptobiotic crust Where the tardigrades lurk Amongst black lichen Waiting for the rains. A seed in the cracks Of calcareous soils Waiting to rise in the sun; Roots sunk deep Into the ancient lake. A memory of ancient suns And the snorting of mammoths Strolling in the muck While you smiled, with your Sabre teeth Licking your chops Thinking to eat me alive. Yet here I am, woman. I survived you. I survived all those Who came before you. You bit me, and found That I was bitter like creosote leaves. In this, I have found survival. I am a child of the desert; Born to harsh ways, Harsh moods, harsher words And harshest of all, The silence of high noon Under the desert sun. So, do what you will. I will wait amongst the biocrust lurking under the creosote: like a tardigrade dreaming under the dried moss Waiting for the stars to align correctly once more... And then I will rise again thereby becoming everyone's damned problem.

“Mushroom Musings,” Vladimir Erimou

#poetry #desert poetry #breakup poetry

I stare awake on this lonely Christmas night at the detritus left behind from your departure: Broken ammonites lay in the roads; with a half-drunk bottle of briny Sancerre. A ring of gold and sky and a pocket watch, broken due to an inscription claiming it was given from love. An icon in a dim room that now brings me no joy, only sorrow. Even my bird keeps silent, refusing to speak the words you accidentally taught him in all our conversations; would that I could forget as easily. At night I still dream I am in your house, your bed, your arms and wake up alone in tears, leaving my pillow crusted with salt. But you are gone. Your return is about as likely as it is for the rich to lay down and begin weeping, gnashing their teeth in terror as they receive their just reward.

“Carapocalypse,” Vladimir Erimou

#poetry #The Geologist Cycle #never date your ex

I write this poem in the dark times in hopes that I can give this to you when the sun shines again. My darling dear, I love you more than anything else in this world: more than my mountains. More than malvasia. I know that we have our hiccups and bumps, and trials but I cannot imagine anyone else with whom I would travel this road with. I know it won't be easy. I know we will have enemies within ourselves, along with the humdrum disorder of day-to-day life; that is why I give you this sword. I give you this sword and this turquoise and gold ring as an emblem and a solemn promise. A sword for our enemies; a ring for our love. Will you marry me?

Being Naïve: an Exercise in Hope (by Vladimir Erimou)

#poetry #proposal poetry #poems #love #love sucks #love poems

Father A, Bless; It is Vladimir of Arizona once again, the one who wanders the ruins of the old ones looking for fingerprints in ornate potsherds, humbly petitioning to court your spiritual daughter, M, once again. For as the monsoons return to bring flowers and life to the desert, so my mind, heart, and soul have turned to her again. Like water in a thirsty land. In the years since I last petitioned... much has changed. I grew older. maybe even wiser. I submitted to those obediences set forth by you, and my confessor both. I walked the vineyards, toiling in starlight, my hands stained with blood and graciano, back groaning like my prayers. I prayed for wisdom. for peace in my heart. I went to therapy for aid in fixing the parts of me others had broken. I looked for fossils in the broken stones to understand both my past, and the past ages of the earth. I learned to live in justice every day, so as to create a just world around me. I even attempted to find love in other places; succeeded for a while, until that fell apart in a particularly spectacular fashion, surprising absolutely no one. During this whole time, I prayed for M. I was directed to do this both by my priest and common sense. I lit a candle for her every time I was in the temple of the Lord, flickering firelight dancing across the saints. I had no contact. As was commanded. I kept my silence for three years; and then thrice more. I hoped, prayed, that she was alive, that her sons were alive, that she had the help she needed. I worked on myself. I grew, while harvesting and planting vineyards in starlight; handling the sharp edges of the fossils in my mind carefully, sharing with a therapist. Seeking, struggling, and eventually succeeding to understand myself, and what was given to me to offer to others. I still care for her. I have heard through the whispers of winter robins that M feels the same as myself, even after all this time. And so, I reach out with fear and trembling, for permission to court her once more. We have worked hard in the vineyards to right the wrongs of our pasts. Let us see what seed the sower has left in our field. In your mercy, bless us and sanctify us so that we may do things in the proper and just way. Amen.

“Letter to a priest,” Vladmir Erimou

#Orthodox poetry #poetry #letter poetry #poetry letter #vineyards #wine poetry #love and wine poetry #shots in the dark #poetry based on dreams

I wish I knew

the shortening of the way.

the portal that brings

you to me.

if it existed.

if you even exist.

but I walk alone

through the sands

along the ancient Pedregossa;

dunes on my right hand

towering against the blue sea

at my left hand.

there is no "shortening of the way"

in this age, or that age.

there is only the uncertain

long road that is hidden

in the dust storms;

no spice trance to fold

space and time

leading to arms intertwined.

#poetry #love poetry #poems #the geologist cycle #dune #kwisatz haderach

It is still today, here.

It's not too late,

and the Morgon is

still in my glass;

gleaming garnet, grown

on rotten schist and granite.

Here, the Gamay vines sink

deep into the remains

of forgotten volcanoes;

all beautiful and old.

I swirl the wine in my glass,

thinking of vintners and growers,

coopers and critics;

everyone who has been

a part of this wine's history.

Wine, after all, is a time machine,

and those ancient landscapes

whisper to me from

within my glass

in the notes of

granite dust and graphite,

that intermingle with the

telltale strawberries, cherries,

and cranberries of Gamay;

that leather and cacao

from extended masceration

and the sandalwood and

cinnamon of oak barrels

sleeping in distant cellars.

It is a beautiful wine;

well worthy of the words

of frustrated poets;

but now... it is tomorrow there.

And you have passed

Into the West.

Goodbye, Steven;

Memory Eternal.

I'll drink this Beaujolais for you.

-Vladmir Erimou, "Morgon In Memoriam of Steven Spurrier (1941-2021)"

The memories and mistakes

of the past bark at my heels

like the hounds of the Wild Hunt.

I hide under the blankets

from their frigid jaws,

hoping they will not find me,

but to no avail.

they bark the names of those I've wronged, those whose lives I've irreparably damaged.

I wish they would

tear me to pieces,

into those atoms of stardust

which I once was;

that I would much rather be,

than some fucked-up man;

a waste of space.

I wish I didn't want

to make the same mistakes

but maybe this time it will go right.

I shout to the hounds,

cry aloft, cry into the pillow.

Pray for me,

dear Mother of God,

that something good

becomes of me.

I am sorry for all those I have hurt.

I am sorry to those I have wronged.

I am sorry to all those who I was too much;

I am sorry to all those to whom I was not enough.

I am sorry to all those I loved;

I am sorry to all those I did not love.

I am sorry for the wines I drank;

I am sorry for the wines I did not drink.

I am sorry for everything I did;

I am sorry for everything I didn't do.

I am sorry for this world;

I am not sorry enough to stay and fix it.

I am sorry I am not strong enough to stay.

I am sorry I am weak enough to leave.

I am sorry for being myself;

I am sorry for not being all I could be.

I am sorry.

Forgive me.

"Attempted Death Poem, January 31, 2020"- Vladimir Erimou.

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Words from the Mountain