The Compendium of Calvin

the dictionary for today

2012-02-29T15:46:00.001-05:00

again calvin writes about longing and loss and yet in this poem, he offers some solace near the close, as if fate will intervene to place him together with his love finally at the end. certain turns of phrases here make my mind twirl: ("sinewy steps, crawling my way / leaving fire marks of orange / and jasmine") or ("the bare breaths on my / neck caused the roses to grow"). it is also worth noting that this writing seems again to reference the mysterious "beautiful blind girl" with the mention of eyes near the end of the poem. who was this woman who found entrance to his soul and then further into many of his poems? perhaps we will never know, but no doubt she is a woman of substance to have affected him so.

i looked at the dictionary for today,
and everything was so slightly changed;
the blue-grey dolphins no longer
came tapping at my window,
the spiderwebs were finely
crystallized with rain from
my eyes, and i could hear
the softly-covered silky footsteps
in the corner coming slowly,
sinewy steps, crawling my way,
leaving fire marks of orange
and jasmine on the arabian
tiles for me to notice with
a sideways glance to the left,
and the bare breaths on my
neck caused the roses to grow
and it was all so familiar,
all so circular that i
began spinning tumbling twisting
until the sun fell until i came face to face
with the dancing swallow building it's nest
in my grove and i recognized the eyes first,
(the eyes so tightly gripped in her palm)
so tightly emblazoned on my being
to blink was to lose it all
(rushing water down through the rocks
carrying the light on it's way)

drifting and hoodwinked and stolen

2012-02-29T15:38:00.001-05:00

this poem feels to me more of a story, a story about having something beautiful for the briefest of moments and then losing it, and the lifelong regret that follows such an action. it is obvious (nearly too obvious for such a metaphor- and imagery-laden writer as calvin) that this woman touched him deeply, and likewise, he was deeply hurt when it ended. the lush (and sometimes raw) imagery that he uses here is not meant to obscure but rather to highlight how deeply he was touched, and hurt. but alas, without that anguish, he never would have written this intensely personal and melancholy poem, giving us yet another beautiful poem and another glimpse into his soul.

and i watched her turn blue-black and
face forward with a deepening darkening soul
drifting and hoodwinked and stolen
and all at once the ground's silence
fell through and she was gone
before i could feel her thoughts.

i have had dreams since then,
(mists of her mixed in with the devil's
silvery lies told early in the evening,
sins that knock over my mountains)
and i can remember only one thing
for certain; i believe she was calling me.
her twisted, gnarled tree-roots reaching
out for me, a moonbeam looking for water,
(a half-wish falling mid-flight),
and her mouth was open, screaming
for her light-eyed whispering knave to rescue her
to where it never stopped snowing gems.
but all that haunted me in
my crocodile days of happiness
was her beautiful soul whispering (nay)
tinkling my name, those silver-green bells
calling for me and my melancholy heart
refused to bloom for another wandering soul.
she was the spark, the width, the smoke
that would engulf me and she was all
the green and violet and flowers in a pyre
to me and yet all i could do
was watch her fall and trust her
to get back up again and darling,
i have lost you and your silent singing
that we used to dance to and darling,
walk with me through a starry sea a while
and forgive me;
wash me clean with your kiss

you let me

2011-11-14T14:44:00.001-05:00

this is his brain spilled out. he is releasing in these writings, taking his demons and dreams and flinging them on to the paper. it reads in a rush, it reads of the need to understand, believe, and belong. this poem takes on the form of a conversation, if i can call it that, but between who? it seems the main person is asking the questions and the parentheses person is answering, until the end when the roles seem to have reversed. but it feels like whatever it was about and whomever was talking, they have come to an understanding about needing each other.

it's almost over just about there closing in
(i hear)
just about everyday when i open my eyes go outside
(i see)
the sun is closing in on memories the son is the future
the past rearing up and blanketing hills and islands
cleaned out attics and torched homes along city avenues
burn out the cancer the cells that survive the best
do you think he really is (who) him (maybe) i don't know
wish i knew the plan could see it was all going to bloom
not see the reflections of empty mirrors in everyone's eyes
do i have time to tell you (yes all the time you need)
let sand slip between your hands between the oceans
deserts all because a child wasted time (will you with me)
no not with you (you moon my tides pull on the clocks to
spin my windmills wish clouds to grow my garden with rain)
you let me

stand up

2011-11-14T09:51:00.001-05:00

a writing from calvin that is full of, I daresay, optimism. a writing with guarded hope, full of possibilities. it is calvin with a beginning.

fruitful days
and languishing evenings
and rum spirits
(and even so
the fresh-faced cold
intruded tonight)

watch your shellfish eyes catch light along the ocean floor
while mediterranean tongues whisper in my dreams

“it’s opening time now it’s the season to be”
yells the librarian
who has tended all those books
all those years
and dust-covered birds flutter
stretch their wings
out of cupolas and barn attics
where little boys walking on rafters lose their fear

you stared at the falling lights with me
and you told me
you liked
how beautifully
snow lay
on the trees
silently

do you enjoy this teasing?

2011-11-14T09:45:00.001-05:00

this writing is, as near as i can tell, the very first poem from calvin. as you can see, his writing here is a bit crude and extremely direct, as opposed to the imagery-laden style his writing evolved into. nonetheless, this poem marks the first time calvin put himself on paper. and, as you can see, already he is torn apart and already he is searching for someone.

do you enjoy this teasing?
shred my heart your eyes rip my soul
but i love you (can't see anything without you)

spill my blood

2011-11-14T09:41:00.001-05:00

here calvin is talking to the old man again. it is calvin asking for help from someone who has completed their journey. calvin wants a bloodletting to release all the pain he has carried for so long. a cleansing long overdue.

you are alone now old man
you are safe now old man
and your warm voice can rest
in the attic sunbeams

i tell you old man it is time
i promised to take care of you
and now it is your turn
to bandage my wounds and
pour me some dry whiskey
create a triage and spill my blood

hey old man

2011-11-09T14:15:00.002-05:00

i thought at first calvin was talking to a father figure here, but the more i read his writing, the more i believe this was written to himself, at a time when he felt old. his poems reflect a youthful naivety at times, and then radically change to the tone of a world-weary old man. i suggest he realizes this in some way and is attempting to address that part of him here.

hey old man
look at the sky in the sun
it's full of flowers
(tired and dead)
reminders of leaves
and little things you said
sometimes the past blows by
and gardens of spiderwebs
fill up your head
and hey old man
remember your smiles
they're all clinging on to
the birds in the sky
and the water is filled
with colors of me
and you're full of green
and maybe some blue
that water can't wash away
and it spills and spills
and somewhere inside
the dreams they are dying
and the sun is in the sky
(but why old man)
can't you find the boy
and make him cry
like the way she used to dance

i forget the right words

2011-11-09T14:12:00.003-05:00

this one speaks to me of the inability to control the situation. calvin often writes in this tone of loss, as if so many things he tries for are just out of reach.

and sweetheart,
i forget, i forget
the right words to heal
my wounds
and darling, darling
i can't remember
how to turn your eyes on
and in my last days
that's all i'm really thinking about

wings

2011-10-25T09:58:00.003-04:00

this poem speaks to me of the something joyful, something that calvin is claiming as his own. i believe he is talking about how he is taking everything inside himself and creating something new, something to rise above the barren landscape he so often writes about. the third line is beautiful if you take the time to follow the rhythm, something calvin often plays with. it's almost like he can't get the words out fast enough, which i believe provides a quick glimpse into how his mind works.

eclectic thought and reality murals strewn all around my library
open your old sepia earth photographs (and)
see taste smell your feel glisten bury your hands in what is yours
revel in what you took from the world
recreated into art and colored paint
and wings to fly with

passenger cars

2011-10-25T09:50:00.003-04:00

this writing, from a later tome of calvin's, has a much darker undercurrent of being trapped. what demons he is attempting to confront here are unknown, but the tone is one of resignation.

i’m stringing along from the flag in the wind
pushing passenger cars under pillows to avoid the faces
my bluejeans don’t look don’t feel like they should
locking up what i want to get rid of because someone will steal it if i don’t
tunnels carrying my name don’t let it out to the other side
just like when we were kids
and all i thought of was escape

the colors ran down

2011-10-24T15:29:00.001-04:00

calvin's writing style changes often, as to be expected. in contrast to some of the writings i've already posted here that are full of imagery and phrases that melt into each other, this one is almost direct, as if he hadn't yet figured out how to conceal his feelings with wordplay.

while i feel it (and others seemingly written in the same time period) is not as rich lyrically as his later and more developed work, i feel that a compendium of calvin would be incomplete without including all his writings as a basis for the reader to compare, as well as to bear witness to his evolution.

that said, i think his earlier work's voice still evokes similar themes he continued to explore throughout all his writings. namely: loss, loneliness, and a search for something to make him whole.

the colors ran down the darkened walls as i realized my

vulnerability
and you winked at me as the room faded
i was lost in my own mind
with all the colors running together
and the storm clouds gathering
i felt the pain and i felt the death
and i wanted you to come get me
but all i could see of you was your eyes...

sounds meshed together into one clamor as i realized my
insecurities
and you winked at me as my life faded
i was lost, like always
with the sounds running together
and then falling into darkness
i felt my age and i closed in on death
and i wanted you to come get me
but all i could see of you was your eyes...

as i felt the pain and i felt the death
(and i felt my age)
i wanted you most of all
but all i could see of you was your eyes...

it's like a foreign language

2011-10-24T15:20:00.002-04:00

this writing shows calvin experimenting with language, rolling words around his mouth. it not so fluid as some of his other writings. this one seems more rapid, staccato thoughts stitched together to make a whole.

it’s like a foreign language to me you say
(a night sky seen from above during an eclipse)
(a lover’s skin magnified) it’s like
a tongue i can no longer use you say
(a hand caught holding the sun)
(tattoos suddenly appearing all along my body
twisting my secrets out of me)

it is exactly like this

2011-10-13T15:25:00.002-04:00

this poem struck me as it seemed hopeful, which i find is a rare thing in calvin's writings. someone has woken him up and is making him take full breaths. i still wonder what calvin is referring to when he says the old man says "it is exactly like this"? what is the it? love? being whole? being at peace?

your lipstick has smudged its way onto the rough edges of my book

your liquid voice and fingers tracing my unraveling eyes

(shiny glass bits trapped in old barn’s wood glitter in the spring sun)

the color from your eyes has found its way onto my hands

like rouge across my palms dripping onto the floor

(puddles of reminders crossing my path dyeing my future)

it’s like this the old man says it is exactly like this

and my window isn’t wide enough can’t fit your whole sea in it

who is you is the dusty jewel

2011-10-11T10:52:00.001-04:00

someone calvin misses very much. someone calvin is waiting for. someone calvin has memorized and now can't erase.

of the many

thousand faces who is you

is the dusty jewel of spilling waterfalls and missing fire

you ran through me like witches

tinkling sounds of silver water bells and rushing robins

i stood and waited on the park bench

promises sewed up next to my heart close to my soul

knew you were coming like silent knocks on oak doors

no postage marked no lipstick on the envelope no perfume on the paper

i see your eyes i've traced them i know the constellations

(apple trees and sunshine peach skins across your swan neck)

i feel you like light across my face succumb to your ringing music

crashing water pitchers and glass mirrors shattered in the corner

the sky is growing dusky clouds crawling full

my shoes are buried in a heap of imagined memories

kick up the dirt and hope and flame

so many mistaken children playing tag with the wind

and i still can't open the window force the sash

returning to the beach again now

going to swell with the waves and say goodnight to the fiery sun

(nothing to your tracing fingers on my head) sea nymphs calling

from the inside and grey moons to rest with wait for you

will count the leaves this fall name one for me and the others all for you

you're lost she told me last night

2011-10-10T14:47:00.000-04:00

if anything, this screams to me of abandonment. an abandonment that was expected, that one knows they'll have to endure, that is personal, and that slowly splinters inside your mind in those long, endless nights.

you’re lost she told me last night

adrift amongst babylon

and your outpost has been forgotten about

she whispered over tea

stay in out of the rain

and bank your fire against the northern wind

she warned over the windowsill

you must endure until the expedition arrives

which will be no time soon

she wept into my feverish neck

for they are lost too
and you’ll only have your snowfall for company

and faded snapshots of me that can’t talk

like scarves that don’t stop the cold

how you send it to me

2011-10-10T14:35:00.000-04:00

here calvin is making everyday things sensual and tangible. i like the way he begins this writing, but i really like how he ends it.

fireworks and streamers run tumble twist through your hair

semantics with tongues and trailing fingers

cool water at night and (glide) (lost) (adrift) at sea

close the door drape across me cascade onto my island skin

steaming kitchens lighted wax candles dancing basements

oh my bella how you shine and how you send it to me

and how long walks at night are like confessions

and country beds like penance and your arms like churches

the indian in you

2011-10-08T10:13:00.000-04:00

something about this one i liked. something that i feel i can almost touch. something that invokes calm.

the indian in you intrigued me

and the hair covering your eyes

makes you even more alluring

and when you cry at night

my hands cannot move and

my soul (twirls) (dances) with the devil

every time it rains ocean postcards

and the cowboy in me wanted to

take you down to the sea and

rest on the beach and count

the waves coming in

until there were no more waves

and no more sea

and no more you

and no more me

the beautiful blind girl

2011-10-06T14:10:00.000-04:00

i don't know what order the journals were written in, nor have any dates for his writings. i try to put them together as best i can, based on the evolution of imagery, repeated phrases, whether they have titles (he seems to have not titled his first poems), and even his changing style to establish a rudimentary timeline.

but for the first poem i'd like to share with you of calvin's, it's the one i read first. the one written on a scrap of paper that fell out of the first journal i ever picked up. i think as we continue through this expedition into the mind of calvin, you'll see that of all his poems, this poem is the best to begin with.

i don't know if he recently lost someone when he wrote this, or was searching for something he never had. nonetheless, let the journey begin.

i think you kissed me once
before you ran off
into the sunset chasing
those grey doves that so
gracefully
came and stole your eyes
and i wonder about you
every now and then
(like i wonder about the air)
and ask those grey doves
if they have seen you,
the beautiful blind-girl
searching for something
that was right here
all along

Preface to The Compendium

2011-10-06T11:19:00.000-04:00

it was a while ago that i found these journals. i first discovered calvin's work in a saint's home, along the banks of a river. the home was tucked away among pine trees and cardinal feathers. then others followed. sometimes i'd stumble upon one on a back shelf in a used bookstore, other times there'd be three for sale on ebay from an anonymous seller. once i found one tucked behind some quilts on a side shelf in an antique store (the owner didn't know where it had come from, nor did he know how much to charge me). some were wire-bound notebooks, some leather clasped with twine, some were just scraps of paper tied together hastily.

wherever i found these writings over the years, it was as if they were waiting for me. like plucking them from a memory, like i had seen their location in a dream and had forgotten the place until i was about to pick up the journal.

i don't know how many there are. i might have found them all. i might have found only a fraction.

i call them writings because i'm not sure if there's an appropriate word for them. you can call them poems, but they are more. they are his thoughts, dreams, ideas, occurrences, and fears made tangible.

whatever their source (calvin himself remains a mystery as my research has proved unsuccessful in discovering his identity) i feel like i was led to them. to understand them. to share them with whom i believe would understand them. but all my efforts to have them published has been futile, so i turn to the internet, hoping that whomever is supposed to see them and understand them (and i daresay, need them) will find them the same way i did - without even knowing they were supposed to do so.

i will post the poems that i have discovered in the attempts of constructing a human entire from fragments of a person written down. these postings are merely my attempt to keep a promise i feel i have already made, even if i did not consciously make it.

fare well, and might these writings find a home in the right person.