So cruel is the knowledge of our waste

tomtI’m setting my sites on a steady pathway through Thomas Traherne’s Centuries. It seems that no one who reads Traherne comes away disappointed or unaffected. I hope not to be the sole exception. I did love this paragraph from Hilda Vaughan’s Introduction:

But so cruel can be the knowledge of our waste, our self-deprivation, that we wonder why mediaeval man felt a need to invent gloating devils and everlasting tortures. It is hell enough to guess what our contrition may be in the brief, interminable instant of death, should we see, like a trampled map spread below us, the fair, God-given life we spoiled. Traherne would save us from this by persuading us to look upon the beauty of our gift until we grow ashamed to spoil it. In our arid seasons, too, he refreshes our spirits, as our bodies are refreshed after long drought by the sound, sight, touch, and taste of clean, running water. Unlike most mystics, after he regained the vision of his infancy, he himself seems never to have suffered from droughts of the soul, but so to have trusted the Shepherd of his green pastures as not to have strayed beyond reach of the living waters. Yet it is pity, not impatience, which he feels when he finds that most men thirst because they will not drink.

I know the cruelty of such knowledge, but I’m not yet as confirmed as Traherne in so saving a vision of the beauty of our gift as to shake off the hellish regret and contrition of my waste and self-deprivation. I’m all ears, though, Traherene. Talk to me.



To walk abroad is, not with Eys,
But Thoughts, the Fields to see and prize;
Els may the silent Feet,
Like Logs of Wood,
Mov up and down, and see no Good,
Nor Joy nor Glory meet.

Ev’n Carts and Wheels their place do change,
But cannot see; tho very strange
The Glory that is by:
Dead Puppets may
Mov in the bright and glorious Day,
Yet not behold the Sky.

And are not Men than they more blind,
Who having Eys yet never find
The Bliss in which they mov:
Like Statues dead
They up and down are carried,
Yet neither see nor lov.

To walk is by a thought to go;
To mov in Spirit to and fro;
To mind the Good we see;
To taste the Sweet;
Observing all the things we meet.
How choice and rich they be.

(Original spelling!)


Cerebral alchemist

Chirst1 - Copy

I’m a cerebral alchemist, making gold from mere sentences
Mastered the matriculation, y’all are mere apprentices
Martin Luther King and Tech N9ne, I am the synthesis
Bifurcate the real from the fake like a parenthesis.

Switchin hands with the ball in the lane, I’m ambidextrous
Equanimity is the goal for my soul, never impetuous
Well, that might be a slight exaggeration,
‘Cuz when I get on fire I’m a walkin conflagration.

Hotter than lava percolating in Earth’s mantle
Dismantle the lame, with bursts of flame, Roman candl’in
But exquisite in every setting, commercial or residential
Serving me will never happen – like Trump being presidential.

Man stop – now you’re just being precocious,
Like you got some higher gnosis,
But these bars are straight atrocious
Poppin like Mary on the track, as the end approaches
like Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

Dwayne Polk (Art by Chris Green)

The beef is back on

So I guess the beef is back on

So I guess the beef is back on, just toss it in the wok – flame
Blazes and amazes, but they never on the block – game
Is always played pettily with no rules, it’s no shock – shame
Upon the industry that can’t tell the times, a broken clock – name
Me one rapper that’s talkin honestly bout the real story,
Bout the horror flick called Fascism, full of blood and gory,
Pullin out the straps on innocent mothers, aimin Gunz like Cory,
Then braggin on the Gram about the “war” and all its glory;
“Make America Great Again” chant of the next Trumpster hire,
Little knowin the guy’s close to combustion like a dumpster fire,
Willing to spit the false gospel of an even falser Messiah,
Needle’s already in the red, but he’s ready to take it higher;
Briar patches fillin up scary white rabbits,
While Nanaw done lost her healthcare and “She’s Gotta Have It”;
Word to Spike Lee, they might dislike me,
Even try to fight me, but they will never slight me,
Slight of hand with the reality, David Copperfield
Droppin bombs on illusion, with a kiloton whopper yield;
In the wreckage I hope to find us a kernel of truth,
To stop the wildfire of doublespeak from burnin the youth.
Speakin of kids, I heard about 1500 missin,
Torn from mothers and others, cryin and kissin,
Screw hearin about a couple-o wealthy egos dissin,
Please open your third eye and inner ear and just listen;
What have we become when we become so indifferent to pain,
I wish we cared more about our kids, indifferent to fame,
Betsy Ross in heaven cryin tears of Purple Rain,
The circle of stars she made is nothing but a circle of shame.
America, time to live up to your promise of hope,
Instead of Blue oppression, Red blood, and White lines of coke,
Nationalistic fires and destruction you continue to stoke,
So when God brings the rod of correction we’ll get more than a poke.

(Dwayne Polk)

Jesus: King of the Trill


I will always be thankful, filled up with gratitude,
Living the beatitude, changin’ up my attitude,
On another latitude,
Still in his presence
Living in his Energies (he can keep the Essence);
When the skies of my life turn grey,
And the winds turn hurricane causing trees to sway,
I will never look away, I know I will be okay,
Cuz the Shepherd got this sheep – in his lap my head I lay,
And I look around and I see the pain, I ain’t blind,
Seems like all people know nowadays is how to be unkind,
But I look past all the frowns to see invisible crowns,
And by the Spirit, I am down
To be the Bride, no gown;
Ima thank the Lord continually, it is his will;
Stop fightin’ my fears, for I know they are his kill,
Stay grateful, pass my cares to the Lord like a bill.
Word to Bun B: Jesus is the King of the Trill.
And I thank You!

(Dwayne Polk)

Ecce Homo


I’m pretty sure I’m psycho
The world’s a game like Tyco
Everybody playin
But we lackin sight tho’
All I do is stay still
Wait on the divine will
Patience is the right skill
Sight coming like the light bill
But maybe I’m just psycho
If I’m not, I might go
I ask the Lord for peace, but I’m down to fight tho’
I’m takin life in slow-mo
With my major Domo
Beholding all the beauty of the Son—
It’s Ecce Homo.

(Dwayne Polk)

Coffee is black


Black men enter, white people get fearful;
911 call – now more mothers get tearful.
Want me to be quiet? Hell naw, here’s an earful
Spillin’ thoughts over the top like I got my beer full.

Shout out my brothers and sisters, watchin the PoPo,
Predators roamin’ the streets like they hobo
Against people of color; it’s a war on the low-low
While the indifferent sip latte in Starbucks up in SoHo.

How many more brothers gotta give up they rights
Just to make sure that they live till the end of the night?
How many more sisters should we allow you to kill?
Maybe if we put the heat to you, that’ll allow you to chill?

Naw. But tensions continue to rise,
Anger is seethin’, we so damn tired of the lies;
I know the system, not the victims, is the thing I despise,
But sometimes the vision gets blurry from the tears in my eyes.

(Dwayne Polk)

Plato’s Cave


Straight from the straight-jacket, it’s the Clown Prince,
Fool for the Holy, making the whole town wince;
Betta know, baby, I am God’s Joker,
Watch ya facial expression, like it’s a game of poker.

I bring the laughter along with the mayhem,
Distribute theories of games and let you play them;
Escaped from Plato’s Cave and became super-sane,
But considered a waste of education, a super-lame.

But my smile is unchangeable, like divine nature,
Beautiful works of destruction, sublime glaciers;
Ridin with the Spirit, like I ride with Harley,
So death is absent its sting, no Fields of Barley.

I see the World as it is in its nothingness,
As I laugh that so-called Civilization be trustin this;
Call me mad, I see the Matrix like a CAT scan,
Why so serious? If you scared, call the Batman.

(Dwayne Polk)