"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March."
Breathing Space July . The man who lies on his back under huge trees is also up in them. He branches out into thousands of tiny branches. He sways back and forth, he sits in a catapult chair that hurtles forward in slow motion.
The man who stands down at the dock screws up his eyes against the water. Docks get older faster than men. They have silver-gray posts and boulders in their gut. The dazzling light drives straight in.
The man who spends the whole day in an open boat moving over the luminous bays will fall asleep at last inside the shade of his blue lamp as the islands crawl like huge moths over the globe.
As the rose contains its stillness and the sea time, fire, more than fire, contains in certainty a liturgy of itself, silence in silence, from inside out overturning in stunning language towards what atmosphere free from creatures, towards what saintly prayer. Ardent instant: its fervor is begot in the tutelary pupil of the angel and its substance is the night itself.
Revolutions Robert Priest From: The Visible Man. Toronto: Unfinished Monument Press, 1980.
i am a tall white thing that birds fly out of that is why you see me in the morning so open-mouthed and foolish the doctor said "you are upside down you have a large wounded thing in your mouth i would advise you to cry" but i said "no doctor you are wrong i am tremulous and exultant—a green strand drawn from the throat of a flower i am the magnet the wind arrives at finally those are songs you see lodged in me if i cry there will be no passion in it i have tried again and again to throw off these robes of water but wherever i have whirled them— there the drunken—the inexhaustible flowers have followed and come groping up to me with praises why should i cry?" "you're upside down" he said "no" i replied, and i began to revolve in the air in front of him "you think it must be somewhere near here that the ground is the suicides have told you the rain and snow have told you it's down below somewhere under the houses but they are wrong and you are wrong i am that dancing man who kicks over the jug of the stars those are my tracks across the moon
wherever i put my feet that is where the ground is
The faintly glowing color of the maples, when it fades away before the falling of snow, serenity in mountains. This living creature, each breath that I am taking, is befag observed by one climbing up a window, a praying mantis, alone. Awakened from winter sleep a frog climbs up onto the top of leftover snow and stretches himself out flat. The red-throated chimney swallows, two of them, upon the rafters— and underneath, my mother who is going to die now. Those wild geese do not pass over any more within the sky without limitation the scattered snow is falling. Very close to death the mother I watch beside— hush-hush—sounds from far rice ponds, frogs crying to heaven are being heard. The clouds of springtime come together at one side around midday by the far-off water reeds the wild geese have settled down. Being awakened I was imagining that the wild grasses might be dropping down their seeds at about this time of night. The hush-hush inside the falling of snow—- standing motionless, a horse, his eyes. Now he has blinked ! Crawling on the grass, you firefly of the morning, transient must be this existence of mine. Do not let me die, ever. Into spring mountains I have come and am staying one person alone trying to hear the sound o leaves fallen, dried, bent over. (Mourning for Akutagawa) Coming to a wall, a lacewing May fly is clinging to it — the sheer transparency of the wings, their mournfulness.
Archaic Torso of Apollo by Rainer Maria Rilke translated by Stephen Mitchell . We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.
Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet. Let it not be a death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
Cosmic Charley Lyrics By: Robert Hunter Music By: Jerry Garcia . Cosmic Charley, how do you do? (note 1) Truckin' in style along the avenue Dum dee dum dee doodley doo Go on home, your mother's calling you
Kalico Kahlia, come tell me the news Calamity's waiting for a way to get to her Rosy red and electric blue I bought you a paddle for your paper canoe
Say you'll come back when you can Whenever your airplane happens to land Maybe I'll be back here too It all depends on what's with you
Hung up waiting for a windy day Kite on ice since the first of February Mama keeps saying that the wind might blow But standing here, I say I just don't know
New ones coming as the old ones go Everything's moving here, but much too slow now A little bit quicker and we might have time To say "How do you do?" before we're left behind
Calliope wail like a seaside zoo The very last lately enquired about you It's really very one or two The first you wanted, the last I knew
I just wonder if you shouldn't feel Less concern about the deep unreal The very first word is "How do you do?" The last "Go home, your mama's calling you"
Calling you Calling you Calling you Calling you
Go on home your mama's calling you Go on home your mama's calling you Go on home your mama's calling you
I know of a Brown Star That only certain people have found For years they been lookin' around A lot of people lookin' up But very few of them looking down Well they searched high and low for that little glow That'll make them happy Some searched fast and they went on past Some went slow but couldn't let it go I know of a Brown Star That only very certain people have found You can ask a dog why he's so happy Just waggin' his tail around Or a frog that makes him jump around Follow a sailin' cloud until it dumps The rain right down But ask a man and woman if they've seen A Brown Star around Some will say yes and some will say no Some will just laugh and some will just glow Some will say why do you ask Some will say well don't you know Then there'll be the one that says It's already been found But you ask a child and they'll just jump up and down Sayin' we found a Brown Star Right on the ground.
At the Feast . There's Prince Diego, falling in a love, He dozed and he laid his head midst table's stuff, He lost his goblet, cast from silver's milk, And freed his jacket of a crimson silk.
And he is seeing the transparent stream, And on the stream - the boat white as steam, In which the trip, a lot of time ago, His bride and he had had to undergo.
Space after space immediately springs And, like two looks, burn two amazing rings; But now sacred isles are seen in haze, Where will resound the mysterious phrase, And where, in wreaths of roses, at last, They will be married by the Jesus Christ.
But at that time, the king has laid on him The heavy look, where evil mixed with whim, And jokers are adjusting to his heart, The reddish pieces - flowers of blood, And sexy bride with moderated rage, Is kissing the impudent, lustful page.
A Polar Explorer . All the huskies are eaten. There is no space left in the diary, And the beads of quick words scatter over his spouse's sepia-shaded face adding the date in question like a mole to her lovely cheek. Next, the snapshot of his sister. He doesn't spare his kin: what's been reached is the highest possible latitude! And, like the silk stocking of a burlesque half-nude queen, it climbs up his thigh: gangrene.
Memento by Yevgeny Yevtushenko . Like a reminder of this life of trams, sun, sparrows, and the flighty uncontrolledness of streams leaping like thermometers, and because ducks are quacking somewhere above the crackling of the last, paper-thin ice, and because children are crying bitterly (remember children's lives are so sweet!) and because in the drunken, shimmering starlight the new moon whoops it up, and a stocking crackles a bit at the knee, gold in itself and tinged by the sun, like a reminder of life, and because there is resin on tree trunks, and because I was madly mistaken in thinking that my life was over, like a reminder of my life - you entered into me on stockinged feet. You entered - neither too late nor too early - at exactly the right time, as my very own, and with a smile, uprooted me from memories, as from a grave. And I, once again whirling among the painted horses, gladly exchange, for one reminder of life, all its memories. 1974
THE DIGITAL TREE . This was a man whose right hand had been buried who would spend his days in an empty room resting his feet against the upper corner of the window while holding a ship's porthole in his left hand; rhinoceroses would pierce it with their horns and allow their metallic hides to shine through
He had taken up the notion of being a poet and spent so much of his time talking about the war that he had neglected his right hand.
It had grown slowly and furiously and, without his being aware of it, had crossed through the very center of the earth and surfaced at the other end.
When the children of northern Sumatra suddenly saw a tree without leaves and without fruit, they rushed off to summon their parents, When they came, they brought heavy swords and felled the tree at its roots. A white liquid seeped from its ravaged bark.
From that moment on, this man as a poet, feels a sharp, cutting pain, but he cannot tell exactly where in his body it is contained.