6.8 And if to die is to move
from the ugliness of this world
then let it be; should I
welcome spring; turn summer down, and fall
from my hands; the serpent's slow unwinding, agate eyes, and blue bushes now
in flower; spice smells undo the lament
of tree leaves on the cement.
But if this cannot be
then let it die with the singing
of one lone bird, at twilight
crook the hand, crawl over, cover us with leaves.
I don't want to repeat
the same mistakes over again,
or the mistakes somebody else made just so
I can have the experience of them. See, fucked up again. Live and learn. And off the excessive fondness for one's own self knowledge, untested, but reigning supreme. That leads me more astray, every day. What we commonly know in the air, in our dreams, what chooses continually & continually to grow, the obvious under our noses, is this life. Yearning in blindness. The weed has a name, is quite proud of itself, builds a community with other weeds, birds hop through. The imported domestic is a labor of love, but a labor, such a labor. At home here, no single thought is my thought. It whispers
Queer dawn whose birdsong is this "tink tink"
of rocket-metal cooling
on some planet remote as
this broken radiator
coming back on.
I hear
the gander didn't hiss at me.
Was it me? no
it was the gander.
It was me. yes
we have recognized each other
He expects me to carry food. I
expect him to carry food.
Neither is satisfied and I think
I am smarter than he is.
I see
he has more fucking than I have.
Of course
I am not as proud
but I say my walk is more elegant.
I know
If there were another world: orange skies and
purple flowers; tall languorous women
waiting behind the bouganvillias, each with her own dark voice
to send those low calls toward the night;
and huge birds, bigger than ponies.
soaring through the crimson skies; with bloodstone plumage
and shadowy wings making windstorms as they passed.
and a soft succulent silence,
and the low drifting calls of tall women,
waiting behind the lattices; and piles of oranges in the
streetstalls, piled higher than the houses,
mangoes, melons, pineapples: all the sweet clear acid orange;
and coconuts, and rich dark beer;
canaries, mockingbirds and parrots jangling in the patio;
You hear this calling.A bird
again and again.
Again and again. What sign
can I give to myself?
What is the night, to such
a calling bird?
Again and again. I ask
to speak only to myself.
You hear this calling.A bird
again and again.
Again and again, Now I
listen to be hearing.
Again and again, The voice
falls off of me, found dumb.
You hear this calling. You hear
this calling Again and again.
After sunset
I wonder what color
the birds' heads are
Years of wandering aimlessly,
Or purposely through the moss
Through the trees.
Years of history
Slowly dying
Slowly dying because of us.
Because of us.
Because of you.
Because of me.
Because of them.
Birds used to reign the skies;
Now, these metallic vultures reign the airs.
Orang-Outans used to roam freely amongst the trees,
Manatees among the seas.
No more excuses
Or ignorance:
Head stuck
In a pretty rain cloud
For too long
Raindrops race down my cheeks
It's time to leave
Finally free, I look around
Iced leaves, bursting buds
Crystal shards of ice untouched
Sun rays hit branches
Mind vacant
The sun shines on
Rays reflecting in the pond
Bees bumble by swaying swans
Swallows swoop by bursting butterflies
Clouds cluster
As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said ‘Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-bye,
And said to be good,
There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you to-day,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasting flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.