Not long from now
nor far from here’s
the place where all
that matters now,
even if it matters then,
must matter to
somebody else.
To anyone who finds
this note: good luck
and look ahead
to your last place
not far, not long
from when and where
you read this—your
eyes, your mind
alive and quick
Hey, come out of death
and follow me, father,
back to my childhood,
where you must work
and hunt and drink
less and spend
time next to me,
being there a father,
talking to me kindly,
listening to my words,
being there a father.
Court had forgotten where
it had sent Knight. Squire had quit
to settle down in some village. So
here then was Knight, alone,
propped up against a deciduous tree,
his armor bleeding rust, and more
rain coming. Sitting in his own
waste and pain, Knight peered
blearily through the visor
at sodden, green Druidic hills.
Cold rain ripped remaining leaves
from branches. The horse stood
a good way off, dry and napping
under an evergreen, one rear foot
cocked like a catapult. Knight
felt the jail of armor locking.
You move
like a winter tide
rolling on a belly
of sand.
Swirling over me,
fondling
the broken shells
of my sighs.
Lick my skin
with salt
and silt
before I
die.
It was that time of the year, cold and bleak, old dry leaves still on the ground, patches of snow
lingering everywhere in the landscape. I had passed the old cemetery hundreds of times. This
time there was a hint of sun.
early spring
rust down the side
of a gravestone
Dead night. The wood resounds with cries.
Abandoned child, I think.
I rush into the thicket, find a path.
My eye expands into the moonless dark.
Wet from the rain-filled leaves upturned
In my run, I find the source:
On a mound where six markers neatly grew,
A tree had crashed upon an infant’s grave.
The sun I worship,
Not for the light, but for the shadows of the trees he draws :
O shadows welcome like an angel's bower,
Where I build Summer-day dreams !
Not for her love, but for the love's memory,
The woman I adore :
Love may die, but not the memory eternally green—
The well where I drink Spring ecstasy.
To a bird's song I listen,
Not for the voice, but for the silence following after the song :
O Silence fresh from the bosom of voice ! —
Melody from the Death-Land whither my face does ever turn!
How nakedly an animal
Lies down on earth to die,
Unmindful of the shining air,
And unashamed of sky.
But men and women under roofs
Draw shades and hush the floor,
And furtively they lay their dead
Behind a darkened door.
While all of you are bringing milk and bread
And stroking me and saying I must rest,
Remembrance beats like black wings in my head,
And wolfish grief is clawing in my breast.
I know that you are kind, that you mean well,
And thanking you so quietly I seem
So comforted that you could never tell
I'm wondering why it is I do not scream.
Oh crucify me! Nail my hands and feet!
Strike in and turn the torture of a knife
Heart-deep to loose my blood and take my breath
Pain would be good and suffering seem sweet.
But keep your love for those who still love life.
And do not feed me who am starved to death.
I am the river, I have been immense
With hope, great as the inner heart of spring-
The reeds have huddled to my whimpering
Amid the noon-time's staleness and suspense.
Between the ruins of magnificence.
Stained and autumnal, mournfully I sing,
And then among my white beards muttering
Grow old, and sleep into indifference.
I have no returning, onward is best.
Close to the dark, sweet earth in every place.
But with the sky's mark hidden in my breast.
And a star's shadow falling on my face.
Where shining spaces wait to fill with me,
Death is the beautiful and bitter sea.
Dear to me is Ruth, a bowl of crystal
She brims her heart with laughter and I look
And see her clear as the dew on a cobweb,
Or green water over white sand in a brook.
Mary is dearer, color and story
Are wound in her and like soft cloths unfold,
And when she moves her footsteps are of silver,
And where she will her touch can turn to gold.
Oh sweet as wine is laughter with the loving,
And speech with the living good as bread,
But only with a ghost can I feast in silence,
With Eunice, who is dearest, being dead.
The princess that I could not be,
The fairy that was not for me,
The game begun and never ended,
The castle dreamed, the play pretended.
I never have known anyone so proud,
So fierce for faith, so strong for nobleness.
I never heard you whine nor cry distress,
Nor saw you kneel nor knew your bright head bowed.
Dreams, Love and Laughter were a swift, white crowd
Of wings flashed upward from your loveliness,
You carried Truth, wore Honor as a dress
And wound yourself in Beauty like a cloud.
Surely this is not you who lies so low,
Smitten as others, yielding as they must
With abject hands and smooth, submissive head,
All fire and glory crumpled by one blow.
Bewildered and beaten and brought to dust,
This is not you, oh pitiful and dead!