POEMS RHYMING AND
OTHERWISE
by
Brent C.
Dickerson
Copyright © 1999, 2000 Brent C. Dickerson
Index of Sections and Poems
— Beyond My Fence —
Beyond my fence
A field blooms with
wild herbs.
The buds burst gold;
The bees tell where the flowers
nod
All fresh,
All fragrant,
As the grasses
sway.
And I?
—The fence is
mine.
I built it, slat by slat,
My self,
Pure, cold, white, tall,
straight.
And on this side—
This side, my side—
The
shrubs are clipped
And sit in rows,
Perfect rows,
Spacing
wide;
Only green in perfect rows,
No blossom in my perfect
rows.
I see my friend
Beyond my
fence
Among sunflowers bursting gold.
He winks at me
And walks up
close
And says a word
Or two or three;
And often, from respective
sides,
We'll lean upon my picket fence,
And joke and pass the time
of day.
But in the later afternoon,
My
friend is gone.
The slats cast shadows on my face
And then I
sit
To think and write to you about
The things that once I
saw—
The golden bursting buds I saw
But never had;
The
grasses swaying in the breeze;
The dandelion puffs afloat;
My friend
winking in the sun—
I see but only see and write from
shade
Behind my pure and cold white fence
Among my clipped and
well-spaced shrubs
And watch the sun turn amber, red,
As shadows
lengthen on my face.
To darken with the dying light,
To
sing your morning in my night—
This,
then, my destiny.
— Wellness —
I looked into a well.
So far below,
in a spot of silver
A cameo
A miniature
Looking up
Looking
down
Which was me
The reflection, where?
For what I saw had
form
It was there
To see, to comprehend,
While I had no
fixity
But to look and change while looking.
I saw its me,
But
where was I?
And while it strove
To take me in
Your bucket
dropped
And shattered all us three.
For though you drank your hearty
fill,
All you could see was thirst reprieved.
You never thought that
this could kill
Your other life. You're much
deceived.
§ Concerning Defective Authority.
— Cups for Vessels —
They cannot understand, who blink and
wag
Their tongues "No, perhaps you're wrong about this;
I
never have . . .", and such. Doesn't it nag
At them how hungry and how
void their bliss?
Just think—a cup of water from
the sea
Is his whole ocean, to the inland mind;
Trading Wholes for
Hints, would rather be
Content with less, like "crumbs" instead of
"dined."
A mind which sees—and
loves—as through a slit
Can't comprehend the unencompassed
heart,
But takes that fulness which exceeds its wit
As morbid
bloating of its common Part.
Leave them to their mating ruts! We
who feel
Must slop their troughs and numbly hear their
grunts—
But meantime we've a banquet for a meal.
We swim
throughout the sea they dip but once.
— You, Drummer-Boy —
Drummer-boy, you
Who beat the
drum
Who beat the old dull skin
Who thump your father's bass
Or
snares
In battle-form
As you take the field resplendent,
Cry to
your brothers,
Your kin, your ilk,
And beat the drum
As father
taught
His father taught
His father taught
All fathers
taught
To beat the old dull skin
As fathers taught
To take the
field
To fight the war
As fathers taught,
And as you take the
field resplendent,
Look to see your brothers now beside you
crowd
Beside you crowd your kin, your ilk,
In battle-form
In rank
and file
And look to see your fellows come to fight the war
With
only drums
And drums
Their fathers' drums
To take the field with
only drums
And beat again the old dull skin
All beat at once
All
meet the foe
With thump and thump
And nothing but
Each father's
drum;
And drummer-boy
You drummer-boy
And do you never wonder
why
Your father never won the war
His father lost
His father
lost
All fathers lost
To teach their drummer-boys to lose
To beat
the drum
Their fathers beat
But only taught to thump the skin
The
old dull skin
But never taught to win the war?
—And still you
beat away,
Drummer-boy,
You drummer-boy.
§ Concerning Love and Friendships.
— Though Apart —
So do the clouds black out the sun
When
we're apart? Does any one
Of blossoms fade or die? And where's
The flame
that's lost its heat? No!—There's
A deaf, unknowing cheerfulness,
A
tinsel-joy, in these. No less
Do birds sing sweet when Winter pends;
How can
they know what brings their ends?
How true can birds or flowers feel
What I
have felt, that joy more real
Of knowing you? But let the shal-
Low sing
cosmetic joys while fal-
Low lie their untouched souls: If "black-
Ness" had
a rightful place, my lack
Of you would give it home; the "bloom
That would,
in fading, find a tomb"
Fades in my heart; a "bird that sang,
But sings no
more" 's my soul you brang
To symphony. Apart, the flame
Our friendship
burns (though some think shame,
And in their small and beasty hearts
Think
all men knaves, all women tarts.
It's natural—they look
within
Themselves, and find there naught but sin.
As some at Winter's onset
sing,
So others caw though it be Spring!)
Deep burns a blaze that
conflagrates
All else, so doing, consecrates
Such shallow gush into a
role
Of embassies sent from that whole
Still greater than the sum of
part-
Ing. Or (to write with plainer art):
Our friendship cannot be
outdone
By clouds—so strong is our shared sun.
— Size Matters —
When others cry, "Too much! Too much!",
It's
from constriction of the soul:
Just like a box whose size is such
Mere pieces
fit, but not the whole.
The weak take flight when strength comes near,
The
dullard flees from wit; just so,
The faint- and small-of-heart must fear
When
faced with what they cannot know.
So should we then, since someone talks,
The
measure of our love contract,
And fit our feelings to their
box,
To let Shortcoming tailor Fact?
Two hearts grown great
with love and pride
Will fit no box, but burst it
wide.
— The Space of One Year —
On the wall before my bed
There hangs a
tapestry.
The Grand Canal of Venice
I think it is,
Two centuries ago,
perhaps.
And in my waking moments
The golden dawn outside
Mimics, for a
time,
The woven dawn before me
Which always stays before me;
And my
thoughts,
Half-dream, half-waking,
Ripple, splash in those waves,
Rising,
falling, tossing,
Splashing the sleek gondolas
Which bob in nervous
wait.
And on the
anxious surface,
The surface of the water's seethe,
I see
reflections:
Images of ancient temples;
Proud lodges for old and noble
families,
Ancient lamps in their windows beaming still;
Tiled flats; domes;
spires;
Each its
space full-filling,
All speaking rich of hopes, of dreams,
All distorted in
the ceaseless splash of waves,
All rippling in my half-slept thoughts
To
flow, to part, to join, to swirl
Endless in my half-slept
thoughts.
Some twenty
figures in it share with me
A moment of their lives.
Two sailors drag a thick
and heavy net,
To catch a living one more day;
A young woman smiles,
She
smiles—coquette!—
Sidelong, towards her cat;
But I think she smiles
at me.
Would she but turn
One more half-turn,
I would call to her,
I
would reach out my hand,
I would call her back
To be with me again
A
moment more, just one,
To lie with me again and watch
Old Venice dawn before
us.
A third sailor
stoops on the pavement,
Another net in hand,
A basket by his side,
Unaware
his mates have gone before him,
Unaware that, even now,
The punter strains to
right his boat,
To point it towards the open sea,
Towards the day and night
to come.
Some several
others, scattered,
Live their woven time before me:
Gondoliers, tradesmen,
shipowners . . .
But on this day,
This day we share,
Some there
are
Who, specially, hold my eyes,
My heart.
Two boys there are
Upon the land,
Two boys
at water's brink,
Who look into the colored dawn,
Into the sky,
Over the
boats,
Over the waves,
Into the sky,
Into the colored dawn,
Into their
future,
Their future so full,
So blank to them now.
One points—
A
gesture at what he knows
Among all he cannot know;
The other sits
And
gazes where he points,
Trusting, hoping, deep in thought,
Quietly waiting to
see,
To see what life the future brings.
I think I know these boys,
I
think we know them both
And always will,
These friends at water's
brink.
And then I
see—but not too well—
Three final figures there.
A boat being
guided by a gondolier
Bears two fine ladies, gray-of-hair.
They sit,
All
passive as their boat slips by,
Their gondolier, all muscles, brawn,
In
charge.
One looks away from me, away
Towards passing boats; and yet
I
know, I know she does not see,
But only waits for journey's end.
Her
shoulders droop, she simply sits,
And only waits for journey's end.
Her
friend has turned, and faces me.
Soon she'll shift again,
Her eyes turned
back to join her friend's.
But just this once, just now,
Just now for me, for
us,
Her eyes meet mine;
In all the tapestry, hers alone
Meet mine to speak
a silent thought—
I put, "I see, but not too well,"
And this is
why:
These two fine ladies, gray-of-hair,
They wait, but, too, the fabric
fades;
The tapestry in which they live
Is all untrue
And picks some spots
to fade
And picks some spots to keep their hue.
The one who looks at
me,
She cocks her head,
This I see,
And, too, her dark, bewitching
eyes;
But that is all,
Just eyes and hair and shape.
But as she
fades,
She cocks her head at me,
She stares into my eyes and,
Fading,
passive, still, demure,
She says to me,
"Yes, Brent, I fade; and soon,
someday,
The rest of me will also go,
My journey done.
But,
remember:
For you I once was here;
And as I go to empty space
Remember,
too,
This empty space is still my space;
And let your memory
Supply
to you what once I was—
And in your mind I still will be
All
that,
for you, I used to be."
And, powerless to change her course,
Her gondola, her
gondolier,
Her friend, herself,
All quiet glide to journey's
end.
Our year of
friendship!
Let us stitch it, stitch by stitch,
Into the part where two boys
hope,
All vivid, with no fade, two friends,
Their lives always at
brink,
Dawn of day, dawn of life,
With wonder, hope, and greatness,
With
all of these before them,
The tapestry before them,
Lasting friends, with
lasting life before them.
But if, someday, that gondola,
That gondolier,
all muscles, brawn,
Comes perforce to take our friendship off
To join the
ladies as they fade,
Remember that the blank that's left
Is no mute empty
blank.
This faded empty space that's left
Of boys at brink of day and
life,
This proud and noble lodge,
Still it is, will ever be, our
space,
Our edifice at water's edge
To image on the lapping
wave,
Ancient lamps in windows beaming still,
Our
shared and quiet sign that
Our friendship lives within,
Endless in our
half-slept thoughts,
Now all-vivid,
Now all-strong,
Now beyond the power
of time to fade
Inside us, strong, forever shared.
A year!—but, no less,
Always.
— The Star —
". . . lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them" —Matt. 2:9.
An eastern star
Once, from
afar,
Led magi by its bright warm ray;
New magi, we,
Still searching,
see
But darkly, in the present
day.
Some scan the skies
With anxious
eyes
—Those stars are cold, and mute,
and black:
Oh, lucky me!
Your star to
see
That shines within. While others
lack
Their way to find
And stumble,
blind,
I'm led by beams from friendship's
heart
Which, burning bright,
Exceeds in
light
All the coals of Science and
Art.
That
heart's my incense, myrrh, and
gold;
That heart's my star that's never
cold.
— The Frost —
I, the cold North
…
My fathers bled ice, came
snow,
From the
Beginning.
This
my
Yule;
Frost
my heart;
Dark woods of frozen
boughs.
He, the warm South
…
Born this day—whose
love
Can thaw the
ice,
Still
my
Yule,
Christmas
morn?
Buds cased in frost, black,
wait.
§ Concerning the Irrepressible.
— Salute —
So proud, those soaring towers
stretch
To point the sun to us.
Their peaks, their stretching
lines
Proud boasts, bold gambles won.
You too can hear his angels
sing
Who built these monuments of joy
So long ago, his gift to
us.
Yes, they still sing
To those without deaf spirits,
They
sing,
Their grimy faces raised in niche, at coign;
Festoons
adorning, though darker now,
Pilasters rich with fluted rills
The
streaming rainstorm streams there,
Thrills to spatter off a satyr's
nose,
Or, intimate with Venus' clothes,
Whose face shows tears of
seasons past,
Pools within her draping folds,
And runs off
straining titans' arms,
Whose muscled stone still holds aloft
Their
mighty builders' dreams.
But we fail them.
How many masts
How
many poles
How many staffs
Stretched out, stretched up—
The
bugle-calls of builders' dreams—
Jut naked now
Our unresponding
flesh
More cold than builders' brick
More flint than builders'
stone?
These naked flagpoles say to me
There once was joy in
dreams.
Are we too impotent, too weak
To honor masts that call to
us?
You cannot proudly flaunt your dream to me,
You,
Who cannot
fly those given you.
You,
No flags, but only wind!
Inhabit first
the house once built
And raise its banner to the sky,
And in the
living of that dream,
The catching "now" of your dead
"seem."
— The Bright Sad Spark —
Oh, blackness in my soul!
Could you but
flood the light,
Wash dark and numb the bright
Sad spark that spots the
whole,
The mocking light of
part.
Oh, blackness in my
soul—
Could you but black my
heart!
— A Greeting Kept —
Carl von Linné, better known as Linnæus, was a Swedish botanist who lived from 1707-1778 and who was born in the same area of Sweden as the poet's ancestors. He is particularly notable in being the originator of the binomial system of nomenclature for plants and animals which remains in use today. One delicate and elegant kind of wild flower of which he was fond he named after himself. In maturity, Linné was based in the Swedish city of Uppsala, where his house and garden are maintained to the present day.
I saw, in Linnæus' garden, his
flower,
A Linnæa, hidden,
Blooming out of season,
for me,
Like an oracle's
voice,
Like Nature's sly
wink,
Like a greeting kept for
me.
It was not the crystal beauty
Which made me weep,
Nor yet the lucky chance
That brought me there,
That made it bloom,
That made me
see;
But rather, then, the outstretched
hand—
One I could grasp—
A pledge between us,
only us,
Of Linné and
me,
Of me and Nature,
Of forgotten voices,
Blooming out of season, again, for
me.