POEMS RHYMING AND
OTHERWISE
by
Brent C.
Dickerson
Copyright © 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 the ground
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.
— Goodbye to Nature —
Sometimes I think the sky too low—
Confines my spirit—can't I go
Beyond the stars to grasp the prize;
But can one see beyond one's eyes'
Ability? Can Nature grant
Beyond its realm? If not, then can't
I wave goodbye to Nature; but
If Nature's child's from Nature cut,
What nourishment, what source of care,
Supports the child? Am I left bare
To face existence on my own?
Or has some god lent me his throne
(A little one) for me to sit beyond
The stars, look down on Earth, and pond-
Er well the follies and the beau-
Ties there, as (heaven knows) too few
Are apt or capable to do?
Gods laugh, and then they turn away:
Gods leave to Man sublunar sway.
The Poet climbs the stars to see
And mediate Eternity.
— Of the Death of the Oracles —
They whispered once, Dodona oaks,
Still others spoke by stones or smokes;
Whatever mode, the Deities
Would speak to those who bent their knees
At sacred shrines. True inspira-
Tion kindled sparks to light the way:
These sparks, were they Apollo's thoughts,
Diana's notions, Hera's lots
Inscribed in patient deskwork there
On Ida's mount? Olympus fair?
Oh, no—I rather think there ran
An alchemy twixt god and man,
An inward resonance that sprang
In them, affinite souls that sang
A common song, a harmony
Impotent lone, sublimity
Combined. In these less awe-struck times,
That song's no longer shared, our rhymes
Do not connect. They aren't dead,
The Oracles, as many said.
The fact is plain for all to see:
Mankind has lost divinity.
— Beyond the Stars —
What playful god made me his mate
To draw me up to elbow nudge and point
And say, "Oh poet, look at Earth and see:
The groundlings think, 'Stars shine for me!'
The mortals like to think that stars
Shine but one way, to your dim Earth.
No, no, their beams of purest light shine outward
Onward to the dark into the dark infinity
Beyond it all the Light the Dark embrace.
No, no, they turn their back on merest Man,
Their aftergow, and only he who travels with the light
Can look beyond and glancing back see small
So small that dark and shrinking globe when on beyond
Infinity awaits." Oh sweet Beyond!
Too sweet for our insensate Man,
Too sweet for those who cling to Earth.
Oh now I see this narrow life
Is but to whet is but to train
Is but to give a paler glimpse
Of what lies out beyond the stars,
Beyond the stars where all is one.
§ Concerning Defective Authority.
— The One True Fact —
But "Which the poem, which the truth?"
Would pose the most exacting sleuth.
Most say, "What eyes can see is true,"
But how that varies me to you!
As one man's Red's another's Or-
Ange, that one's Orange, less or more,
Is deemed "Warm Tan," while first one's Red
Rose-colored's to another head.
Communication stumbles, falls,
Would march—but, point of fact, it crawls,
As Definition's undefined:
What one might mean will stump each mind.
Intent can't be a guiding light,
As no one ever gets that right:
A "sweet embrace" is found to be
"Assault reported: Third Degree";
Devotion's found but to comprise
Manipulation to some eyes;
While patent Parsimony reeks,
No heir denies it's what he seeks—
"Most generous my forebear was
To save to give by legal clause!"
Perception's pow'r's now weak, now strong,
Thus one man's "Right"'s a hundred's "Wrong!"
There's no such "Truth" that I can see—
Which clears the way for Poesy:
If any of you find that strange,
Ask Heraclitus: "All is change."
Think Plato's Cave—that what you see
'S mere shadows of Reality.
By some mischance, the poet's mind
Beholds Ideals held behind,
Conveys their truer truth to you
More than sense-shadows can or do.
Those shadows on the cavern wall
Are faulty—can't convey the All.
This Ideal provides the source
Of Art's creations, which endorse
That purer Truth, unsullied by
The faults inherent to the eye.
But why debate what's false, what true?
For me, the only Truth is You.
— Rain —
Umbrellas pass, I think I see
That most are black. It seems to me
Protection comes in many hues—
To choose but black—They win? They lose?
Raindrops unnumber'd, Goddess, sing—
Defiance is no somber thing—
But black or colors? Still, I know
Yet others unprotected go.
When huddled under hues or black,
Protected ones protection lack:
The best protection wets too soon,
The unprotected grow immune.
— 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;
Losing Wholes for
Hints, would rather be
Content with less, like "crumbs" instead of
"dined."
A mind which only sees as through a
slit
Can't comprehend the unencompassed heart,
But takes that
fulness which exceeds its wit
As morbid bloating of its flaccid
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.
— The Well of Hate —
How deep is your well of hate?
Do
you dip it out often, both early and late?
Is it flowing and
rich,
Full overbrimming?
Or you crank down the bucket
Through
depths in the darkness
Till you thrill to its splash?
How far do
you trudge
To load full your cup?
Do you make quite a
journey
To slake your great thirst?
Or quick anxious steps
To
drink till you burst?
Does it fail you never?
Are there times you
must wait?
How deep is your own proud dear well of
hate?
— Verses on Finding some Uncut Leaves in a Book —
As animals the buried gold
Will pass, to dig up food that's old,
So people—well—let's take a look
At this, my newly-purchased book:
The library of Jesu Col.,
At Oxford, eyed a double vol.
Of Hoffmann, thought it had to go
To make some space for—I don't know—
So in the discard pile went,
And in Time's fulness came to Brent.
Perusing page on clever page
Was my delight, but reached a stage
At which I found the leaves uncut!
These scholars owned it, had it, but—
No scholar deigned a wayward eye
Or mined for treasure there, as I,
This worthy book; no—sent this tome
Away, unread, the world to roam:
So wise the dons of Scholardom!
To such an end do people come,
To safely plod much-traveled ways:
For common labors, common praise.
If I that "road less traveled" go,
What others pass is what I know.
To me come worlds unseen before;
To others: Listen, or ignore.
— 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.
— Greek Fire —
Byzantine warships would
dispense an incendiary liquid—Greek Fire—at the enemy ships,
using siphons.
The poem relates an instance in which the Byzantine
vessel's siphon burst, bringing destruction to the vessel
itself.
No remedy
Our siphons burst upon
ourselves
Myself in sea of
flame
Burning
Burning
Burning
Now the masts catching burning
askew
Me only on mine
You only on yours
Our mates on deck
below
All gone
Charred flesh
More fuel to the burning sea
Oh
skulls aflame look up
Accuse
Or do they greet us
"You too, here
. . . not long . . . "
Our ship and ship-mates burnt, our pyre,
Our
flames, our fate, from our Greek Fire.
§ 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.
— Buyer's Remorse —
How hard, such goods to
reimburse—
Bad dealing, such unfair commerce:
Exchange so
dear, I cannot pay
In coinage that I have today
Or ever, only my
base pence
To give, oh no, it makes no sense
To bargain
when I'd give you more—
Yet All would never reach
the score
With less to give than what I get:
The more I give,
the more in debt.
Good funding, though, is plain to see:
That
I plus You's worth more than
Me.
— Transformation —
Could my hands but reach
you,
Could my arms embrace you,
Could they hold the dreams I
see?
Oh, yes! These dreams were meant to be:
So spirits
through the empty air
But seek some fixèd form to share,
At
risk, like ether's common fate,
To fade away, to
dissipate.
Could I but reach, could I but hold,
These dreams
would shape, my grasp would mold
The pliant air—but be
unmanned:
Your spirit would direct my
hand.
— Drenched —
The rain comes down in drops, in streams.
So many, chilled, no shelter, drenched,
They shiver as the puddles grow.
But me, I see such sparkle, shine,
Which warms me as most people shake.
The growing puddles mirror light
For me, though others splash and curse.
Why is it that the storm of Life
Is kind to me? What makes the clouds bright
For me, while others lose the sun?
Poor others blink and wonder why,
Poor others have no sun as I
Have with me, carried in my heart.
You are my sun, our love its rain;
And though sometimes I might get wet
On Valentine's, it pays my debt.
— Foundations Serve —
Foundations serve, they do not
wait
To be until the walls so straight
Are pieced up brick by
brick, but like
A target waits not for the strike
Of arrow, so the
rocks and con-
Crete challenge daring men who fon-
Dly dream to
hit the mark. I call
To you Oh, here I am, my all
At your
disposal: When the mo-
Ment comes, your pillars rise, and
so
Your temple calls the gods to wit-
Ness, "Man am I, and worthy,
fit,
To call upon the deities
To please me as I would them
please."
I stand below, to give you strength,
To stabilize
your height, your length,
Though quiet, loud, though
hidden, seen,
Serve your design. —Here's what I
mean:
The vision's yours, my only part
'S to be the blood that
pumps your heart.
— Gems and Mountings —
What then, I ask, is it to
trust?
To sentence dreams to go to dust?
Oh, no—what gems we
have to share
Don't scatter blindly here and there:
Of
course those trample and they crush
'Neath soul-less shoes in
soul-less rush.
No, no—our gems in settings
go
Enriched and prized, "environne au ...":
Foundations
serve their structure's sake,
And, just the same, Surroundings
make
The gems enclosed to sparkle more,
To show at surface
what's at core.
So that's to trust—I know what's
fine—
My mountings trust to make you shine.
— Like a Lantern —
But Trust's much more, a vital
spark,
No blindfold leap to opaque dark,
But like a lantern held
before
Keeps dark at bay, or like a door
No longer locked gives
access to
Rich chambers unforeseen by you,
Through Trust
you're brought beyond your past
Experiences. Though the last
Were
harsh, were sad, if you go on
Who knows but that you'll see a
dawn
Succeed past night? When does it not?
"Oh, yes," you
say, that you have thought
About all this: "But, oh, what
pain
Past trust has brought—not that again!
Am I a
puppet, jerked around,
With laughter met, with paper
crowned,
Misled by trusting others' strings?
Brent, isn't this
what trusting brings?"
Give me your hands, look in my
eye,
My Love: The past will always try
One's mettle. If in prison
thrust,
Look at the door. Observe the rust.
New life awaits, don't
be the thrall
Of past misfortunes. Look, see all
The world holds
awaits you. Hap-
Piness was never reached by snap-
Ping fingers at
the chance to win
It. No—if Life's not worth a pin,
Then, yes,
forfeit but naught for nought—
If nothing's offered, nothing's
bought—
But Life's worth something more, I think,
And worth
an effort ere we sink
Into the grave. "These are but wild
And
whirling words, my lord." But piled
En masse, you comprehend
my drift
That life's a precious, fleeting, gift.
Just exercise
your trust, your might,
Just step into the golden
light.
— My Fears —
Not that I have no
hesitance:
My quirks comprise no trivial fence
To ease or
understanding; and
My modest gestures come off grand,
Like
showmanship, when I meant on-
Ly casual and modest tone;
Unease at
what's mundane to most;
A far from prepossessing host,
But even
worse to be a guest,
Alone and shunning all the rest.
Too dressy
for a burger joint;
Too pressing on some minor point;
I'm clueless
in the simplest things,
Recondity my presence brings.
I try
too hard, or do too much,
"Whole hog" I go when I should
"Dutch."
Voracious where I should be shy—
But holding back to
get there, I.
My expectations are enfixed
From fiction and should
be deep-sixed,
While normal actions make me start
Though offered
by the gentlest heart.
And yet, I swear by stars above,
I'll fix
all this to keep your love.
— As Is —
I know I do, I give "too much,"
But do not, pray, regard it such:
Proportionalities must be
Considered to their due degree:
So much I give, so much more would—
What loyalties are borne by "should"?
Should I stern Reason lend an ear,
Or else consult my Feelings dear?
If Logic of the common kind
'S consulted, well, its narrow mind
Gives no admission to the heart:
It's table d'hôte, not à la carte.
Emotions err to feed the fed,
Embalming feelings ere they're dead.
Both these extremes are not my forte—
My fault is of another sort.
But let me pose you with a quiz:
Is something other than it is?
While niggard Reason yields no slack,
Lush Feelings glut more than they pack,
Each less, or more, than what is true.
My honest worth's my gift to you.
That it's "too much," it cannot be:
Not less, not more, but only Me.
— 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.
— Exchange Rate —
I saw two lovers have a tiff.
I asked myself, I wonder if
They still recall the hopes and dreams
They had before, or, as it seems,
Their aspirations were a kind
Of masquerading in each mind,
That, when the masks were tossed aside,
"That things have changed can't be denied."
When wooers go in masquerade,
Recall the piper must be paid;
And if your loving has no sense,
You'll pay in pounds your worth in pence.
— All Out —
I've nothing more to give of
me
To give my all:
My self, my work—all that I have
Awaits
your call.
Still not enough!
But one thing only more to
do:
Just take a chance—
Say yes—and let me give you
you.
— Light and Dark —
Do lights go out?
Or do they burn
and eyes can't see?
Now that you're gone
The gloom I see's but
failing sight;
But still the heart observes it all
From first to
last, at hand, on call.
No, take from me both light and
eyes,
My lasting dark's still bright with you.
— The Frustrated Poet —
Nor gilded monuments...
"Don't pla-
Giarize." Then tell me what to say
To you...? My
little store of thought
And rhyme's all out! Had I been taught
To
pad, to lie, there's so much fluff
To say: The world's not
large enough
To compass all I feel the urge
To give to you. If you
want glurge,
No problem there—If pose were
all
(Not Truth), on planets nine I'd call—
"Just
eight." —to sing my love, on ang-
Els pure, or flowers rare and
strange,
O Nature Sweet! O Heaven's Vault!
O Gods! O Byron!
Boucicault!
"Who's that?" And thus I'd spill my ink
A-writing
what I do not think.
No! Let me say (and hear), in fine,
Just I
am yours, and you are mine.
— The Grammar of Love —
Why turn to words? I cannot
speak
Such words my feelings bid me seek:
Mere syllables, no
breath of air
Can undertake all that I bear
For you. If turns of
phrase could live,
They'd buckle under what I'd give;
Objective
complements are fine,
But pale, to say I want you
mine;
Demonstrative means more to me
Than this or
that could ever be.
To write just what I want for you
Is
weak—there's much much more to do:
Why call on some old dusty
saw?
Let me perform a copula.
— To Realms of Gold —
And yet, what breath of air's
the same
As when I hear you say my name?
Like to the lark...
"Sigh, once again,
No plagiary!" —I'll tell you
then:
Your fuel makes my engine roar,
My rocket lifts as
naught before.
Through stars and planets will I ride—
But
that forgets my joy inside:
There, not another breaking
day,
But new-dawned suns—new constella-
Tions
sparkle, shine—when I but hear
My name come from those lips so
dear.
Or write it: See my spirit soar
To gain those
triumphs lost before;
Just as our joinèd hands love seal,
Your fingers on my name I feel;
Your voice, your
pencil draw from me
New lands, new marvels, all to see.
So
is it any wonder, then:
I silent, peaked, in
Darien?
— The Querulous Addressee —
"Why all this crap, this
poesy,
On my account? I'm only me—
With flaws,
shortcomings, outlooks poor—
Wise up, you booby—there's the
door."
Thus sep'rate chemicals combine,
Quiescent both, but,
joined, incline,
Dynamical— "Much too high-flown.
Can't you
adopt a common tone?"
If gods could... "No!" ...Let angels...
"Stop!"
As when two chargèd clouds... "Please drop
This
overheated folderol!
Romanticizing's fine and all;
But, really
now, I must confess
Such praise makes me feel all the
less:
Delusions crowd your fertile brain
And leave your
sense out in the rain.
Celestial being I am not,
Mere
fantasies of your sick thought,
Mere fantasies to lead
astray,
Things not to see the light of day!"
Will that be all?
"Yes!" Now let me
Do some explaining, and you'll see:
Consider
first a flow'ry dell
With buzzing bees, and of sweet smell.
One
flower thinks its only fate
'S to grow, set seed, and
pollinate
Like other flowers round about.
That this is all
it has no doubt.
Yet people who have put some care
In perspect
know its merits rare.
Or just suppose this peaceful dale
Is
battered by a soaking gale:
The wind comes up, tree branches
toss
Then fall upon the soggy moss.
The trembling shepherd in his
hut
(Which trembles too), he cannot but
Get on his knees, and pray
for life,
To see once more his loving wife.
There's lightning
now—the thunder roars—
Trees topple down—the rainfall
pours—
As gentle streams transformed to flood,
Once rivulets,
surge rock and mud.
And yet, ask some, and they'd be pained
To say
much more than, "Um, it rained."
Where I see colors, they see
black:
Do they know Truth who vision lack?
And I don't get, I must
confess,
Why my seeing more should count for
less.
Then trust my judgment, have no doubt
I'm fully
stocked, while they're all out.
Please, give me no ifs,
ands, or buts.
"Well, none the less, I think you're
nuts."
— Tattered Bills —
My great fear is to be a bore,
Just saying what I've said before.
How often do you need to see
That I'm for you, and you're for me?
"It bears repeating." Do you think?
If dressed with something of a wink,
Yeah, it might pass. But still, an air
Of mustiness adheres. Threadbare
The thought. And what is new with this?:
O Sweet! O Love! O Joy! O Bliss!
Just on and on (or more or less)—
I've nothing more to give, I guess.
"That's repeat too. Don't you recall
Your verses about gave your all?"
—Two angels... "Back to plagiary?"
It's hard to do, B! "So I see."
Vocabulary of the heart
Is not well suited to this art.
In rhymes alone, that damned word Love
Calls forth but stale things, such as Dove.
And if one tries to go for passion,
The meter's spoiled, with its mate "fashion."
Of thoughts, none fresh; of rhymes, none new;
Of gifts, just patches, rags, for you;
Of words, it's all been said before—
Oh, how I wish for something more
To say than shopworn old clichés
That weary more your weary days.
All I can say is, tattered bills
Yet bear the worth their face instills.
To end, then, as to "yours" and "mine":
O won't you be my Valentine?
— Topsy-Turvy —
If distance mean proximity,
Then distant's what I want to be;
If closeness doom me to be far,
I won't be close to where you are;
If Love's best shift be seem to not,
To seem to love I won't be caught.
Devotion thus goes in disguise
To show itself but to Love's eyes,
A counterfeit of circumstance,
By signs revealed to knowing glance.
It's thus that spies their agency
Commit—but by perplexity:
A loving mission, passion's stooge,
To triumph, but by subterfuge.
I, in this topsy-turvy land,
So being left, be your right hand.
Let this false loving prove my prize,
The puzzle solved but in your eyes.
— Though Changed, the Same —
But when Devotion wears a
mask,
"Decide who's fooled!" is what I ask:
A pseudonym the
writer's face
Conceals—but is it such a race
To gain
the knowledge that that name
The writer is—though
changed, the same?
That loving words, transformed in jest,
Are no
less loving when they're pressed
Into a costume just for
fun:
Still you're the best, still you're the
one
Though "up" be "down," though "black" be "white,"
Still
Love's perception sees what's right.
So in Love's world, Love's
costume ball,
Who jigs the world jigs none at
all.
— No Lands Enchanted —
My eyes, which never travel far,
Have placed themselves on Whimsy's car
To voyage where my dreams will lead,
As prophets vision out their creed.
But, strange to say, they are not sent
To riches of the Orient,
Nor Inca mines of silver, gold,
Nor El Dorados, wealth untold.
No fancied princess for my eye
(Nor prince, should one prefer a guy);
No lands enchanted claim my view:
In truth, I only dream of you.
There, riches out-rich all suppose,
There treasures more than Treasure knows.
So home-sick Whimsy scorns to roam,
And with my eyes makes You its home.
— Dressing the Game —
The urge that moves my hand to write
My verse has not blacked into night,
Oh, no! Our celebration's pomp
'S too racy for my standard romp.
Hand me the lyre, bid me go to,
With fingers poised to pluck it through,
Yes, I could sing, "Oh, let me lose
Myself in you," in nice rhymed twos.
But, sad to say, the imag'ry
Is not quite what you'd want to see
In print: Just what my hands would do
Though welcome's somewhat fresh with you:
The details of my present urge,
If shared, would make you blush to merge.
To write in tropes and simile
'S too mannered (as it seems to me)
By this point. Let our actions speak—
What sportsman hunts, mere words to seek?
To wield the plume seems wrong to me:
Such plucking's meant for venery.
— Not One, but Both —
Where do I end and you begin?
As night to day,
Each has an own being
Yet towards the other tends
Ceaselessly
No reluctance
But always yearning
For the mate it can embrace
But never be.
The daily cycle of the two
Revolves, I think, just as we do,
As one sometimes the upper hand
Will gain, then things will alter, and
Just like the wheels of Fortune go,
What once was high is now laid low.
It's not as risky as it seems:
Good fortune wins at both extremes.
— Fire —
If some Prometheus would grasp
At empty air, no strength of hand
Would serve to free him from his chains
When hands have nothing firm to hold.
The gods if called on only laugh;
The demons shrug: No more to do.
Deaf mankind keeps his gift; but, no,
In using it, forgets the source.
He feels the sun's dynamic rays—
They beam on him—and yet the sun
Is out of reach, a kind but dis-
Tant patron, he, who sees and hears
And shines and smiles at good and bad:
Ah, no—no mingling there of souls—
The only solace here must come
From those who share Prometheus' plight,
That, having risked it all, still give
The vital light, the living heat,
At any cost. Oh you, my love,
Who share your light, who share your heat,
Have broke my chains, renewed my life,
Enflamed my soul so I can be
Your partner, through life's fusing heat:
Two souls combine when two hands clasp,
Your loving hand has met my grasp.
§ Yuletide Thoughts and Devotional Poems.
— 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.
— On Easter Morn —
I did not rise on Easter
morn—
Was neither risen, nor reborn.
Oh could my faith have
been more strong
In Him, or is my credo wrong?
It's Doubt, not
Death, that stiffens me,
To doubt I've been what I should be:
Good
Works can only go so far
To merit Grace; and I'm no dar-
Ling of
Humility. In fact
Such sins I've missed, are but by act
Of
negligence—just give me time,
And they're as certain as this
rhyme.
But teach me how to love, my Lord,
And let us be in
full accord,
Or this dry corpse is all that's left—
Of
resurrection, grace, bereft.
Oh, let me merit Blessèd
fame
And hear your trumpets call my name.
§ Concerning the Irrepressible.
— Bondage —
My spirit, trapped in being free,
Would wander lost just being me;
As dust itself mere nothing is;
Combined in bricks, an edifice.
Unstructured, blowing in the air,
I'm insubstantial—nothing there;
But, given form by your impress,
Like clay, now formed, is more, not less.
Captivity can thus be fond:
To render free but by a bond.
— My Wisteria —
This mess is my Wisteria
Embracing
Crushing
The arbor of my life
Its blossoms
The distract triumph of chaos
Order smothered
Wilderness exultant
This mess is my Wisteria
Oh beauty!
— 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.
— The Disjunct Finite —
No pain is worse
Than the pain I do not have
No remedy
Because it is not for me
It is Is
But the Is of another
Which will always be
Oh to merge with the infinite
Is easier far
Than to grasp the disjunct finite.
— In and Out —
But am I in or am I out?
The further in, the more I doubt:
The outward has a shape, a form,
But inward has no mold, no norm
To judge it by. So less or more?
Should Comprehension keep the score?
Should anything's validity
Depend on what blind eyes can see,
Or should one's fluid feelings rule,
Which standards neither have nor school?
The imposition Form invokes
May do for quotidian folks
Who need to grasp a hammer, saw.
Are nuts and bolts the answer? Naw,
Some only build what they can see,
But what's their misconception to me?
The chaos of their inner state
'S but chaos to those who can't wait
For resolution. Though the stream
Is ever-flowing, and can seem
Impermanent, still, water's flow
Is, as an idea, what you know—
Not atoms of each rivulet,
The theme of All is what you get.
It's not which has the greater clout,
But both together, In and Out.
If each means both, then, plain to see,
This "in or out?" means naught to me.
— So Hard —
What dreams!—to pull me from the haze
Of daily doings—such a maze—
I clearly see what's at the peak,
The path to get there's what I seek.
So well-defined the summit is—
To reach it—Oh!—It's such a bus-
'Ness, groping through the brush, the mist,
To get there. Put hand over fist,
So hard one tries, yet all we grasp
Is empty air, no lock, no hasp;
So how to throw the barway wide
Of doubt, no clue, am I outside
Or in? While dreams to high degree
Are sharp, what's focused in "reality"?
Unfailing beacons, Dreams, provide
The only substance as a guide.
While shifting sands of facts and sight
Do anything but set one right,
The one firm way a man can cope
'S to trust that one firm thing, his hope.
And so at last I come to see
Dreams are the hard reality.
§ Concerning the Passage of Time.
— My Triptych —
On summer solstice, on my wall,
Three pictures meet the dawning light:
The lady flirts; two warriors fight
Across their frames: But one won't fall—
Ah, no! Their place in Time's long view
Is not outcome, but rather striv-
Ing; and, no less, the Dame won't wive
To either—hers to hope, not do.
As time progresses, angling rays
Illuminate successive parts,
Not all at once; and by these arts
They seem to fare in different ways
And yet, they don't: There is no Hence.
The evening darkens, goes to night,
But still they love, but still they fight
No less than we: Their fate, suspense.
— To F.R. —
I see the lines.
I see the harsh and angled face
In me as well.
I check again the glass and trace
The dues of time.
You have no age
To me: Our decades, what are they?
Yes, count the hours--
Go "one, two, three..."--Count as you may,
Then double it--
Clock in, clock out--
So Time's your chosen master, then?
Oh, don't wrong us:
Was ever it a thing of When?
Well, not for me.
Look in my eyes.
You know you'll find no stop-watch there.
Look deeper, F.,
And then you'll see I only care
Not "when" but "that."
Time has no hold
On what we know: Let teeth and skin
And muscles fail--
Superfluous to what's within--
Make no mistake.
And at the end
The curtain falls (as well you know);
But the applause
Recalls the art of the whole show.
So is it here:
It's "character,"
Not "props" and "paint." Here's what I mean:
Your perf.'s more than
Your make-up at the final scene.
Just take a bow.
— The Sailor's Lament —
The sea so wide: O endless seas
Of travel—ports beyond the breeze—
Mere tossing on the flying foam—
What kind of thought would make him roam?
O weary sailor! O despair!
He mutters into salty air:
"Just Her, my dream, my hope, my star,
To guide me—close, and yet so far!"
In narrow confines on his bunk
He treasures pictures from his trunk,
Some crumbling letters, torn and bent—
He still can smell on them her scent—
But sailing far more than the rest,
What makes him cling to ocean's breast?
"Just Her, my dream, my hope, my star,
To guide me—close, and yet so far!"
The letters touch him to the heart;
Her wording stirs his tender part:
"The Macarena you must learn—
'Til then, don't bother to return."
That's why he tells, sat on a cask,
What keeps him sailing (should you ask),
"Just Her, my dream, my hope, my star,
To guide me—close, and yet so far!"
— Achilles Drinks —
The following, halfway between a poem and a dramatic soliloquy, takes place in Achilles' tent during the events on the battlefield delineated in the latter part of the 17th book of The Iliad. The ironies which the poem plays upon might elude those who don't have close familiarity with Homer's work.
Diomedë, another cup!
I raise it to my brave Patroclus,
In the thick of it today!
How many Trojan helmets
Already rattle under horse's hoof?
How many Trojan brides will weep tonight,
Patroclus' sword, all hot,
Their husbands' last impassioned kiss?
My loving friend!
—So love them all
To death,
And show Greek honor's not
So cheap to bilk!
—And yet . . . and yet . . .
What honor's Agamemnon's?
That proud king?—yes, king of rogues!
How many years now have we fought
For vengeance on his brother's loss?
Fair Helen—bitch!
So Paris stole her from his host
King Menelaus; well, off she went
At any rate. Who'd give a damn
If honor weren't the real loss?
So Agamemnon whips us up
For honor's sake,
For Menelaus' sake, at least, and then—
Refill my cup—and then
This man so sharp to honor's call
Stains my honor—
Me, his army's surest hand
In crushing Trojan hopes!
You take my mistress-slave, you swine,
My Briseïs—my Helen—
Manhood's prize
Fair won by me?
Agamemnon—the Paris of Greeks!
Why fight for honor, then,
If not for mine? So,
Pour again . . .
These women—toys,
To look at, play with,
Count up—toys
And nothing more,
Trash, like silver cups and jeweled rings,
To sling at fools for repute's sake—
But not to steal!
Oh, yes, sweet Diomedë,
You too, and Iphis, you;
Don't think because you share our beds
You're more than pillows, just
A roll—of dice—you lovely things,
To ease us, pass the time in play . . .
Oh, Patroclus! Where are you now?
Which corpses kiss the sandy plain?
Whose blood soaks the wild fig tree?
Does all go well? —Another cup!
Once, when Chiron taught me herbs
As part of medicine to know,
He looked at me and smiled,
He bade me press one to my heart
And told me "wait."
I saw it bleed onto my breast
And, resting there, stain red my skin.
Still young, unsure,
I cried aloud, and—
Iphis, you've seen Patroclus' brow
Above you, at you . . .
I stop to watch
Those black expressive brows contract
His copper skin, well,
When he laughs—some joke I've told—
Oh, Iphis, when you kiss him
I have watched
His gentle lips kiss back at you.
My brave, my gentle unstained friend . . .
—Have I told you, Iphis, how we met?
Oh, many times? Well, have I said
At once I saw in those dark eyes
Our friendship flame; his sweet and gentle voice
Like a hymn of joy to me,
Like sweet calm hymns of joy
Though conflict rages all around,
My quiet song, my only peace . . .
—Ah! Shouts from the plain!
The battle's roar,
More death for honor's sake.
Agamemnon! Rogue!
Does the battle go against you?
Disloyalty and pride displease the gods!
Were I there you'd have some ease . . .
Now will you stain my heart again?
Have you drunk my bitter cup?
Zeus! Humble the proud Greek
And I will fight!
— Ye Tale of Sir Ardent, a Lady, and of his Steed Dobbin —
A minstrel stopped me in the street
And quoth to me, "Pardy, some coin."
Which was unpleasant—most unmeet—
On way to ladye faire to join.
"My lad, I really would suggest
You find a better mark, or rest."
He tugged me by the sleeve. I stayed.
"This is not beggary, my lord:
I'll sing ye of a knight and maid;
And if perchance that you be bored
In recompense your ears so lent,
Will refund all of . . . twelve percent."
The sun was mild, the day was long,
A charitable urge I had,
And said, "Then sing to me your song,
But mind you well, my forward lad,
Say no bad rhymes, nor words despised,
No treachery, plain or disguised."
We shook not hands (he was not clean),
Agreed, though, to the stated terms,
And you will think (or so I ween)
I prudent was to catch no germs
For minstrels, like the common run—
You never know just what they've done.
He tuned his lute, and gargled twice,
He combed his hair, and made a part.
I must admit, appearance nice
In players always wins my heart.
A couple coughs, he cleared his throat,
And sang as follows (which I wrote):
Sir Ardent was a lusty knight
Of Camelot, with little fame,
For though he won in ev'ry fight
Still no one mentioned much his name.
The reason was, for all his vim,
His horse was smarter far than him.
So rode he forth, one afternoon,
From Castle Malbelmid, I'm told.
"I'll not be long—will be back soon,"
He shouted out, right loud and bold.
Sir A., though doing best he could
In forecasts, really was no good.
He traveled day, he traveled night,
He traveled more, but never less.
"His goal?" you ask—He was not bright—
On that, he really had no guess.
A smarter man with purpose goes;
Sir A. just followèd his nose.
A magic forest came he to.
His horse looked up at him and said,
"It's not so wise, I'm telling you,
To go such ways—you'll end up dead—
In short, good knight, just let me say
My horse-sense bids me tell you 'neigh'."
Sir Ardent, though he liked good fun,
Good japery, good food, good beer,
Just could not stand an equine pun
And, tactful, feigned he did not hear.
You'll see, as any untaught Miss,
He acted much awry in this.
They passed enchanted fountains three,
A mystic crag, a unicorn,
A wizard (name unknown to me),
The Grail, and two dwarves all forlorn,
But stopped their journey not for these
And ventured onward, through the trees.
Beyond an elvish waterfall
The trail turned. A vista showed
A castle, tower, moat, and all.
Sir Ardent said, "Well, I'll be blowed!"
(A hero drops, as I'm advised,
Poetic talk, when he's surprised.)
Up in the tow'r, a damozel
Sat at a window, sighing "Alas!",
A crux that, minstrels know too well,
Forebodes adventure, or just gas.
Which choice to pick, I wish I knew—
I'll leave the matter up to you.
She saw Sir Ardent, he saw her,
As by design of gods above;
And so to speak, or as it were,
As happens, they both fell in love.
(One wishes, just one time or two,
In such a case, they'd both say, "Ewww!")
Around the spell-bound castle thrice
Sir Ardent rode, but so chanced Fate,
That though the walls were neat and nice
In them there could be found no gate,
A fact which caused our knight to say,
"To kiss her's met with some delay."
Still sat she in the window. "Sweet,"
Sir Ardent cried, with all his might,
"If you'd tell me how we could meet,
I'd set this situation right,
For in an epic, lay, or rhyme,
Being kept apart's assessed a crime."
In truth, in real life the case
Is not so clear, there can be art:
Togetherness not taking place,
And keeping lovers far apart
Might be the wisest course, I trow—
But let's set that aside for now.
The lady up in tower proud
Could barely hear him, and her speech
Was insufficiently loud
Sir Ardent's shell-like ear to reach.
Alas that neither knew too well
Lip-reading, mime, or ASL!
Our knight got off his horse, then set
Up camp, and let his Dobbin roam.
"It's time, I think, for me to get
Some mare who'd like to take me home."
(It's Dobbin speaking—don't mistake—
Our Dobbin is, I fear, a rake.)
And off he went to pastures green
On his own sweet romantic quest;
I figur- and lit'rally mean
This phrase—imagine, please, the rest:
The fact that both sought out a dame—
They're diff'rent—or they're much the same.
But, to an end: The lady fair
Could nought but smile on our Sir A.
She could not leave her tower lair
Nor let in her dear fiancé.
Enchantment! So it went for years:
Within, without, they shared but tears.
While Dobbin, free to roam, enjoyed
Exciting times, then found his match:
A filly sweet, on farm employed,
He ran across, and married, natch;
At length, invested in a mews,
Became quite wealthy, such the news.
Sir Ardent pined away his days,
And sighed away his very breath,
Until one night—so rumor says—
He stopped: In short, he met his death.
Take my advice to guide your course:
Don't be the rider, be the horse.