Status Updates From POEMAS (Presentation Copy, ...

Things stop in that direction and since they stop
The direction stops and we accept what is
As good. The utmost must be good and is
And is our fortune and honey hived in the trees
And mingling in the colors at a festival.

And the secondary sense of the ear
Swarm, not with secondary sounds, but choirs,
Not evocations but last choirs, last sounds
With nothing else compounded, carried full,
Pure rhetoric of a language without words.

There is nothing more inscribed nor thought nor felt
And this must comfort the heart's core against
Its false disasters- these fathers standing round,
These mothers touching, speaking, being near,
These lovers waiting in the soft dry grass.

Now in midsummer come and all fools slaughtered
And spring’s infuriations over and a long way
To the first autumnal inhalations, young broods
Are in the grass, the roses are heavy with a weight
Of fragrance and the mind lays by its trouble.
...
This is the last day of a certain year
Beyond which there is nothing left of time.
It comes to this and the imagination’s life.

Revolution
Is the affair of logical lunatics

A too, too human god, self-pity's kin
And uncourageous genesis... It seems
As if the health of the world might be enough.

It seems as if the honey of common summer
Might be enough, as if the golden combs
Were part of a sustenance itself enough,

As if hell, so modified, had disappeared,
As if pain, no longer satanic mimicry,
Could be borne, as if we were sure to find our way.

The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were never quite yourself
And did not want nor have to be,

Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking
From the weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being

In your light, the head is speaking. It reads the book.
It becomes the scholar again, seeking celestial
Rendezvous,

Picking thin music on the rustiest string,
Squeezing the reddest fragrance from the stump
Of summer.

The venerable song falls from your fiery wings.
The song of the great space of your age pierces
The fresh night.

Itself
Is time, apart from any past, apart
From any future, the ever-living and being,
The ever-breathing and moving, the constant fire,

The present close, the present realized
Not the symbol but that for which the symbol stands,
The vivid thing in the air that never changes,
Though the air change.

He said I had this that I could love,
As one loves visible and responsive peace,
As one loves one's own being,
As one loves that which is the end
And must be loved, as one loves that
Of which one is a part as in a unity,
A unity that is the life one loves,
So that one lives all the lives that comprise it
As the life of the fatal unity of war.

Lights out. Shades up.l
A look at the weather.
There has been a booming all the spring,
A refrain from the end of the boulevards.

You... You said,
'There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth.'
Then the tree, at night, began to change,

Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.

Catching at Good-by, harvest moon,
Without seeing the harvest or the moon?

That bliss of stars, that prince of of evening heaven, reminding of seasons,
When radiance came running down, slim through the bareness

later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

Nobility emerges from the press of the imagination against a world that seems chaotic, crass, violent, and banal.

A Clear Day and No Memories, is decent. 2 pages before the end.

the sheets of music In the strokes of thunder, dead candles at the window When day comes

As it is, in the intricate evasions of as

The search For reality is as momentous as The pursuit for god.

The hibernal dark

An ordinary evening in New Haven part XII not bad

An ordinary evening in New Haven: parts VIII, IX and X are not bad. “We do not know what is real and what is not.”

Finally read a decent poem by this guy. This Solitude of Cataracts.