A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-
room around the stove late of a winter night,
and I unremark'd seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love,
silently approaching and seating himself near,
that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and
going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together,
speaking little, perhaps not a word.
One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is
worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete
is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws
divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
What a thing to return from war --
a survivor --
To find that so little has survived:
Not the grass, nor garden,
Not the roof, nor lintels...
The homestead, an overgrown ruin:
Like a remnant of a once great
Civilization that was one's
Peace of mind.
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
An overexposed photo
feels like it's from ages
ago --
decades past.
But it's from just the other day.
When I was there in person,
opening that shutter,
it didn't feel like the 90's,
but something about that photo
ages it...
and ages me.
My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight.
O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet.
Only let me make my life simple and straight,
like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
NOTE: This poem is sometimes titled, “My song has put off her adornments,” or – simply – Song VII.
The light of a streetlamp
Streams through the stained glass,
And colors spread stably
Over surfaces below.
Then car after car
Pass by that bar,
And the colors are
Climbing and crawling,
Shifting and sprawling,
As headlamp light, briefly,
Dances through the window --
Kaleidoscope swirling the
Shockingly bright colors
In short-lived arcs.
The window was designed
To evoke a cathedral,
And deny all debauchery...
Oh, how it's failed.
Grape leaves flutter
and some catch the light
to glow with translucence.
I'm in an ancient place,
and this is such an ancient
endeavor.
Wine has been the king
of pursuits in these parts
for millennia.
Is that why I can become
lost in the play of light
on quivering leaves?
Or is it just that time of day?
The sun is low -- ready to set --
My mind is slow & ready to drink.
A touch of cold in the Autumn night --
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
Countless pieces of hate
Tumble through our days,
Clogging up our Flow --
Tiny bites of thought
Pit us against
Imagined adversaries...
But aren't all adversaries
Imagined adversaries?
Those who act badly against us
Are only adversaries
If we slide them into that
Mental basket.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 