Poem of heaven and Earth

THE STARS:

The dyad of agonal dawn-

Beyond the peace of dusk

Where hang the trellises of

Constellations- there is the

Square motion of lifting flags

The accelerating billow in

The interstellar clouds- as

If the the lifting of wings- the

Sussura of all angelic beings

In crowded assembly- the

World and the “ten thousand

Things” they are all drifting–

They are the world in many

Blossomings of shape- and

They are hanging on an easel,

In a background–

Receding, all strokes

suggesting–

There is another easel

behind it–

And this is the one onto which

All time is bleeding,

Into a single painting

Severed beyond our

Eye's seeing; all of

The moments which were

Lost; they hang

Amidst the cotton fields

And yeast of Stars. Wreathing

And saturating all the

Oort clouds - - oh how

Their volume hangs;

Against the dark–

Annointing them and

Staining them– in hues

Of Stanton Macdonald

Airplane Synchronmy in

Yellow Orange they

Swim across; our

Bluest veil– our sky -

UNDER THE STARS

What are we to do- we who

Cannot see them? Tragedy

Of birth

Beneath all of this we are trapped

On the collapsed

Pillars- foundations OF raptured

And Dying - EARTH, and must

Be trapped here all ways. As in

Cask of Amonticello. And so

On the fissile shaped missile; earth

We scream tragically- across

The sky and in Jejune autumns

Of our universal death

The martyrs advertise- in Halle

Boppe comets- the only easy

Ticket– off this unprime real estate

And for moments we can cross

In the Autumns of Jacob Zoet

Or in the God of Small Things-

Bevy our soul across the veil

Beyond this earth– in text just

For a minute. And for a minute

The soul may seclusively

traipse itself

In the papery taste of

Books, like the papery

Taste of Locusts from

Which John the Baptist

Drew sustenance.

And all this reminds;

That in this dark wood we are

Entering, there must always be

The Crocus of remembering

And ammonia of forgetting.

And all this must be why,

Must be- -

Why, Sophocles must

Make Oedipus blind

Itt must be why

Gilgamesh must die.

It is why, though it is

A Tragedy, for others

To be blind – it a blessing

To the poet. For since Homer's day

We spend our being calling upon the

"Wine-dark sea" making

Efforts not to witness

The sea's shimmering blue

Evaporation of resistance

For us there must be hope in high heavens-

But here upon earth, there is

Only work of

Bedlam

And there is no silver trumpet

Of angels- lovingly arched, there

Is only, to play the tunes-

Of all the aching and

Of all the wistful hearts

The tin whistle- and the

Blues harp

With which can idle

Away– the mystery

Caught here– upon the earth

As the tilting foundation plummets

The fingers of the lovers clutched

At the summit

May share only the mingling

Resistance

Of bitter distant numbness

WE ON THE EARTH:

In spring the heavy weight of all

This tragedy is falling

But with nothing to feel its weight

Either it effects it is lightly as two

Snowflakes upon a tongue.

And reels, and so there is

Nothing to stop us– from seeing

The falling of Helicopter seeds

Dancing like spinning Sufi's,

Apart all our questions –

In helical symmetries.

And so all spring rephrases

The daring question:

Not now, not now-

"Do I dare disturb the

Universe"

But do we dare rehearse-

Our existence,

with bliss

Still with hope–

In a universe too big

To be disturbed by

The human comprehension