Bury me in the meadow, in the sweep of a girl’s cheek or a young boy’s thigh where the downy seed heads rise with
the kind sexuality which is
the beauty of life,
where the scarlet pimpernel speaks up
to the poppy,
the marram talks to the
mallow
where rain and night
build lands between the stems,
and where I
will remain alive,
journeying on the wind
and drawn up by stars
to ride
via the heavens
into your eyes.
I will become the kingdom
of your eyes.
She comes
the green veil
of summer’s
wet elegy
which,
rain over lily ponds
and a thousand
cascades tapping
their pearls from
step to step
down the endless plumage,
I laughingly reject
for there are warm sands
under these misty cloaks,
which to a swallow such as I,
are as eternal snows
around a valley spring
the ring around oasis
over which I fly,
my ocean to an island seasonal
on which I can’t rely:
but that is why there’s no sense
elegiacal about these summer
evening rains I can take
seriously: they in their
brief flowering soggy blush
are but stars in constellations
of time by which we flower on
the move, showers, so temporary,
supped from,
rushed from, taking rhyme on
eternal routes!
BUT WHEN
you
come
&
I DO
too
OUT OF MUD + OUT OF LEAD
WE’RE NEW
Pamela & Howard
flowers and gold amid stars!
The Crown of His
Grace
arches over us, and glitters in
the stars
and brushes the wind
with gold by day
&
we owe only one obeisance
: to love
beyond obedience
and the absolute irony, my love, that in days gone past, when life was cheap, and so hard, it was easier to
sing
of God
& proclaim
Love,
and that in our
kindly, comfortable, equitable times,
the Ghost
of eternal Glory
has gone under
and
there are
no other
Kingdoms here,
Save Ours!
The Kingdom of Wonder
You know, I still wonder the world wouldn’t be happier if it couldn’t find a way, genuinely, to build its social scales on the focus of getting the orgy right.
For the heart of the matter is how we can successfully devour each other (feed off each other) & satisfy hunger and need without building vast analogues of desire and greed in political, economic and social structures.
For the body, felt from inside, as one living, measured, paced, worried over, determined and fancied in those all around who are also living bodies
is so theatrical,
that is, essentially a sort of awful ham actor in the smallness of our capacity to respond to it,
precisely because for us its an actor on stage, whose part will come to an end, upon whom the curtain will fall,
and somehow the less for it, than all the continuous creation around us, where life and death have only positive implications, and evince no frailty that eats away at our capacity to love and be awed.
Whilst we, bodily, from our mortal heart, reduce to an awfully deadly dull beat which the soul, winged, hates for the leaden amateurism it ties to the effervescent laughter, sparkling eyes, gentle caress, skip and dance, whirligig wonder that we are without our knowledge of ourselves: and which our soul, not our mortal nanny selves should know and ride with joy.
And thus, taking courage, drunk on the heroic & drunk probably anyway, (and yet, delicacy infinite, you are touching with your floribund hands, like the edge of petals, the flutter of the butterfly’s wings moving vast canvases) The Symphony
is proclaimed,
and the domain of love,
of madness, established.
You might do harm and hurt to the gentlest body and in the roughness of your touch is the leap to heroism, the insistence of the life forces which magnify the soul in flesh;
in the roughness of your rub you may pump blood to the heat of creation;
anger the eye to the instant of light;
inveigle the magnet of attack.
But by Ecstasy only: & not the cowardice of cruelty; to express, not repress.
May all your batteries be re-charged & your visions
multiply, and your plots hatch & the hurricane of Wonder make you wild and wise
so may we toil & dance
& grow mellow on marvels.