is it the time yet?
(for Kenneth Patchen)
(for Kenneth Patchen)
the things one runs across running wet through stranded wood.
the brother stood staring,
looking toward a lake
that began swimming
only after another direction was pooled off.
instantly, two other reflections overtook his eye.
somewhere inside the impression of some trees,
out where storm birds circled (lonely flutes looking for harmony),
brother sunk away from the trailing smoke
that had followed him all his brilliant life.
could it be
he had atumbled across some rest?
not individual solitude
but all that commences
after eyes close for the last time?
(the witness trees stand in deep thought)
instead, he had unlocked a frozen junkpile
growing sideways
off a horizontal oak
just off to the right of the only remaining
direction left to see out from, where
(as everywhere) deckhands lingered with mops,
eager to wash away any colors.
then while he went searching for some final speck of light,
his eyes closed up tight.
now in darkness his gaze froze,
and the only remaining scraps
slipping from his fingers
lining the holes in his pockets
were pages from his last prayer book
not cashed in for a breathing mask.
someplace behind his eyes
words got forming clear as pinpoints,
and he sensed terror
from how much was absent from
what humanity commonly shared together:
BLINDNESS
(what else is one to do when one is the sun)
ALL THE PEOPLE
AVAILABLE LEAVES IMAGINED
FROZE TO THE TREEPOLE DARKER CELLARS TO HIDE
then all at once the last vagabond navyman
dropped from Kenneth's ear.
“Thanks for this moving verse, pal"
pointing to a steel grey cannon
rushing down a knoll
directly towards him!
“Are there any more cellar holes left to hide inside?”, asked one of the blind deckhands.
“There’s no room for you, but that fella there standin on your head can join us anytime.”
“No thank you”, the poet meekly smirked, and Christ,
his eyes began to flap up and down:
dark-light-dark-light.
“so we can continue to vote in free open elections, could you please keep your eyes still?”, the lost sailors pleaded.
(the mechanism was really controlled by a lever he had swallowed secretly days before).
and as Patchen at last regurgitated,
the people and the sailors danced everywhere,
frozen fields of flowers warmed and bloomed again,
and even the next generation of seafaring children realized
no museums would be left
for the world to remind itself
there were once other gifts besides false answers.
Paterson
2/27/71