two poems by Robert Penn Warren:
The oaks, how subtle and marine,
Bearded, and all the layered light
Above them swims and thus the scene,
Recessed, awaits the positive night.
So, waiting, we in the grass now life
Beneath the languorous tread of light:
The grasses, kelp-like, satisfy
The nameless motions of the air.
Upon the floor of light, and time,
Unmurmuring, of polyp made,
We rest; we are, as light withdraws,
Twin atolls on a shelf of shade.
Ages to our construction went,
Dim architecture, hour by hour:
And violence, forgot now, lent
The present stillness all its power.
The storm of noon above us rolled,
Of light the fury, furious gold,
The long drag troubling us, the dept:
Dark is unrocking, unrippling, still.
Passion and slaughter, ruth, decay
Descend, minutely whispering down,
Silted down swaying streams, to lay
Foundation for our voicelessness.
All our debate is voiceless here,
As all our rage, the rage of stone;
If hope is hopeless, then fearless fear,
And history is thus undone.
Our feet once wrought the hollow street
With echo when the lamps were dead
At windows, once our headlight glare
Disturbed the doe that, leaping, fled.
I do not love you less that now
The caged heart makes iron stroke,
Or less that all that light once gave
The graduate dark should now revoke.
We live in time so little time
And we learn all so painfully,
That we may spare this hour’s term
To practice for eternity.
Brotherhood in Pain
Fix your eyes on any chance object. For instance,
That leaf, prematurely crimson, of the swamp maple
That dawdles down gold air to the velvet-black water
Of the moribund beaver-pond. Or the hunk
Of dead chewing gum in the gutter with the mark of a molar
Yet distinct on it, like the most delicate Hellenistic chisel-work.
Or a black sock you took off last night and by mistake
Left lying, to be found in the morning, on the bathroom tiles.
Or pick up a single stone from the brookside, inspect it
Most carefully, then throw it back in. You will never
See it again. By the next spring flood, it may have been hurled
A mile downstream. Fix your gaze on any of these objects,
Or if you think me disingenuous in my suggestions,
Whirl around three times like a child, or a dervish, with eyes shut,
Then fix on the first thing seen when they open.
In any case, you will suddenly observe an object in the obscene moment of birth.
It does not know its own name. The matrix from which it is torn
Bleeds profusely. It has not begun to breathe. Its experience
Is too terrible to recount. Only when it has completely forgotten
Everything, will it smile shyly, and try to love you,
For somehow it knows that you are lonely, too.
It pityingly knows that you are more lonely than it is, for
You exist only in the delirious illusion of language.
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