Scarriet

There is no beauty, truly.
The loveliest person
Never knows they are beautiful.
Their lovers do not have to be.

The rhetoric of seduction,
Is no proof of beauty,
Even when fruitful,
Even in the singing of the spring.

Beauty never rests in beauty,
For what if beauty, truly beautiful, should beautifully sing?
The territory of birds
Once vanquished, forever needs vanquishing.
If the bird never holds still,
How will we know beauty, or beauty’s will?

Neither flattery nor kindness
Care for beauty’s measure.
Lips will always deny
The eye’s treasure.

Even Venus, breasts bared,
Exciting the crowd, worries
That, in comparison to another’s,
Some part of her body is not quite right.
We argue down beauty, truly.
Beauty in the day is never beautiful at night,
And the least beautiful is beauty’s fame.

There is no beauty, truly,
Unless you speak of the soft breathing of the sky
When the dying sun softly colors cloud and atmosphere,
Which only shows there is no beauty down here.

There is no beauty, truly,
Except your beauty, which,
When named, is only a name.

AFTER WEEPING UPON SEEING BY CHANCE A PICTURE OF THE 8 YEAR OLD VICTIM—APRIL 17, 2013

Work, strive, hope, succeed, believe
So you can live and you, too, can grieve.

Up at dawn, read, learn all the wise things the wise can say,
So you may contemplate how it all gets taken away.

Run from life, heap up wealth, go on cruises and tours.
Grieve at these pains. Grief is all that’s yours.

Climb the hill, faster, harder, come on!
So you can get to the top, and see everything that’s gone.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
My life fell to a power
That spread like a growing storm,
That grew like a growing flower,
That swelled like a swelling tide,
Which drowned bridegroom and bride,
And the singing in every tower.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
As I looked the other way,
My fears assumed tomorrow
Would know my suffering today:
I wrote a song in a book sadly,
She is that type who reads no books gladly;
Of my saying, she said, “What did you say?”

Though it crept upon me slowly,
Only interested at first,
Now interest turns to desire,
And yet that wasn’t the worst;
When desire to have desire turns
To love, the lover burns
For a fate that will bruise and burst.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
Like dew descending into sleep,
Fast my heart suddenly ran,
Real tears began to weep;
How sad to know what is always known!
Weak in your company, weaker when alone!
None can keep what they wish to keep.

Though it crept upon me slowly,
The end was horrible and fast,
Creeping into the galley
And creeping up the mast;
The ship pulled into the ocean
Slowly and sorrowfully, like the years,
But soon came the waves, and soon came the fears.

I have no plan,
I have no adventure that is bold,
Except to love you
Until I get old.

I have no plan,
No life with excitement in it,
Except to adore you
Every minute.

No strategy
Has built the pillars of my life;
I’ll go to the woods
With you as my wife.

I avoid the fight
For peace in a hidden place,
To contemplate
Your interesting face.

Life is wide and loud,
So I ran to this quiet,
Where peacefully a brook runs
With you by it.

I have no plan.
Stanzas? One hundred, or seven,
Except you in each one,
You, my heaven.

I have no plan
To steal you and elope.
So we must leave quietly
With quiet hope.

The stars are lights that give no light.
They tease, but do not aid, our sight.
Peering at the stars at night,
Knowing stars partake of light,
We see stars, but faking bright,
Only points of ruined light.

If stars are light that give no light,
Can I be satisfied tonight,
Knowing eventually your beauty will be
Likewise this fine nebulosity,
A star-spray covering me
With my own seeing, and to see
You floating neither here, nor there,
But seeing your light everywhere,
Brings me to a bright place
That shines so I may see your face,
Where I was brought before,
Stars my roof, and oh! bright floor
Dazzling evenings of planetary time
That makes day’s orbit a day of rhyme?

Love forbids modesty and shame.
The galaxies are glad I came.
Love forbids secrecy and pride.
A billion suns welcome me inside.
Dim planet!  What is your name?
Where is your ocean, your cliff, your tide?
Moaning in an orbit far away,
Turning in a universe that lacks day,
Dreaming of nebulae who never say
What feet will greet your love today.
With telescope I saw your flight
Sun-chased in the unfathomable night.

Don’t find your voice—find the voice;
Write about what you’ll never know;
Pay attention to grammar;
Find the killer of Edgar Poe.

In your rhythm, imitate a hammer,
Or like a piano, be soft and slow;
Music by pupils is always too passive;
Show by selling; make sound your show.

Be kind to ancient poets:
Sailboats sail and rowboats row,
Restless seas still make us drown,
And moderns have nowhere to go.

Be prosaic and exact;
Shelley should be your foe:
This is bad advice.
Why they give it, I don’t know.

Take up your puppet, it’s dead.
Emotion gives art life;
A tiny smile on the Mona Lisa,
And will she be your wife?

Plato said, don’t trust art,
Plato said, art is mad,
Plato, of course, was a poet;
Agree with him, is that so bad?

Refined and sweet is the best,
In thought, in art, in life,
Why mesmerize with chaos?
Why give in to strife?

Yours, the neutral point of view,
You’re proud of your neutral group,
You gently mock the partisans,
As you gently slurp your soup.

Some are poets in spirit,
Some are poets for real,
Some are poetry critics,
Fine.  As long as you feel.

Life, of course, is a riddle;
You die if you don’t know.
You live if you know the answer,
As they laugh at you below.

Determined to be a falcon, I flew
Somewhere into midnight—
The happiness of my days were few—
But saw death and flames’ lurid light
Stretching skyward, embarrassing a night
I always found quiet,
With moon exhaling a fragrance—there was never any riot—
But now night-flames harried me as I flew
Into the dark, my falcon-eyes looking for you.

Determined to be a falcon, I flew
In search of my symbol, my line beginning
This, the guitar, the sorrow, the poem seeking the new,
Making as much as I could of the falcon’s wing
As a symbol in a song that forgot to sing
Except that its music
Forced its way into symbols that couldn’t use it,
Sad that self-consciousness was the poet’s due
And sad my sad desire could not describe you.

Yet I’m happy I was a falcon back there,
Fashioned in a fuliginous dome—
Maybe nothing was real, maybe not even the air—
Yet I count this symbol dear as any home,
As dear as the familiar place after you sorrowfully roam,
Not because it impresses anyone
To say one is a falcon,
But only because determined to be a falcon, I flew
Symbolically—knowing the real thing was you.

My love dressed as a witch
And she was beautiful.
Her smile gave me a crazy itch,
And the moon was full.

My love dressed as a black cat
And she was beautiful.
Her smile—could I resist that?
And the moon was full.

My love dressed as an old house
And she was beautiful.
I went inside her house
And the moon was full.

I looked inside every room
And they were beautiful.
Her pillow wore a look of gloom
And the moon was full.

I lay in bed and called to her,
“Come to me, beautiful!”
Her bed was made of gold and fur
And the moon was full.

And what had I been wearing?
A simple, ebon gown.
And she covered me in kisses
As the moon went down.

If Joe Biden laughed at me, I’d punch him in the face,
Civility the first requirement of the human race.

Thank the sun, the rain, the bounty which even on the undeserving pours,
Thank your country and democracy and the opinion that’s different than yours.

Print money and give it to the poor that you might buy their vote,
Love animals, but little humans in the womb smote.

Pander to those who want to get paid
But speak honestly to those who want to get laid.

If we don’t arm ourselves, others will invade;
Don’t you figure this out in first grade?

I like sports, guns, dogs, cigars and cigarettes,
I love pretty women as long as they are pets;
Please vote for the party that best supports the vets.

I have a Volvo.  I barely escaped my birth.
The natural planet is the best way to measure worth,
And there’s a hole for the corporate rich in my dear mother Earth.

Hard work and science. All the rest is crap:
A crucifix on the wall.  A little nap.

“From fairest creatures we desire increase…”
—That sounds so right-wing, I just want some peace…

I have a bathtub, and that is all I got.
Why tax my tub and not tax that yacht?

Redistribute wealth!  Justice is our cry!
But that impulse turns ugly with a shrinking pie…

The birds in the trees make a pretty sound
But Man’s life is this: taking coal out of the ground.

Division of labor will always be unjust;
Things that people want turn into a must,
And every ideal and dream crumbles into dust. 

If the Queen laughed at me, I’d punch her in the face,
Civility the first requirement of the human race.

How did she love when the love she found
Demanded silence, and not one small sound
Was allowed in her heavens or on her ground?
She did not love, for silence engenders fear;
Silence kills love if the love is near,
For sounds are sacred when they enter the ear.
But when love is outside, making no sound,
Like a spider on the wall, a statue, or a mound,
It may have authority and may be profound
But it withers and dies like death underground.

She told me all this as I looked in her eye,
And then she looked down and began to cry,
But I touched her hand, and sang; never silent, I,
Never one to care for confusion or fear,
For sounds are sacred when they enter the ear
And love is made of sound: like this poem here.

When I saw what I had loved,
I understood the wide sea—
As rolling and wide as mathematics, or poetry—
Knows less of love than I, and could not love poetry like me.

When I saw what I had loved,
And understood she was sweet
And, in a moment, could with a smile, repeat
So carefully and sweetly what she had done before,
It was time to make all that could be mine, sweetly, sweetly, more.

When I saw what I had loved,
I understood that by comparison, I was dead,
And should have chose my living by what I loved,
And was not wise considering caution as a need,
And so for love, and only love, I gave up my creed,
And plucked my flower, which—strange!—was hidden, like a mountain weed.

When I saw what I had loved,
Lying smashed upon the ground,
I thought of pitiful Lear in shock, holding his girl,
I thought of pain and earth and sound,
And my flower young and curled
And the mountains broken,
And dead love which cannot be spoken,
No matter how the heart is moved,
When I saw what I had loved.

Meet me where my eyes meet yours
And jealousy is far away,
Writhing on distant shores.

Meet me in the lands of earth,
Where comedians cannot make fun
Of mountain silence and slanting sun.

Meet me where soil meets day.

Meet me not in crossroads or in crowd,
Not where people stare and are loud,
Meet me in the early morning by a shady bay
Where only squirrels stand in our way
With a bag of peanuts on your knee.
And we’ll steal a squirrel and sail away,
A feat done languidly.  Meet me.

Meet me in the middle of the earth
And we’ll test the sun’s worth
In molten caves and shadows below.
Meet me. I’m a good fellow
And will not do you any harm.
Meet me.  I will take your arm
Discretely.  Meet me.

Meet me.  I have waited since noon
And now the night and its moon lie about…then can it be?
You won’t meet me?

Most Of The World Is Already Made

Most of the world is already made,
Christ! Moments of summer by the sea
Cannot be topped by you or me.
Light belongs to the sun and invades the shade.
Most of the world is already made.

Most of the movies I like are done.
Maybe I could make one more of you
As we bring our tired bodies to the sun,
But how beautiful would it be, or true?
Most of the movies I like are done.

Most inspiration is already found
Burning, burning, exploding in the night.
The signs of death we note all around
Even as we seek to relax in the light.
Most inspiration is already found.

Most of the lovely faces I have seen
Play at smiling in the same ways,
Seen in the dark, or wearing sun screen.
Some of the smiling has gone on for days.
Most of the lovely faces I have seen.

Most of the love you have felt has been spoken,
On the trip there and then going back.
After we improve, it still seems it is broken,
Summer’s excess is a sea—that we lack.
Most of the love you have felt has been spoken.

Most of the world was already here
And I’ve understood it, and I suppose you, too?
The sun seems especially glorious this year.
Its brightness keeps battering the new.
Most of the world was already here.

I’m the first to lie awake
And the last to fall asleep.
At first love makes you happy
And then it makes you weep.
Why is love unhappy?  It’s easy to say,
The first time is when you cry when your lover slips away.
When they are gone, you want them back:
There is comfort, here is a panic attack.
Distance, which is normal, becomes pain and grows
Until your pain becomes pain your lover knows,
And when excess of love seems the only cure,
You find a love that’s rare but feel the pain more,
Until love becomes an urge and your mind goes back
To sweeter times—but now love’s a cul-de-sac
That blunts all desire; madness creeps in,
Bad taste follows your secret insight into sin;
Once a Botticelli smile, now love’s a smeary grin.
Please let me sleep, my poem is done.
Sleepless and loveless, here’s the sun…

Poetry shouts the obvious to deaf ears—
It’s not a professor studying an obscure poem for years—
No, a poem shouts the obvious to every one of your peers—
It’s not a cabal of self-righteous queers,
A poem is a melody crying melodious tears
After a brawling fist fight among a thousand beers
That brought out love and its elemental fears—
Poetry’s no study elaborately switching gears—
Poetry shouts the obvious to deaf ears.

The good is here for a moment and then it is gone.
The music you play for yourself is the kind you like
And its sweet sounds are for you and your lover alone.
What if those harsher sounds you hear outdoors where the crowd,
The stupid crowd, is relieving its stupid boredom, with loud sounds
Far into the night?  You know sleep, beauty, music is yours
And the stupid crowd works and makes this world possible.
You can always say to yourself that life is good and that good
Is how we aspire, or mention to your friends this in a friendly way,
But in truth the good is here for a moment and then it is gone.

I have tickets from old shows and things from the past,
As if the past were anything then, and not things that remind
You of it now.  I remember your being, connected to your shirt
And angles of your face, and maybe a word, or two, though
I cannot remember other things. You told me what you were
Going to do, your obligations, and I thought you knew best
And decided to let it go, even though the good is here for a moment
And then it is gone.

Try the suit on. Try the studio. Look fast inside and connect,
For what you do is all you do, in that shade that comes on with evening
And the pink clouds. Be far, I don’t care; just remember I am safe, at
Least for the time being, and I hope you are, too. What is far? Be lucky,
Will you? Remember me at last when I am right here. Put together the
events of last evening and you will laugh. The good is here for a moment
And then it is gone

Only for a moment I saw the sun,
Though its influence has no end.
How can immensity hide?
How can my star fail to be known?
Though all mankind wail and wend,
And they my fiercest rays deride,
I am comfortable I am the one.
Subjective rabble! Clouds victimize
More than the sun oppresses;
The sun gives life, and if your cloud denies,
Your blindness yet confesses you are blind. 
In the sun I see your mind.

True to me?  You are true to the grass
And the thousand roots that grow beneath your stone.
You belong to the disappearing past
And I, to your memory—I walk through it, alone.
You cannot remember anything, so I remember you.
I am true to one who cannot be true.

You married someone else, so when you say
You love me, I think, when you leave him, that will be the day.
I married someone else, so when we are through,
We know we are false, though we are being true.

True to you?  I am true to the sky
And thoughts that cannot breathe up there.
I am true to every image in my eye
And all the things for you I’d dare.
I remember everything, including you.
You are true to one who cannot be true.

Does the imagination have a mouth?
Being from the north, I travel south
To cathedrals’ apses, towers, vast spaces,
With nooks hiding girls
With raven curls
Or blonder ones with Botticelli faces.

I go south because I can.
Why shouldn’t a  proportionate man
Seek beauty in physique and wit?
The imagination feeds
On what it needs.
But alas, could it be I’ve come to the end of it?

The imagination has an ear.
I listened to a beauty this year
Tell me each day every thing she loved in the world.
But can’t I love one
Thing? like the sun?
Or one bud not yet bloomed, its small leaves still curled?

The imagination will have many
Beginnings before it has any.
We look with our eyes at illusion happily.
But her eyes
And her sighs
Are exactly where I want to be.

The imagination has a mouth.
Imagination will out.
I will go finally to where a kiss
Takes a week.
Love is to seek
And never have, and it hits if it miss.

The ocean is always far away.
The ocean is as big as the day.
When you come to the shore to stay,
The ocean still is far away.

Sail to the ocean’s other side
Where different languages reside,
Where rivers share the ocean’s tide
And waters oriental shipwrecks hide.

Seek the sail that never went
Over the ocean to an isle bent
In the mist, with a shape that always meant
You cannot see.  Put up your tent.

Linger here with a vexed emotion,
Identity dropped into Circe’s potion,
And the trees are still and have no motion
In the center of the wide, inestimable ocean.

Your heart is now surrounded by ocean.
You live by externals; you wear their lotion;
They shield you from thought, and every emotion.
You sleep in the sounds of the slumbering ocean. 

Your lover is always far away.
Your lover’s thoughts are as big as the day.
When you arrive at the shore to stay,
Your lover still is far away!

POEM

Writing is talking.
Reading is a living conversation.
Hey! Any shred of news
Perused in time and space is 
The same as talking,
Don’t you think?
But famous words are silent.
The famous do not talk.
The living conversation
Happens in the cheapest newspaper or book;
You can chatter in reading, even though you are reading silently.
But when silence reads silence,
When words long dead speak truth still living,
When words stare at you, but say nothing,
Then you stare at them in the stunned
Hush of what must be death;
The psalms and commandments and poems
Of those who out-faced sorrow in desert
Cold, and in silent mountain scenes,
Chill you like cold mountain streams
Curling through your soul continuously.
Talk is done.  All that remains are dreams.

Now that I know you love me,
Now that I know love is good,
I no longer need to stand by the sea
But desire says that I should.
Now I know your helpless cries
And your pleasures and your pain
Are like the cloudy moon that flies
After spring has kissed the evening with rain—
Oh, the pursuit and the goal are the same!
The named is the same as the name!
My pleasure is yours, and our pleasure is pain.
Love is insurmountable, for none love,
None have ever loved!  They pursue other things,
And we, driven in the storm with these weak wings,
Fall in the forbidden love we chose—
When we could have said, ‘no’ and obeyed those
Not mad from love—at least the kind that looks in your heart and knows.

I see the word, forget, everywhere I look:
The label of the bottle, the title of the book.

The wine I drink is called forget.
The people gone, we find our pet,
And all of life is to forget.

The sun is here but the sun must set;
I’d describe our sun, but I forget.

Think of the love and visions met—
No, you cannot, for you forget.

Mind you, all the wealthy bet
Is on better methods to forget.
That’s all the wealthy really get.

Is there meaning lingering yet?
Between the slippery and the wet?

Hold me, love, I must forget
Death that’s coming—oh not quite yet?
Then I have time—to forget.

This moment that moment must forget,
Even though the memory fret.

Your child’s face must its face forget
And every light in the sea must set,
Childhood die—even mother forget.

Must all die? Must we all forget?
The only answer is, not yet,
But before it comes, forget, forget.

The Morning Light Discerns The Trees

The morning light discerns the trees
Which, massed in darkness on crooked knees
Fed my melancholy and my sorrow
Continuous, I thought, long past tomorrow,
As I stumbled through the evening wood
Pondering grace and genius and good,
Those infinite twisted limbs of growth’s agony and accident—
Painful struggle without understanding—this is what the forest meant
Last night, before the morning light
Bled through the sky. Can my melancholy die?
Can I see all sorrow is illusion
By the mere appearance of the sun?

If love cannot speak in poetry, then where?
In wandering eyes that silent, stare,
At eyes, arms, lips, hips, hair
In eager looks hated by society?
If love cannot speak in poetry, then when?
Must we wait for the Romantics all over again,
When Shelley and Keats perfumed the air
Of perfumed love with perfumed care
In forms betokening love’s satiety?
If love cannot speak in poetry, then why
Must it drift away in sigh after sigh,
Or in cards the unimaginative buy
Because they have no idea what to say
When love sometimes throws a rhyme their way?