The New Poetry.

under an empty autumn sky
stretch endless wastes
where no one goes.
who is that horseman riding in from the west?


I am but a man. Three cubic feet of bone and blood and meat, as Loudon so puts it. I am a man of thought and tendency, of love and rage. A man of peaks and valleys, of rivers and rain puddles. I am a man who makes things happen. To whom things happen. Yes, I wander through space and time, a cloak of Saturn skin upon my back. But I cannot feel the Earth.

I sit in a space between design and my own hand, the phantoms of past and future time hover about like the lingering grey of campfire smoke. The thing you learn about life is how it is always changing and unchanging and never changing. And what we learn is what we knew, and what we knew is what we don’t want to know. And so we move along. Singing the same old song.

We can’t always put to words the energy we feel, no matter how intense. Emotions always exceed words. This is where poetry fails. But yet this is where it lives and breathes and blossoms. In the esoteric air of unfolding.

On an August morning in Brooklyn, sun spraying through the big window, the sound of shower flow hitting tired flesh resting beside the thoughts in my settled mind. Resting nude beneath a white coverlet, I opened my black “Sherwin Notebook” and started a poem I immediately titled “In the Light of Morning.” I worked on the poem every day, adding to it but never erasing. The first section ends: “we follow the path / together / away from the night / forever towards the morning.”

In the three quick months since then, the brilliant light of that summer morning receded into the same vortex of faded bursts which become all too familiar, all too simple. It seems that it was always night. For in night we dream. It is only after dream when we awake to find only darkness where dreams once were. Section IV is entitled, naturally enough, “In the Darkness of Morning.” I think it will be the last.

And so I stand at the mouth of dawning days–days of creation and discovery, of reflection and wonder, of peace and love. So I stand and I walk; I move briskly through the words and thoughts of space and time unfolding, the nonsense of the same and simple wash over me like baptismal fire into the gulf of the space behind me.


About grasshopperstothemoon

“Two things awe me most, the starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”
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