Others

In summer the song sings itself above the muffled words—

Say it, no ideas but in things.

As the rain falls so does bathe every object of the world—

As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face.

The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises… A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm.

That scrawny cry—It was A chorister whose c preceded the choir. It was part of the colossal sun.

That scrawny cry—It was A chorister whose c preceded the choir. It was part of the colossal sun.

There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain.

There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain.

His self and the sun were one And his poems, although makings of his self, Were no less makings of the sun.

His self and the sun were one And his poems, although makings of his self, Were no less makings of the sun.

Light the first light of evening, as in a room In which we rest and, for small reason, think The world imagined is the ultimate good.

Total grandeur of a total edifice, Chosen by an inquisitor of structures For himself. He stops upon this threshold As if the design of all his words takes form And frame from thinking and is realized.

And one trembles to be so understood and, at last, To understand, as if to know became The fatality of seeing things too well.

The inconceivable idea of the sun. You must become an ignorant man again And see the sun again with an ignorant eye And see it clearly in the idea of it.

Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament. It is a world of words to the end of it, In which nothing solid is its solid self.

And, capable, created in his mind, Eventual victor, out of the martyrs’ bones The ultimate elegance: the imagined land.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

Poetry is the subject of the poem.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death’s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too.

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too.