Change and Transformation

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn Look out your window and I’ll be gone You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on Don’t think twice, it’s all right

There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in.

And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.

White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands dead stringencies.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed.

I came to explore the wreck.

There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner.

The moment of change is the only poem.

History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, but if faced With courage, need not be lived again.

The seasons are no longer what they once were, But it is the nature of things to be seen only once, As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along Somehow. That’s where Orpheus made his mistake.

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

Sexual intercourse began In nineteen sixty-three (Which was rather late for me)— Between the end of the Chatterley ban And the Beatles’ first LP.

Marrying left your maiden name disused.

The time cracks into furious flower. Lifts its face all unashamed. And sways in wicked grace.

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

the world changes if two, dizzy and entwined, fall on the grass

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks, Cut stems struggling to put down feet, What saint strained so much, Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?

Harrow the house of the dead; look shining at New styles of architecture, a change of heart.

The greater the love, the more false to its object, Not to be born is the best for man; After the kiss comes the impulse to throttle, Break the embraces, dance while you can.

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height

A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well 10 When the tongues of flame are infolded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.

In my beginning is my end.