Nature and Elements

The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame;
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

Spring
Lenten ys come with love to toun{.e},
With blosmen and with bridd{.e}s roun{.e},
That al this bliss{.e} bryngeth;
Dayes-ey{.e}s in this dal{.e}s;
Not{.e}s suete of nyht{.e}gal{.e}s;
Uch foul song singeth.
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huer{.e} wynter woo,
When woderov{.e} springeth.
This foul{.e}s singeth ferly fel{.e},
And wlyteth on huere wynter wel{.e},
That al the wod{.e} ryngeth.
The ros{.e} rayleth hir{.e} rode;
The lev{.e}s on the lyht{.e} wod{.e}
Waxen al with will{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} bleo;
The lili{.e} is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fill{.e}.
Wow{.e}s this wild{.e} drak{.e}s;
Mil{.e}s murgeth huer{.e} mak{.e}s;
Ase strem that striketh still{.e},
Mody meneth, so doth mo;
Ichot ycham on of tho,
For love that lik{.e}s ill{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} lyht,
So doth the semly sonn{.e} bryht,
When bridd{.e}s singeth brem{.e}.
Deaw{.e}s donketh the doun{.e}s;
Deor{.e}s with huere dern{.e} roun{.e}s,
Dom{.e}s fort{.e} dem{.e};
Worm{.e}s woweth under cloud{.e};
Wymmen waxeth wounder proud{.e},
So wel hit wol hem sem{.e}.
Yef me shal wont{.e} wille of on,
This wunn{.e} weole y wole forgon,
Ant wyht in wode be flem{.e}.

Riddle
A moth, I thogh, munching a word.
How marvellously weird! a worm
Digesting a mans sayings -
A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows
At the shape of a poet`s thunderous phrases -
How unutterably strange!
And the pilfering parasite none the wiser
For the words he has swallowed.

Cuckoo Song
Sing, cuccu, nu! Sing, cuccu!
Sing, cuccu! Sing, cuccu, nu!
Sumer is icumen in;
Lhud{.e} sing, cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springth the wud{.e} nu.
Sing, cuccu!
Aw{.e} bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calv{.e} cu;
Bulluc sterteth, buck{.e} verteth;
Muri{.e} sing, cuccu!
Cuccu! cuccu!
Wel sing{.e}s thu, cuccu;
Ne swik thu naver nu.

Cuckoo Song
Sing, cuccu, nu! Sing, cuccu!
Sing, cuccu! Sing, cuccu, nu!
Sumer is icumen in;
Lhud{.e} sing, cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springth the wud{.e} nu.
Sing, cuccu!
Aw{.e} bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calv{.e} cu;
Bulluc sterteth, buck{.e} verteth;
Muri{.e} sing, cuccu!
Cuccu! cuccu!
Wel sing{.e}s thu, cuccu;
Ne swik thu naver nu.

Weep Not Too Much

Weep not too much, my darling;
Sigh not too oft for me;
Say not the face of Nature
Has lost its charm for thee.
I have enough of anguish
In my own breast alone;
Thou canst not ease the burden, Love,
By adding still thine own.
I know the faith and fervour
Of that true heart of thine;
But I would have it hopeful
As thou wouldst render mine.
At night, when I lie waking,
More soothing it will be
To say 'She slumbers calmly now,'
Than say 'She weeps for me.'

When through the prison grating
The holy moonbeams shine,
And I am wildly longing
To see the orb divine
Not crossed, deformed, and sullied
By those relentless bars
That will not show the crescent moon,
And scarce the twinkling stars,

It is my only comfort
To think, that unto thee
The sight is not forbidden The
face of heaven is free.
If I could think Zerona
Is gazing upward now Is
gazing with a tearless eye
A calm unruffled brow;

That moon upon her spirit
Sheds sweet, celestial balm, The
thought, like Angel's whisper,
My misery would calm.
And when, at early morning,
A faint flush comes to me,
Reflected from those glowing skies
I almost weep to see;

Or when I catch the murmur
Of gently swaying trees,
Or hear the louder swelling
Of the soulinspiring
breeze,
And pant to feel its freshness
Upon my burning brow,
Or sigh to see the twinkling leaf,
And watch the waving bough;


If, from these fruitless yearnings
Thou wouldst deliver me,
Say that the charms of Nature
Are lovely still to thee;
While I am thus repining,
O! let me but believe,
'These pleasures are not lost to her,'
And I will cease to grieve.

O, scorn not Nature's bounties!
My soul partakes with thee.
Drink bliss from all her fountains,
Drink for thyself and me!
Say not, 'My soul is buried
In dungeon gloom with thine;'
But say, 'His heart is here with me;
His spirit drinks with mine.'

A.E.

The Captive Dove

Poor restless dove, I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky,
Would melt a harder heart than mine.


In vain in
vain! Thou canst not rise:
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.


Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And, far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!


Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.


Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou mightst forget thy native wood.


But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart, that Nature formed to love,
Must pine, neglected, and alone.

The Arbour

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thickly clustering by;
And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air.


And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing long departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day;


And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer's sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen.


Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees But
look! the snow is on the ground How
can I think of scenes like these?


'Tis but the frost that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They're smiling in a winter's sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue.


And winter's chill is on my heart How
can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?

The Arbour

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thickly clustering by;
And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air.


And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing long departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day;


And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer's sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen.


Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees But
look! the snow is on the ground How
can I think of scenes like these?


'Tis but the frost that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They're smiling in a winter's sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue.


And winter's chill is on my heart How
can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.


I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!


Acton

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.


I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!


Acton

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.


I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!


Acton

Lines Written at Thorp Green

That summer sun, whose genial glow
Now cheers my drooping spirit so
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern clime
With feeble ray, before the time
I long so much to see.
And this soft whispering breeze that now
So gently cools my fevered brow,
This too, alas, must turn To
a wild blast whose icy dart
Pierces and chills me to the heart,
Before I cease to mourn.


And these bright flowers I love so well,
Verbena, rose and sweet bluebell,
Must droop and die away.
Those thick green leaves with all their shade
And rustling music, they must fade
And every one decay.


But if the sunny summer time
And woods and meadows in their prime
Are sweet to them that roam Far
sweeter is the winter bare
With long dark nights and landscapes drear
To them that are at Home!

Wales Visitation

White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow
Trees moving in rivers of wind
The clouds arise
as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist
above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed
along a green crag
glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—


Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught
but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,
of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,
the wisdom of earthly relations,
of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible
orchards of mind language manifest human,
of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry
flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny
bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—


Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower
& network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self
the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating
heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness
clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey—
Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!


All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down—
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave


A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale,
a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean
tonned with cloud-hang,
—Heaven balanced on a grassblade.
Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body,
One Being on the mountainside stirring gently
Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance,
one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies,
one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering
to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down
through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—



No imperfection in the budded mountain,
Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together,
daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble,
grass shimmers green
sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes,
horses dance in the warm rain,
tree-lined canals network live farmland,
blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills,
pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—


Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air,
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,
each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story,
myriad-formed—
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped
doubled down the stem trembling antennae,
& look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare
breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn—
I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside,
smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,
tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness—
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath
moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor,
trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught
hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,


Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart
Calling our Presence together
The great secret is no secret
Senses fit the winds,
Visible is visible,
rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale,
gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala
Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain,
rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless,
breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside,
Heaven breath and my own symmetric
Airs wavering thru antlered green fern
drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn,
Sounds of Aleph and Aum
through forests of gristle,
my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal,
All Albion one.


What did I notice? Particulars! The



vision of the great One is myriad—
smoke curls upward from ashtray,
house fire burned low,
The night, still wet & moody black heaven
starless
upward in motion with wet wind.

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade
of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the
same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled
steel roots of trees of machinery.

The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks,
no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and
hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a
man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust-


--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my
visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby
carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank,
condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the
razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past-


and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the
smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye-


corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out
of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy
head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke
pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that
eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial
worse-than-dirt--industrial--modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden
crown-


and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots
below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the
guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty
tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the
cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs &
sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your
glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet


natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset
shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the
heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your
skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive?
the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive,
we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied
on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly
tincan evening sitdown vision.

In Back of the Real

railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.


A flower lay on the hay on
the asphalt highway
--the dread hay flower
I thought--It had a
brittle black stem and
corolla of yellowish dirty
spikes like Jesus' inchlong
crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
like a used shaving brush
that's been lying under
the garage for a year.


Yellow, yellow flower, and
flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.

Syllables at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center

Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.
Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.
Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.
A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.
At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.
In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.
Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep


cheep cheep.

The Sun

O Sun! The world's essence and motivator you are
The organizer of the book of the world you are

The splendor of existence has been created by you
The verdure of the garden of existence depends on you

The spectacle of elements is maintained by you
The exigency of life in all is maintained by you

Your appearance confers stability on everything
Your illumination and concord is completion of life

You are the sun which establishes light in the world
Which establishes heart, intellect, essence and wisdom

O Sun! Bestow on us the light of wisdom
Bestow your luster's light on the intellect's eye

You are the decorator of necessaries of existence' assemblage
You are the Yazdan of the denizens of the high and the low

Your excellence is reflected from every living thing
The mountain range also shows your elegance

You are the sustainer of the life of all
You are the king of the light's children

There is no beginning and no end of yours
Free of limits of time is the light of yours

The Cloud On The Mountain

Elevation bestows the sky's nearness to my abode
I am the mountain's cloud, my skirt sprinkles roses

Now the wilderness, now the rose garden is my abode
City and wilderness are mine, ocean is mine, forest is mine

If I want to return to some valley for the night
The mountain's verdure is my carpet of velvet

Nature has taught me to be a pearl spreader
To chant the camel song for the camel of the Beloved of Mercy

To be the comforter of the dispirited farmer's heart
To be the elegance of the assembly of the garden's trees

I spread out over the face of the earth like the locks
I get arranged and adorned by the breeze's

I tantalize the expecting eye from a distance
As I pass silently over some habitation

As I approach strolling towards a brook's bank
I endow the brook with ear rings of whirlpools

I am the hope of the freshly grown field's verdure
I am the ocean's offspring, I am nourished by the sun

I gave ocean's tumult to the mountain spring
I charmed the birds into thrilling chants

I pronounced 'Rise' standing by the verdure's head
I conferred the taste for smile to the rose-bud

By my benevolence farmers' huts on the mountain side
Are converted into bed chambers of the opulent.

The Cloud On The Mountain

Elevation bestows the sky's nearness to my abode
I am the mountain's cloud, my skirt sprinkles roses

Now the wilderness, now the rose garden is my abode
City and wilderness are mine, ocean is mine, forest is mine

If I want to return to some valley for the night
The mountain's verdure is my carpet of velvet

Nature has taught me to be a pearl spreader
To chant the camel song for the camel of the Beloved of Mercy

To be the comforter of the dispirited farmer's heart
To be the elegance of the assembly of the garden's trees

I spread out over the face of the earth like the locks
I get arranged and adorned by the breeze's

I tantalize the expecting eye from a distance
As I pass silently over some habitation

As I approach strolling towards a brook's bank
I endow the brook with ear rings of whirlpools

I am the hope of the freshly grown field's verdure
I am the ocean's offspring, I am nourished by the sun

I gave ocean's tumult to the mountain spring
I charmed the birds into thrilling chants

I pronounced 'Rise' standing by the verdure's head
I conferred the taste for smile to the rose-bud

By my benevolence farmers' huts on the mountain side
Are converted into bed chambers of the opulent.

A Mountain and A Squirrel

A mountain was saying this to a squirrel
'Commit suicide if you have self-respect


You are insignificant, still so arrogant, how strange!
You are neither wise, nor intelligent! not even shrewd!


It is strange when the insignificant pose as important!
When the stupid ones like you pose as intelligent!


You are no match in comparison with my splendor
Even the earth is low compared with my splendor


The grandeur of mine does not fall to your lot
The poor animal cannot equal the great mountain! '


On hearing this the squirrel said, 'Hold your tongue!
These are immature thoughts, expel them from your heart!


I do not care if I am not large like you!
You are not a pretty little thing like me


Everything shows the Omni-potence of God
Some large, some small, is the wisdom of God


He has created you large in the world
And He has taught me climbing large trees


You are unable to walk a single step
Only large size! What other greatness have you?


If you are large show me some of the skills I have
Show me how you break this beetle nut as I can


Nothing is useless in this world
Nothing is bad in God's creation

A Longing

O Lord! I have become weary of human assemblages!
When the heart is sad no pleasure in assemblages can be


I seek escape from tumult, my heart desires
The silence which speech may ardently love!


I vehemently desire silence, I strongly long that
A small hut in the mountain's side may there be


Freed from worry I may live in retirement
Freed from the cares of the world I may be


Birds chirping may give the pleasure of the lyre
In the spring's noise may the orchestra's melody be


The flower bud bursting may give God's message to me
Showing the whole world 1 to me this small wine-cup may be


My arm may be my pillow, and the green grass my bed be
Putting the congregation to shame my solitude's quality be


The nightingale be so familiar with my face that
Her little heart harboring no fear from me may be


Avenues of green trees standing on both sides be
The spring's clear water providing a beautiful picture be


The view of the mountain range may be so beautiful
To see it the waves of water again and again rising be


The verdure may be asleep in the lap of the earth
Water running through the bushes may glistening be


Again and again the flowered boughs touching the water be
As if some beauty looking at itself in mirror be


When the sun apply myrtle to the evening's bride
The tunic of every flower may pinkish golden be


When night's travellers falter behind with fatigue
Their only hope my broken earthenware lamp may be


May the lightning lead them to my hut
When clouds hovering over the whole sky be.


The early dawn's cuckoo, that morning's mu'adhdhin2
May my confidante he be, and may his confidante I be


May I not be obligated to the temple or to the mosque
May the hut's hole alone herald of morning's arrival be


When the dew may come to perform the flowers' ablution



May wailing my supplication, weeping my ablution be

In this silence may my heart's wailing rise so high
That for stars' caravan the clarion's call my wailing be
May every compassionate heart weeping with me be

Perhaps it may awaken those who may unconscious be

Working Class Hero

My brothers knew
The things you know.
I did not scorn
learning them;
It’s just my mind
Was busy being trained

For “Other Things”:

Poetry, Philosophy, Literature.
Survival, for a girl.

But now,
What a relief
To see you understand
The ways
Of horses
Their shyness
& hatred
Of
Loneliness:

That you will not
Hesitate
To rescue
An old horse,
Dying on

His feet
&
That you will
Cheerfully
Wash him,
Aged
&
Incontinent
Head
To
Toe. Missing
With your bucket
&
Rag
Not
One
Hidden
Crevice
As he
Trembles
& weeps.

What peace
To see


Raising chickens
Does not
Mystify you
and
Hot water heaters
& their ways
Are well known;
That electricity
& how it
Works
Is something
Within
Your grasp.

That you can
Get a car
To run
By poking
It in
A few mysterious
Places
Under
The hood.

That you can
Fix a
Broken
Anything: battery, truck, stove,
Door, fridge, lamp, chicken coop hinge
While teaching me
The ins and outs
Of Opera
Or
While singing
Lusty
Italian
Tenor
That
Shakes
The walls.

That you can
Sit, comfy,
Unperturbed
By traffic
In the womb-like
Back seat
Of my
Aging
Chariot
While I drive
& you


Ride
The silver
Black
& Golden
Horses
Of
Your
Trumpet.

The goat replied, 'This complaint is unjust


Though truth is always bitter
I shall speak what is fair
This pasture, and this cool breeze


This green grass and this shade


Such comforts, were beyond our lot!
They were a far cry for us speechless poor!
We owe these pleasures to Man


We owe all our happiness to Man


We derive all our prosperity from him
What is better for us, freedom or bondage to him?
Hundreds of dangers lurk in the wilderness


May God protect us from the wilderness!


We are heavily indebted to him
Unjust is our complaint against him
If you appreciate the life's comforts


You would never complain against Man'


Hearing all this the cow felt embarrassed
She was sorry for complaining against Man
She mused over the good and the bad


And thoughtfully she said this


'Small though is the body of the goat
Convincing is the advice of the goat! '