Kenneth Patchen
1852. |
The Character of Love Seen as a Search for the Lost
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
And each is the work of all. There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know. See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall, Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are. You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search: And each is the mission of all. For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes The built cart out; and where we go is reason. But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter. How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love, The grassy wind moves over night’s tense meadow: See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest Stare upon the architecture of our innocence. You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road: And each is the work of all. Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag… We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now. Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken? Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God’s hand? Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war? There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many desperate arms about us and the things we know. |
1853. |
„She Is the Prettiest of Creatures“
She is the prettiest of creatures
All like a queen is she I have made a paper wheel And I pin it to her dress We lie together sometimes And it is as nice as music When you are half-asleep And then we want to cry because We are so clean and warm And sometimes it is raining And the little drops scuttle Like the feet of angels on the roof I have made this poem tonight And I pin it in her hair For she is the prettiest of creatures O all like a strange queen is she |
1854. |
„Be Music, Night“
Be music, night,
That her sleep may go Where angels have their pale tall choirs Be a hand, sea, That her dreams may watch Thy guidesman touching the green flesh of the world Be a voice, sky, That her beauties may be counted And the stars will tilt their quiet faces Into the mirror of her loveliness Be a road, earth, That her walking may take thee Where the towns of heaven lift their breathing spires O be a world and a throne, God, That her living may find its weather And the souls of ancient bells in a child’s book Shall lead her into Thy wondrous house |
1855. |
The Artist’s Duty
So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame
To extend all boundaries To fog them in right over the plate To kill only what is ridiculous To establish problem To ignore solutions To listen to no one To omit nothing To contradict everything To generate the free brain To bear no cross To take part in no crucifixion To tinkle a warning when mankind strays To explode upon all parties To wound deeper than the soldier To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all To verify the irrational To exaggerate all things To inhibit everyone To lubricate each proportion To experience only experience To set a flame in the high air To exclaim at the commonplace alone To cause the unseen eyes to open To admire only the absurd To be concerned with every profession save his own To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator To lift the flesh above the suffering To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss To HAPPEN It is the artist’s duty to be alive To drag people into glittering occupations To blush perpetually in gaping innocence To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence To burrow beneath the subconscious To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason To obey each outrageous impulse To commit his company to all enchantments. |