Heart Happy (cathy_edgett) wrote,
Heart Happy

From Jane Today!!

Dear Cathy,

Here are the two that came today...one from your horse and another to let you know that the old landlord has died.  Also below, a Stanley Kunitz...because he still is here in  his being gone.    xoxoxo    - J  

Those of us who have been following the blog,   remember the "old landlord."  

Jane's Poems:


The horse does not follow the story.
His ear cocks to the buzzing bee.
He fills the space on earth quartered by his feet.
The incomprehensible shivers beneath his withers.
When he runs he knows he is flying.

The old landlord has left the building.
The clock factory has run out of time.
The time-share in Paris is closed for the season.
It is the desk in his house looking down from the hills that knows he has gone.
He has made good on all his handshakes.
His contracts, clear as breakfasts order in a diner
Have been served.

And here is a magnificent poem by Stanley Kunitz.  Jane and I are seeing it for the first time with his death.  That feels right.  It is his good-bye and hello.
Jane says of reading Stanley Kunitz - "Just let it fall in your ears."

King of the River

If the water were clear enough,
if the water were still,
but the water is not clear,
the water is not still,
you would see yourself,
slipped out of your skin,
nosing upstream,
slapping, thrashing,
over the rocks
till you paint them
with your belly's blood:
Finned Ego,
yard of muscle that coils,

If the knowledge were given you,
but it is not given,
for the membrane is clouded
with self-deceptions
and the iridescent image swims
through a mirror that flows,
you would surprise yourself
in that other flesh
heavy with milt,
bruised, battering toward the dam
that lips the orgiastic pool.

Come. Bathe in these waters.
Increase and die.

If the power were granted you
to break out of your cells,
but the imagination fails
and the doors of the senses close
on the child within,
you would dare to be changed,
as you are changing now,
into the shape you dread
beyond the merely human.
A dry fire eats you.
Fat drips from your bones.
The flutes of your gills discolor.
You have become a ship for parasites.
The great clock of your life
is slowing down,
and the small clocks run wild.
For this you were born.
You have cried to the wind
and heard the wind's reply:
"I did not choose the way,
the way chose me."
You have tasted the fire on your tongue
till it is swollen black
with a prophetic joy:
"Burn with me!
The only music is time,
the only dance is love."

If the heart were pure enough,
but it is not pure,
you would admit
that nothing compels you
any more, nothing
at all abides,
but nostalgia and desire,
the two-way ladder
between heaven and hell.
On the threshold
of the last mystery,
at the brute absolute hour,
you have looked into the eyes
of your creature self,
which are glazed with madness,
and you say
he is not broken but endures,
limber and firm
in the state of his shining,
forever inheriting his salt kingdom,
from which he is banished
                   Stanley Kunitz

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