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....
At
last this poem begins, which had to write itself before the demons of
the dark arrived. This poem, which is afraid of demons and whose function
is to explore itself in the absence of anything else to explore. Imagine
invisible hands gliding over a freakish invisible body. Its holes are
the names for various stars— all the incredible avenues of its own
desires.
....
What does it do when its chemistry and
physics cannot know themselves except to be certain that all its parts
do nothing but want. It also finds that everything of heaven, earth and
hell sustains it. Without the demons which it has been at such pains to
avoid, the poems could not give birth to itself.
Is it the poem or the poet who wants the lawn to fill with angels? The
angels should get behind themselves, like Satan behind Christ in the wilderness.
They are neither wholly of this world nor of their own. They are merely
a process of the poem, or the name of that process. Their blinding radiance
is an attempt to abolish thought, but they are not a circus act, since
they do not expect to be applauded because they do not really entertain
anyone. They are only entertained, like certain obsessions of the mind.
....
Poetry, the poem was about to say, is
the substance that binds. The angels tempt it to believe an ether forms
equivalence between its parts. The poem, however, does not quite fit inside
itself, and thus believes itself hidden inside some larger place.
II
To say only angels
...........
will not suffice. Angels
of fire, angels of ice,
...........
angels of wire,
III
Within the lyre,
where the fingers of the left hand lie,
the half-held curve
of angel's wings.
Cures, sores, are missing there.
Water, air & music pass thru space unbruised.
Within the unbruised pool, a flash of light,
of memory, escaping into the night. The stream
of music and of ultimate loss.
In the still pool that memory is,
creatures of slime slide into the light.
IV
Skins within the skin. Membranes
at a point beyond the point of memory
where spirit stirs. A sea into which old memory flows.
Ebbing light in the shallows,
a ladder of angelic hands,
the bright cold sun, ancient patterned flames,
deadly sceptres; inevitable deaths
of the many kings who are finally one.
The mind, turning,
reveals angels as vultures, the spirit
a rain of dry skin is the desert.
V
The poem knows very well there are more than
3 worlds. Angels as likely from here as from there:
Thousands of worlds which come and go, some of them
only the once, the boring ones over and over again.
As in the scene where the cops bust in, there's
always a brick wall and a dramatic shattering of windows.
Some of them never come, tho telegrams
arrive daily: "Wait. Wait. I'm coming." or "Please
make room. The unaltering flame is to come."
1. 2. 3. God is one. And the angels in God, Many.
A gesture which changes direction purposelessly.
VI
Between earth and sky, a multitude of motives,
labor to release the king. Votives
of the angels, receivers for the divine, they
are deceivers, dance
to drive demons down. Step,
strive to relieve the terror of the god.
Horus, his son, is known by the eyes.
One is the sun, the other,
the moon.
The strong right hand embraces flame,
the left enfolds the moon.
Between dawn and the night
he flies as the falcon.
Light
like a passing wing.
The stubborn
donkey god, who, even with ears,
knows not obedience.
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