Kenneth Patchen

The snow is deep on the ground. Always the light falls Softly down on the hair of my belovèd. This is a good world. The war has failed. God shall not forget us. Who made the snow waits where love is. Only a few go mad. The sky moves in its whiteness Like the withered hand of an old king. God shall not forget us. Who made the sky knows of our love. The snow is beautiful on the ground. And always the lights of heaven glow Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

The sleds of the children Move down the right slope. To the left, hazed in the tumbling air, A thousand lights smudge Within the branches of the old forest, Like colored moons in a well of milk. The sleds of the children Make no sound on the hard-packed snow. Their bright cries are not heard On that strange hill. The youngest are wrapped In cloth of gold, and their scarfs Have been dipped in blood. All the others, from the son Of Tegos, who is the Bishop Of Black Church—near Tarn, On to the daughter of the least slut, Are garbed in love's shining dress; Naked little eels, they flash Across the amazed ice. And behind each sled There trots a man with his sex Held like a whip in his snaking hand. But no one sees the giant horse That climbs the steps which stretch forth Between the calling lights and that hill Straight up to the throne of God. He is taller than the highest tree And his flanks steam under the cold moon. The beat of his heart shakes the sky And his reaching muzzle snuffles At the most ancient star. * The innocent alone approach evil Without fear; in their appointed flame They acknowledge all living things. The only evil is doubt; the only good Is not death, but life. To be is to love. This I thought as I stood while the snow Fell in that bitter place, and the riders Rode their motionless sleds into a nowhere Of sleep. Ah, God, we can walk so easily, Bed with women, do every business That houses and roads are for, scratch Our shanks and lug candles through These caves; but, God, we can't believe, We can't believe in anything. Because nothing is pure enough. Because nothing will ever happen To make us good in our own sight. Because nothing is evil enough. * I squat on my heels, raise my head To the moon, and howl. I dig my nails into my sides, And laugh when the snow turns red. As I bend to drink, I laugh at everything that anyone loves. All your damn horses climbing to heaven

We must be slow and delicate; return the policeman's stare with some esteem, remember this is not a shadow play of doves and geese but this is now the time to write it down, record the words— I mean we should have left some pride of youth and not forget the destiny of men who say goodbye to the wives and homes they've read about at breakfast in a restaurant: "My love."—without regret or bitterness obtain the measure of the stride we make, the latest song has chosen a theme of love delivering us from all evil—destroy. . . ? why no. . . this too is fanciful. . . funny how hard it is to be slow and delicate in this, this thing of framing words to mark this grave I mean nothing short of blood in every street on earth can fitly voice the loss of these.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. W a i t. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. NOW.

Apply for the position (I've forgotten now for what) I had to marry the Second Mayor's daughter by twelve noon. The order arrived three minutes of. I already had a wife; the Second Mayor was childless: but I did it. Next they told me to shave off my father's beard. All right. No matter that he'd been a eunuch, and had succumbed in early childhood: I did it, I shaved him. Then they told me to burn a village; next, a fair-sized town; then, a city; a bigger city; a small, down-at-heels country; then one of "the great powers"; then another (another, an- other)—In fact, they went right on until they'd told me to burn up every man-made thing on the face of the earth! And I did it, I burned away every last trace, I left nothing, nothing of any kind whatever. Then they told me to blow it all to hell and gone! And I blew it all to hell and gone (oh, didn't I). . . Now, they said, put it back together again; put it all back the way it was when you started. Well. . . it was my turn then to tell them something! Shucks, I didn't want any job that bad.

Man-dirt and stomachs that the sea unloads; rockets of quick lice crawling inland, planting their damn flags, putting their malethings in any hole that will stand still, yapping bloody murder while they slice off each other’s heads, spewing themselves around, priesting, whoring, lording it over little guys, messing their pants, writing gush-notes to their grandmas, wanting somebody to do something pronto, wanting the good thing right now and the bad stuff for the other boy. Gullet, praise God for the gut with the patented zipper; sing loud for the lads who sell ice boxes on the burning deck. Dear reader, gentle reader, dainty little reader, this is the way we go round the milktrucks and seamusic, Sike’s trap and Meg’s rib, the wobbly sparrow with two strikes on the bible, behave Alfred, your pokus is out; I used to collect old ladies, pickling them in brine and painting mustaches on their bellies, later I went in for stripteasing before Save Democracy Clubs; when the joint was raided we were all caught with our pants down. But I will say this: I like butter on both sides of my bread and my sister can rape a Hun any time she’s a mind to, or the Yellow Peril for that matter; Hector, your papa’s in the lobby. The old days were different; the ball scores meant something then, two pill in the side pocket and two bits says so; he got up slow see, shook the water out of his hair, wam, tell me that ain’t a sweet left hand; I told her what to do and we did it, Jesus I said, is your name McCoy? Maybe it was the beer or because she was only sixteen but I got hoarse just thinking about her; married a john who travels in cotton underwear. Now you take today; I don’t want it. Wessex, who was that with I saw you lady? Tony gave all his dough to the church; Lizzie believed in feeding her own face; and that’s why you’ll never meet a worm who isn’t an antichrist, my friend, I mean when you get down to a brass tack you’ll find some sucker sitting on it. Whereas. Muckle’s whip and Jessie’s rod, boyo, it sure looks black in the gut of this particular whale. Hilda, is that a .38 in your handbag? Ghosts in packs like dogs grinning at ghosts Pocketless thieves in a city that never sleeps Chains clank, warders curse, this world is stark mad Hey! Fatty, don’t look now but that’s a Revolution breathing down your neck.

These of living emanate a formidable light, Which is equal to death, and when used Gives increase eternally. What fortifies in separate thought Is not drawn by wind or by man defiled. So whispers the parable of doubleness. As it is necessary not to submit To power which weakens the hidden forms; It is extraordinarily more essential Not to deny welcome to these originating forces When they gather within our heat To give us habitation. The one life must be attempted with the other, That we may embark upon the fiery work For which we were certainly made. What has been separated from the mother, Must again be joined; for we were born of spirit, And to spirit all mortal things return, As it is necessary in the method of earth. So sings the parable of singleness. My comforter does not conceal his face; I have seen appearances that were not marshalled By sleep. Perhaps I am to be stationed At the nets which move through this completing sea. Or I have hunting on my sign. Yet the ground is visible, The center of our seeing. (The houses rest Like sentinels on this hawking star. Two women are bathing near a trestle; Their bodies dress the world in golden birds; The skin of their throats is a dancing flute. . . How alter or change? How properly Find an exact equation? What is flying Anywhere that is more essential to our quest? Even the lake. . . boat walking on its blue streets; Organ of thunder muttering in the sky. . . A tiger Standing on the edge of a plowed field. . . What is necessary? What is inseparable to know? The children seek silvery-pretty caves. . . What are we to teach?) The distance is not great To worlds of magnificent joy or nowhere.

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

In the shape of this night, in the still fall of snow, Father In all that is cold and tiny, these little birds and children In everything that moves tonight, the trolleys and the lovers, Father In the great hush of country, in the ugly noise of our cities In this deep throw of stars, in those trenches where the dead are, Father In all the wide land waiting, and in the liners out on the black water In all that has been said bravely, in all that is mean anywhere in the world, Father In all that is good and lovely, in every house where sham and hatred are In the name of those who wait, in the sound of angry voices, Father Before the bells ring, before this little point in time has rushed us on Before this clean moment has gone, before this night turns to face tomorrow, Father There is this high singing in the air Forever this sorrowful human face in eternity’s window And there are other bells that we would ring, Father Other bells that we would ring.

As we are so wonderfully done with each other We can walk into our separate sleep On floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies O my lady, my fairest dear, my sweetest, loveliest one Your lips have splashed my dull house with the speech of flowers My hands are hallowed where they touched over your soft curving. It is good to be weary from that brilliant work It is being God to feel your breathing under me A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning . . . Don’t let anyone in to wake us.