“I wonder mightily what sort of creature I should have turned out, if instead of the distracting and useless pain, I had had the joy of approved love, and the untellable, incalculable motive of its sympathy and praise. It seems to me such things are not allowed in the world. The men capable of the highest imaginative passion are always on fiery waves by it.”
—John Ruskin
Look, yellow-blue leaves! tumbling athletically
Downward without a parent. Typhoon’s giving
Downward without a parent. Typhoon’s giving
Them a dose, a treatment, and a last beating, as
I watch the play bemused, before the finale—
I watch the play bemused, before the finale—
In heaven I can now see plant and man created
Equal, Gethsemane then, a garden. But that day
Equal, Gethsemane then, a garden. But that day
We clung to roots. Looked for our Asian lands of
Fading spaces and food. Ruskin thinking too much?
Fading spaces and food. Ruskin thinking too much?
Ruskin, no doubt, was a city boy. So, we said, talk
To the leaves now; they looked often at me like
To the leaves now; they looked often at me like
I owed them a poem. See, one day, my ill Wisdom
Did whisper to me: “would you want to buy some
Did whisper to me: “would you want to buy some
Vegetables or would you rather farm yourself?
Well, even grasses need songs, so to forget their
Well, even grasses need songs, so to forget their
Dream of walkin’ to Desertia.” I said, ach, my Sir,
Only snakes hide in grasses! Only fools speak
Only snakes hide in grasses! Only fools speak
To bushes. “O okay, okay. So that’ll be your epi-
Taph, I don’t mind.” He closed a book of poems.
Taph, I don’t mind.” He closed a book of poems.
—2 Jan. - 7 Nov. 1986
