A Poem For Tuesday

Brave Sir Robin continues to go all poetry all the time . . (not really, it has just worked out this way, I hope to have a regular post by tonight)

Today's Poet is Kenneth Patchen.

I find much of his work to be difficult. That is one of the reasons I like him. He challenges me. For those of you unfamiliar with his work, he is often quoted as the inspiration for many of the Beat Poets.

He was an avid pacifist, an anarchist, poet, painter, novelist, and champion of the union movement. I'd like him even if he never wrote a thing!

He also created many "painted poems" not unlike the engravings of William Blake. The graphic above is one of them.

As I said, he can be difficult, but I find that with each new reading, meaning and understanding flesh out, and are constantly changing. This poem, to me at least, was pretty clear the first time I read it, but over the years it has never failed to reveal a bit more of itself to me.

I like to think of his work as the beautiful but shy young woman sitting in the back of the classroom. Few take the time to notice her, or to get to know her, because of all the barriers she has put up. But if you befriend her, she will start to reveal herself to you a little at a time. Never all at once, but by the end of the semester, she is your friend and you understand her. Years later, she is still one of your dearest friends, and you never cease to marvel at the new layers she has, waiting to be discovered, and at the depth of her soul.

When We Were Here Together

when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one
another.
A bit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the
wind.
What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of
hair turning to ash on the wind.
But they lied about that. From the beginning they lied. To the child,
telling him that there was somewhere anger against him, and a
hatred against him, and the only reason for his being in the
world.
But never did they tell him that the only evil and danger was in
themselves; that they alone were the prisoners and the betrayers;
that they - they alone - were responsible for what was being done
in the world.
And they told the child to starve and to kill the child that was within
him; for only by doing this could he become a useful and adjusted
member of the community which they had prepared for him.
And this time, alas, they did not lie.
And with the death of the child was born a thing that had neither
the character of a man nor the character of a child, but was a
horrible and monstrous parody of the two; and it is in this world
now that the flesh of man’s spirit lies twisted and despoiled under
the indifferent stars.
When we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one
another.
O green the bit of warm grass between our teeth. O beautiful the hair
of our mortal goddess on the indifferent wind.