Before he was born he knew who he was
certain that each person he met was a universe
in the world, capable of filling the sky—-
to suspend the stars as a mobile of light so long
as the world agreed. He had a way of bending down
to speak to the sequoias, and they spoke back;
nearly as tall as he, or so they thought. And when he took
flight, the long spread of his wings caused no one
to notice that a man flew in the guise of a hawk.
Today we walked along a dirt road, past the Early
Golds and the dusky Winesap. Cider tills the air
with something deeper, moist flesh of earth ferments
apple to wine and the air is drunk with it. He bends
to pinch a quince in one pocket as we make our way
to the edge of a lagoon. There, against the oaks
and russet fringe of chaparral, he opens Whitman
like an old song. It is more than words,
loosed to the eddies of the wind; but the way he reads them,
splitting the ground, moving space around us
for a thousand acres, charging the air until life pulls
from every corner and I have no roots,
as if one needs anchors, clinging like a child to earth.
All things come to him like a feast to the table.
He is neither chimera nor faun, but one who gathers it all
in a silvered web -- mallards skimming across the pond;
fields of wheat just before sunset like bales of cloud
on the earth; the sun sinking into vermillion,
heating up the night, before the deep blue rises.
_______________________
Questions:
1. Do you think I could omit "the way he reads them" and just "show" what the reading of the words does like so:
It is more than words,
loosed to the eddies of the wind;
splitting the ground, moving space around us
for a thousand acres, charging the air until life pulls
from every corner and I have no roots,
Does this work?
2. Also, if there is any extra fluff that you think doesn't belong, something clunky please let me know. Kind thanks.
e
REVISED:
Before he was born he knew who he was
certain that each person he met was a universe
in the world, capable of filling the sky—-
to suspend the stars as a mobile of light so long
as the world agreed. He had a way of bending down
to speak to the sequoias, and they spoke back;
nearly as tall as he, or so they thought. And when he took
flight, the long spread of his wings caused no one
to notice that a man flew in the guise of a hawk.
Today we walked along a dirt road, past the Early
Golds and the dusky Winesap. Cider tills the air
with something deeper, moist flesh of earth ferments
apple to wine and the air is drunk with it. He bends
to pinch a quince in one pocket, the other bulges
with a half-eaten crust as we make our way
to the edge of a lagoon.
There, against the black oaks and the russet fringe
of chaparral, he opens Whitman like an old song.
It is more than the words, loosed to the eddies
of the wind; but the way he reads them, splitting
the ground, moving space around us for a thousand acres,
charging the air until life pulls from every corner
and I have no roots, as if one needs anchors,
clinging like a child to earth.
All things come to him like a feast to the table.
He is neither chimera nor faun, but one who gathers it all
in a silvered web -- mallards skimming across the pond;
fields of wheat just before sunset like bales of cloud
on the earth; the sun sinking into vermillion,
heating up the night, before the deep blue rises.
ORIGINAL:
Before he was born he knew who he was
certain that each person he met was a universe
in the world, capable of filling the sky
with what it will—to suspend the stars
in a mobile of light as long as the world agreed.
He had a way of bending down to speak to the sequoias,
and they spoke back, nearly as tall as he, or so they thought.
And when he took to flight, the long spread of his wings
caused no one to look up, no one to notice that a man
flew in the guise of a hawk.
Today he walked with me along a dirt road, past the Early
Golds and the dusky Winesap, cider tills the air
with something deeper, moist flesh of earth ferments
apple to wine so that the air is drunk with it. He bends to pinch
a quince in one pocket, the other bulges with a half eaten
crust as we make our way, to where the path curves
to the edge of a small lagoon.
Here, against the black oaks and the russet fringe
of chaparral he opens Whitman like an old song.
It was more than the words, beautiful as they were,
loosed to the eddies of the wind, but the way
he read them, splitting the ground, moving space
out around us for a thousand acres, charging the air
until life pulls from every corner and I have no roots,
as if one might need them, clinging like a child to earth.
All things came to him like a feast at the table.
He was neither chimera nor faun, but one who gathers it all
in a silvered web--mallards skimming across the pond,
fields of wheat just before sunset like bales of cloud
over the earth, the sun sinking into vermillion,
heating up the night, before the deep blue rises.
____________
Will be back later today guys to make comments on your poems. So feel free to hack it up
e
you know your Whitman and you see far into the poem's essence.