I ONLY know that you are given me
For my delight.
No other angle finishes my soul
But you, you white.
I know that I am given you,
Black whirl to white,
To lift the seven colors up . . .
Focus of light!
ANNE KNISH
Opus 1
REITERATION! . . .
The seconds bob by,
So many, so many,
Each ugly in its own way
As raw meats are all ugly.
Why do we feed on the dead?
Or would at least it were with cries and lust
Of slaying our human food
Beneath a cannibal sun!
But these old corpses of alien creatures! . . .
I loathe them!
And too many heads go by the window,
All alien—
Filers of saws, doubtless,
Or lechers
Or Sabbath-keepers.
Morality comes from God.
He was busy.
He forgot to make beauty.
Why does he not call back into their hen-house
This ugly straggling flock of seconds
That trail by
With pin-feathers showing?
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 55
WHY ask it of me?—the impossible!—
Shall I pick up the lightning in my hand?
Have I not given homages too well
For words to understand?—
Words take you from me, bring you back again,
Dance in our presence, cover your proud face
With the incredible counterpane,
Break our embrace . . .
No, not to you
Your wish,
But to some kangaroo
Or cuttle-fish
Or octopus or eagle or tarantula
Or elephant or dove
Or some peninsula
Let me speak love—