Kenneth Patchen (1911 – 1972)
American poet and painter.
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But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
The animal I wanted
Couldn't get into the world...
I can hear it crying
When I sit like this away from life.
Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were
broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the grave of God's
hand?
Do you want to acquaint the larks with the fatuous
music of war?
O my love my dear lady
The world is not very big
There is only room for our wonder
And the light leaning winds of heaven
Are not more sweet or pure
Than your mouth on my throat
O my love there are larks in our morning
And the finding flame of your hands
And the moss on the bank of the river
And the butterflies
And the whirling-mad
Butterflies!
To leave the earth was my wish, and no will stayed my rising.
Early, before sun had filled the roads with carts
Conveying folk to weddings and to murders;
Before men left their selves of sleep, to wander
In the dark of the world like whipped beasts.
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