Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

How He Who

This is a poem I scrawled late at night, before sleeping. I was already dreaming, though, very tired and spent, too. It has been a summer of such half-thoughts, and free imagination, brought by high heat and simmering light. Mid-summer night's dreams continue now. . . in formless wonder....

Above is a Picasso, title unknown, and on the right a drawing by Cocteau I believe is called Virgin.

How I love who will not have me
How I have such life unhappy

If only mutual affection
were ours - it's enough.

He who rides my rolling current
(the movement he makes rakes planets)
never knowing where he goes
on which surface . . .
Pen to my page,

this I give commanded by
such troubled angels!

Who knows me?
Who desires me?
They aren't the same.