The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the kitchen crooked to take a place in the light, the closet door opened, because I used it before, it kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.
I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening to music, my misery, that’s why I want to sing. The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room, they contained me as the sky contained my garden, I opened my door
The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had arisen to think at the sun
Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye? The kindly search for growth, the gracious de- sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them The privilege to witness my existence-you too must seek the sun…
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qual- ities for me to use–my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves. I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying. Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait- ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them… Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them. I am so lonely in my glory–except they too out there–I looked up–those red bush blossoms beckon- ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive–all creation open to receive–the flat earth itself.
The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy. The world knows the love that’s in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world. The Father is merciful.
The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil- ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now…
The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open. The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen. I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra- ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov- incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me if I wished to enter.
There are unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever needed them. The kitchen window is open, to admit air… The telephone–sad to relate–sits on the floor–I haven’t had the money to get it connected–
I want people to bow when they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the Creator And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat’ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows, And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then There is no sound at the top of the house of men Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams; On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams, And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep. And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep On moon-washed apples of wonder.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.
Musicians wrestle everywhere – All day – among the crowded air I hear the silver strife – And – walking – long before the morn – Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that New Life!
If is not Bird – it has no nest – Nor Band – in brass and scarlet – drest – Nor Tamborin – nor Man – It is not Hymn from pulpit read– The Morning Stars the Treble led On Time’s first Afternoon!
Some – say – it is the Spheres – at play! Some say that bright Majority Of vanished Dames – and Men! Some – think it service in the place Where we – with late – celestial face Please God – shall Ascertain!
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
What, were ye born to be An hour or half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ‘Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.
On the other side of the door I can be a different me, As smart and as brave, as funny or strong As a person could want to be. There’s nothing too hard for me to do, There’s no place I can’t explore Because everything can happen On the other side of the door.
On the other side of the door I don’t have to go alone. If you come, too, we can sail tall ships And fly where the wind has flown. And wherever we go, it is almost sure We’ll find what we are looking for Because everything can happen On the other side of the door.
