and all textures without memory
made way for his savage denseness.
BLESS THE ANTHRACITE FROM WHICH RED IS TAKEN
BLESS THE ROPES HOPPING ON THEIR ENDS,
AND THE BELLS THAT LIFT THEM,
Out of the ground, with his coat carried before him
like a folded map-
Out of the long superfluity of sleep
unwinding white as Arabia,
to
mark the sun again as the stone alone
left un turned.
Now, like all for whom breath is necessary
to
begin,
and the end of it to end,
he fishes the wind for word of his fame.
To catch in his own name
the restitution he can,
for that lost silence.
Jenny Joseph
AGAINST THE PERSONALITY CULT
Kind of you, sunshine, to come out just now
As if for us, materials for pattern making
Suddenly laid to hand.
The thought is that someone in control
Is sensitive and amiable to our needs.
The point of patterns is to be thorough, to recur, to conclude.
This one goes on: sun mist dark dull days, and open eyes
When we are nowhere.
So shine, sun, bless you, but not for us.
Shine only, and I hope I'll be there.
