“Consider the world as it looks to the fear–it looks terrifying.”

You hear
such things
in philosophy
you know

& you have
to marvel,
to wonder

at a plight of mind that requires for its rectifying the calling upon such words,

at the being of a condition that involves such words in its being–

but now
I am
doing it

& I’ll stop

Luke

For Ward Sykes Allen

In a rocker
On the porch of the Overseer’s House
Behind Stony Lonesome antebellum mansion
He overlooks a new century morning

Beside him
On a table matching his rocker
An open copy of the Authorized Version
His mind submissive to it and to the dawn

He has no abiding city
Living as he does on the farm
His earthly country
A place of horses, whole horses,
Not half-horses, abstracted into horsepower

They will come no more
These old men with beautiful manners
They will come no more

(“He’d stand up even if a dog came in the room.”)

He sits
In peace, knowing how
to go out and come in
Even in this, this so busy a century

Mindful of images
Of the concrete series of his own history
And his people’s—he knows where he comes from
And belongs where he is

He knows the sunlight in the treetops is deceptive,
As all of nature can be
But he will not let creation groan without
Engaging it in a dialogue of comfort;
And he knows more than he says

In a rocker
On the edge of eternity
The sky open above him
Waiting

546 (1651)

A Word made flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Now then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength–

A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He–
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.

The Care and Feeding of William Faulkner           

William Faulkner visits Iceland in the early 50’s.

Faulkner’s coming

Here, to Iceland

We’re to show him a good time

But, not too good

In Japan, he misbehaved badly

Drunk, on hard stuff

We should serve him beer

Just, not too much

Keep a constant careful eye on him

Slightly, on his glass

“Doesn’t anyone here drink hard liquor?”

William, William

Meet our guests:

Don’t you want to meet the famous authors of Iceland?

Here’s one, they think he’ll win the Nobel Prize, like you.

Bring it back to their ice and snow and buried boiling waters

Like you did to your sun and heat and gentle warm springs.

(Silence)

Too bad you won’t say much—at least you don’t talk about yourself.

The State Department sent you to Iceland

To convince them that we, that is, we Americans,

Are worth knowing, worth having around.

Your job is to show them our culture; and you can do that by just

Being there, by sharing your high and nobel presence.

You see, we write, too; and read.

True, we have to keep watch on our culture.

It drinks, you know, bourbon on the rocks in a tall glass.

And gets wobbly, and we have to send cablegrams

Addressed to the one Southerner in all of Iceland,

Explaining the care and feeding of our culture.

Since sometimes it cannot stand on its own.

(A little poem from several years ago.)

Sometimes, Apple, my knees are too much with me,
cartilage sandy and stringy;

I am unbowed, my knees unbending
but not from any noble unyeilding;

If I were to kneel, I could not get up.

Apple, both you and I decay.