Friday, September 30, 2022

Like the Tucked Sleeve of a One-armed Boy


W.S. Merwin

Nothing will do but
I must get a new flag,
I've buried enough under this one,

And then there are my 
Followers, mad for a bit of color.
Damn them,

And the end I suppose is not yet,
The way the trees come beating
Their horses, and the wheat is camped
Under its dead crow,
The rivers under themselves. And I'm not ready
To just sit down and let the horizon
Ride over me.

Maybe I thought
I could go on and on flying the same rag,
Like the fire,
But it's faded white and I'm 
Not the fire, I'll have to find
Something bright and simple to signify
Me, what an order.

What an order but I'll have to do something.
Up to now the pulse
Of a stone was my flag
And the stone's in pieces.


Born ninety-five years ago today, the above from 1963's *The Moving Target.* I agree with all of it but the damn my followers, laugh

Mentioned a while back my Merwin gene activated, not only still activated but hyperventilating. Working my way from start, *The Moving Target* his fifth, the two of you I-told-youing me insisted and as always, more often than not you're right, Merwin label enabled

Below from 1967's *The Lice,* holy the fuck



W.S. Merwin

When you go away the wind clicks around to the northThe painters work all day but at sundown the paint fallsShowing the black wallsThe clock goes back to striking the same hourThat has no place in the yearsAnd at night wrapped in the bed of ashesIn one breath I wakeIt is the time when the beards of the dead get their growthI remember that I am fallingThat I am the reasonAnd that my words are the garment of what I shall never beLike the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy

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