I think this poem speaks for itself. I came across it in an old anthology of American poets I found at a used book sale back when I was in my first try college I think. It covers the colonial days to the present. The present being the 1960's. This book is an old friend that I too often neglect for his more modern grandchildren. I forget that I have so much to learn from grandpa and should sit by his side more often, but I ignore him to go play with much younger and more exciting people. So I shove him aside to wait for my return. And when I do finally give him attention he suprises me by having so much more life than I gave him credit for.
On A Squirrel Crossing the Road, In Autumn, In New England
It is what he does not know,
Crossing the road under the elm trees,
About the mechanism of my car,
About the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,
About Mozard, India, Arcturus,
That wins my praise. I engage
At once in whirling squirrel-praise.
He obeys the orders of nature
Without knowing them.
It is what he does not know
That makes him beautiful.
Such a knot of little purposeful nature!
I who can see him as he cannot see himself
Repose in the ignorance that is his blessing.
It is what man does not know of God
Composes the visible poem of the world.
. . . Just missed him!
And here is one that I wrote.
Out of Nothing (Atlantic City, NJ)
Homeless, but not sitting on my arse
Shaking a cup. – homeless man’s sign
Homeless, but under the stars I traveled
Through galaxies burning in excess.
Out of nothing I witnessed
The worlds design. Out of nothing voices
Said my music makes the sun rise.
I play my saxophone
So out of nothing when I harmonize
With the northern lights the song makes prone
All creation. Every movement an improvisation
On a theme. At least I’m not just sitting around.
I give the sun motivation
To shake his legs over the ground.
Out of uncreation,
I saw everything begin.
posted by Out Of Jersey | 9:50 AM