<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535594" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>History Of A Place, A Bombast, A Psalm In Voices Several</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'What thou lovest well remains.'<br>- Ezra Pound, Canto 181</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Let him not be another's who can be his own.<br>- Paracelsus</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'All this our South stinks peace.' - Ezra Pound</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In exile, by whose hand unsure - mine, or those hammers of<br>The ill-starred fathers. Unsure yet on fire I fled their dredged, <br>God-flooded cotton plains, those self-appointed lords over <br>They who were deemed lesser dirt or worse. Those who did <br>Not sing self-praising songs belonged to lordly minds in Hell<br>So there to I fled and still make a bed there more content to <br>Be among the bastards for whom the Bard* pleads, <br>'Gods! stand up for! ' Ay. If the gods will not, and they do, I stand <br>Up and bray, a fool certain, but in the neighing take deity's cause<br>Upon Myself - Justice, Beauty, Mercurial Love's Sublimity<br>Though my heel be wounded by Adamic paternity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of late an old apple tree cracked, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twice lightening struck. Dying, insistent</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Urges, blooms anew tender shoots</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Out of season. One resplendent limb reaches, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just waking pink on tips, from all</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tangled rest for which I, too, reach, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grasp and reclaim my own patch, my</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Own history though scarred, attached</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To hurting words, fists, and cornfields forever</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alien, though bittersweet when recalled -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A boy there, hard staring into distance, his wagon full of stones.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Might I sing it then? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How many stones he hauled </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not bidden but rough forced </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hand by hand from coagulate soil, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A boy's red wagon rusting</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full of spilled tumble-stones -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unyielding stars between the rows, silent? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Brooding father with</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hoe to weed or ridge</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To row or brow to strike, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Made of a boy a mule and plow</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At Earth's farthest Edge</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too ill-tilled to nurture</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But more to fracture.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Land and the boy turned by his</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father's bad blood to waste.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Both boy and corn obedient to</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His And Greater Hand grew tall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He hid there late summers in</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fateful stalks, grew small on</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shadowed afternoons reading of</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores</div><div style="margin:10px 0">More, native born and slave, driven</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or a God's, to haul him or throw, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But was his father's.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I often stare at my own now to know the difference...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The apple tree at his garden's stop I often climbed <br>Repledging myself to 'Anywhere but here'.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath open sky a wind-swayed tree top cradles <br>Views of further hills reaching at land's edge, <br>Lake and barricading woods muted.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soothed then, envisioning my nascent journey out <br>And away, I discover the most difficult to be that both <br>Land and father, a part of me still, require of me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a psalm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">5</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Psalm</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What can I bring to harvest but these <br>bruised hands, these cracked stones? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Praise to the fruit tree long untended <br>beneath mendicant stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full, <br>Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend, <br>My most loving curse, <br>A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From unexpected fire </div><div style="margin:10px 0">comes frail, brief blossoms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>*William Shakespeare</div><div style="margin:10px 0">**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.<br>The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535594" data-title="History Of A Place, A Bombast, A Psalm In Voices Several de Warren Falcon" data-description="'What thou lovest well remains.' - Ezra Pound, Canto 181 'Let him not be another's who can be his own. - Paracelsus 1 'All this our South stinks peace.' - Ezra Pound In exile, by whose hand unsure - mine, or those hammers of The ill-starred fa..."></div> </div> </div>

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