Keith Waldrop

POTENTIAL RANDOM

"...in deep sleep, the mind may come closest to perfecting rational thought.  We have no reason for asserting the opposite, except that when we wake we do not remember our idea."

Immanuel Kant

POTENTIAL RANDOM

alight
settle down
make a stop
linger

the alighting of birds

through a place
pass
dance wandering women
rebel
(unstable)

pinched off from a piece of clay

a kind of earth or soil
weakness
rejection

asphalt in the third millenium

unconscious recipient of mercy

caulking for Noah's ark
the basket in which Moses was placed

and the Nile

dependent on water
solemn set up camp

(watch me disappear)
unafraid

filled with terror

fat
shelter
rest
be quiet

POTENTIAL RANDOM

Many books have been destroyed, carelessly or by design.  Lost, burnt, forgotten, volumes drop out of existence, along with—more easily disposed of—proofs never pulled, unpublished manuscripts, notes for books, plans and proposals for things to be written, collected, put into books.  The number of projects unaccomplished in history must be enormous.

      And much larger, almost infinite, the realm of projects unattempted, never started, what no one ever thought to try.

      My doctrine would derive, not from wisdom concealed by anxious arhats in caves beneath impassable Himalayas, nor from a chain of unwritten instruction passed guru-wise down centuries.  It would remain in a world beneath notice, too obvious to be considered.  Thus, secret. 

      The world as it lies open here, waiting for me to fail.

      I do not need to know your real name.

      This much seems obvious, that as we move along the path, slowly but certainly the path replaces us.  And also, just as strands in the vitreous humour cloud the visual field, words stray, making our thought opaque.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

Ship is in danger, ship
must be repaired, but ship must
continue afloat as long as we continue
crossing the dangerous waters.

These events take place in order that they may be represented.

Egypt is memory, captivity in Egypt
is memory. Ship of the
North with its
anchor from the South, it rides above the Ur-Fish.

From many names for God come
many gods. If you believe in any,
you may know how the body could be glorified.

And if you will rise with that
withered arm...

Names of things
can never enter Heaven.

Turn now, together with your body-turn
past the five windows, past
your pride in the dark image and your
body turning.

Waking, doomsday for some dream.

Words perish, like the word for oyster. Words
are a great retreat-they are
like strips of existing or like
sea-shells echoing words.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

A view of the landscape.

up

A view of the river, of
bathers along the bank.

down

Now a view of the view, a
sheer perspective.

charmed

He is sent away, so
begins to exist.

strange

Homeward bound taxi: rather hazy idea.

top (or truth)

Surely he'll find something to
say on the silliness of opera.

bottom (or beauty)

POTENTIAL RANDOM

Stand here, where without too great a turn, my eyes meet your eyes mirrored.  And my eyes in the mirror, your eyes. 

      Whatever's to either side of us runs out of the frame and is lost.  What's behind us is lost behind us.

Reduced to picture, we can appreciate our picture, reversed but right side up.  Our lines of sight are straightforward—the surface glassy, clear.

      Simple and astonishing, the location of bodies, grandly irregular in the smooth surrounding echo.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

wicked at first
tore their clothes
refusing to speak
took off their sandals

I know not what

fasted
ready by tomorrow
gashed themselves
exactly at midnight
freely lamented

I know not whither

wept

POTENTIAL RANDOM

What is seen then, as the center, is not the center, but only light feeding into the center.

      Devastation, ritual of covenant accompanied by darkness.

      Wash your clothes.

      Shave off your hair.

      Bathe yourself in water.

      All space becomes neutral.

      Uncaulked and unprovisioned, we reach shore.

      Something must be done about darkness before we can live in this light.

      Cold air and warm air twinkle the starlight, Nobody's mother tongue.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

At the mouth of the stream, there is a mysterious island.
A mountain on the island.
The trees there bear (no Tree-of-Life) precious stones.
A place of desires.

I crouch down in my torn clothes.
Bloodstained cloak.
I cut off my hair and howl.
Slain man wallowing in his blood.

They are so terrified they forget to call for mourners.
The other side of death.
They mourn with astonishing frequency.
A razor from beyond the Euphrates.

She saunters under quick green trees, angels falling around her.
Chinks in the rational.
Song turns into lamentation.
Canopy of darkness.

Soldiers offer strawberry coral.
Eidola.
The dark is slippery.
Shapeless logs, sacred stones, then images.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

The shapes of things rise up against me-cube, pyramid, cone-actual, ideal-and threaten to trip me up, obstruct me, box me in.

They lie in wait. They spring from my own eyes.

I take them all, straight-lined or curved, reducing each to a circle-closed, each circle, by a movement of my hand.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

No counting the
number of the dead, the number
of those who will die.

Kant thought Earth had at one time, like Saturn, a ring. Composed of watery vapors, it encircled the world in beauty, to be regarded and appreciated by Earth's inhabitants.

In the course of time, from the action of a comet or other cause, the waters composing that ring were loosed and fell upon Earth and in that deluge the greater part of a sinful mankind perished.

Lost thereby, for the survivors, which is to say, for us: the sight of that ring in the upper air, the most exquisite view from the surface of Paradise or a young planet-our rainbow a faint reminder of the glory lost.

At the center of every
system is a flaming
body.

Bright sun between
grapevine and fig tree.

By coincidence,
sun and moon
are exactly the same size.

Celestial phenomena-there are
so many stars-merge along
my line of sight.

Directly before my eye descends
a spider-slowly, a ways
away, just down to eye-level.

Earth spins in the
sun's corona.

High countries in the
dust, and also
elephants, alas.

A hundred miles of
umbra over un-
counted acres of tundra.

I try to find some
sense in which behind is
not in back of.

It suggests the
idea of a bird.

Monstrous colors on
certain things.

Monstrous things in
uncertain colors.

One has to choose between
life
and what life contains.

Sunspots freeze in place.

Traveling some current, the
road imponderable.

Wastrel and hangman
thrive in the conquered
city.

What have I ever wanted to
say, but
how at this moment

POTENTIAL RANDOM

He walks in darkness, sits in darkness, dwells.  Darkness falls, clouds, covers.

      Or clouds of insects. 

      Or extinguishing a lamp. 

      After so many years, it ought to be infinite, but it never is and car lights glide so easily across his ceiling. 

      Neither cornlands, nor well-kept vineyards, only... 

      He cannot decide whether it's better to regard the soul as asleep or to take what seems like dream to be the waking world. 

      Scattered objects must have something to tell.  Between the stars, between the positive particles, there is said to be "nothing"—can he hold this? 

      Delicate arms, bare, a hopeless gesture.

      He cannot decide if cosmic fire creates the universe or ignites as executioner.  The bitten line is broken, resembling lightning in a mediocre sky. 

      He cannot decide whether it is a friend in a dream speaking to him of danger, or a dangerous dream instructing him to act for the sake of the hypnotist. 

      His face darkens, with the darkness of delight.

      He dreams a costume dream.  What colors are latent in his darkness?

      He does know that there are other shadows—uncertainties, headlights, fires on the beach at Nice, the horror of being chosen.

      At moments life is so transparent that everything seems real, seems anyway familiar, distantly, like the aging face of someone he last saw young.

      He cannot tell if his dream—so quickly forgotten—roused this storm in his soul, or if anxiety springs from his being awake, alert, dreamless. 

      ...sallow throng beside dismal pool...

      A very high and concave roof.  He cannot decide where reason ends, associating as he does darkness with creation.

      Between now and now, was time—will time be—empty?

      What runs in the dark, or in daylight from stone to stone, sudden as spasm, a streak of blood? 

      Sheer throb relaxes into the mirror opposite, hard to follow, complex but quite complete.  Losing certain colors might impoverish his visual life, but he realizes that a flaw in the numerical system would weaken the structure of the world.

      With sunrise comes battle.

      How is it, sensitive to signs of the times, he finds it so hard to decipher headlines? 

      And in what body would he like to be raised? 

      He is no more present to himself than objects in his view—the journey, long for so short a life, promising agate, chalcedony.  He attends to changing expression, flickers of shadow, to keep his thought from running inward to inward light. 

      He cannot decide whether to change the subject.

      He sings English and understands it is not always possible to make clear distinctions.

      Sees no cause, he, to do no otherwise. 

      He considers movement, perhaps in the sense of change, honing the sword. 

      He cannot decide whether to describe his death in terms of hunger and sundown—or like a new-born babe, in the course of its disaster.

      There have been some more overwhelmed than he with shame, with pity and terror—the east ablaze, the city's spires afire. 

      He cannot decide if the experiment is local, all life composed on this periphery, or if along the wall of stars there's by chance another creature—farther than faintest signals—signifying.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

Now a warm wind riffles
the leaves, ransacks the neighborhood.

You will not wake up for me.

In a certain chord, by the western loop of
Ermine Street, tomorrow
is well known, speckling as it does
flagstone and flag, slim white hands.

The street ripples, roars. Take
it all away, lay it among
the scarcely remembered.

As we stroll, a thick crust
underfoot and perfectly firm, beautiful
eyes and
teeth flashing.

Moss may
edge the brook, tree-shaded
streets sleep, shadow-damaged, under
a late sun.

Snakes hate summer and are
revived by rain.

Housetops glitter a long-forgotten
flame, a frightful dream. But do not
ever dream of ghosts: they will undo
your remembering.

Lateen shades, lace curtains, rich
tumuli, the stillest city
swarms with hurry.

Our restless fingers, so they
stand. Throbbing
silence, darkening room.

Irrelevant, my own attire blood-
stained and ragged, what
nightmare sleeping or
awake, prying the bolted scuttle.

Otherwise, no signal for fear.

No sea-sickness in heaven.

Reality, Aristotle says, is not
a daytime serial.

Then comes Love's
army, disemboweled, Love's own
cavalry, guts
hanging from the saddle.

Adventures on my pillow and
below the snow-line.

A fierce pride
blazes at any
hint of earthly pleasure.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

tall grain
food for the dead

a contest with uncleanness
detestable things

desire

thought

wallow in ashes
wail aloud
howl
scream

covering cherub

ideas of death

POTENTIAL RANDOM

An aging house, well yes he
understands that-but suddenly
down it falls.

And he is in a garden.

And there are animals.

And he is in a garden and
there are trees.

And there are stones on
fire.

And, well, he walks
up and down on them.

But this is
the Hebrew and, not
a conjunction, merely some un-
translatable particle.

Cenotaph (there is no
body here).

(Somehow I can't imagine
digging a separate grave for the heart.)

And everything is cast
down-plants, animals,
garden, stones, fire, Tyre
with its river called
Litany-along with himself.

The living organism, he
hears, is a
symbol of the psyche.

Thinking is inward seeing.
So Wittgenstein thought, and also
Swedenborg.

Die, well yes he knows he
has to, but thinks of it as being
killed-or killing.

As if at a distance-he
lives, not in
life, but across from it.

And it comes to pass.

And he tries to distinguish
life and its contents.

And they wheel around him, the cars, as
if he were standing still.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

Three lists remain: The first
is a list of the living,

who are now dead. The second records
the saints and martyrs, those

who laid down their lives to
be with Jesus. They fly to Him,

to miss the long repose.
The third list

is a list of the dead.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

The days fan out, free and fragmentary, leaving him night—night folded around him and also inevitable unfolding night. 

      He is not absolutely sure the heavenly bodies are capable of desire. 

      Low decorative screens that he adores for their design conceal household gods and other holy objects.

      He thinks of Moses, prepared to slay the death-angel. 

      Or Pisgah. 

      Love, in its mountain ranges. 

      Transhuman.

      In earlier travels, he saw red windblown sand. 

      He has been told that the number of stars in the sky, whatever it is, is just the right number.

      Also, that before he goes away again, he should file a change of address.  There is no bravery more stubborn than this: the dead lie where they fall.  

      But note, he does not tell us, or even himself, everything.  And, besides, this world lasts only so long as it lacks balance—the veer preserves us. 

      Passing regiments, glittering steel, outcurving flame, incoherent pollen.  Note also, this poem is quite impersonal.

      Hints reach him that stars of an earlier generation, crumbled to dust, haunt all the corridors. 

      Loath to part from his early life—or its aftertaste—trailing thus through nothing to nothing. 

      Cascades of unbound hair. 

      Ineffable cushions. 

      He can never manage to distinguish death's three weapons: a song, a dance, and whatever is absolutely pointless. 

      Hills surround abscissa, ordinate, simplest functions, the light too strong for more intricate patterns.

      And among these secular representations, uncomfortable laughter. 

      In the shadow of the house, the tree.  Then distant shots, a hollow roar.  Traditional bonfires blaze on hilltops.  Wrecked cafes across rainfilled streets.  Glass-littered sidewalks. 

      This room, this door, this valley open on all sides, quick with the terror of choosing. 

      ...eyeless sockets...

      ...fire-ravaged hair...

      He cannot keep in mind how any thought left to itself, any autonomous act of the brain, is terrible—destruction if awake—asleep, a revelation—or even how the ligature of bones runs fast as lightning in the night.

      His dream no longer upsets him—outlying barrows, cold, clustered, as if there really were a god of the cold—until he notices it is in color. 

      He cannot decide whether to wish for day or to wish for a day's return or to wish for a decision.

      The last moment, here, now, reflected, sliding to its fade—he looks forward to it, such as it was. 

      He has been spared, on more than one occasion, unreasonable happiness.

POTENTIAL RANDOM

augury
witchcraft
blob-like clouds
a pagan or a foreign hairstyle

I adapt this to the apprehension of humankind.

a circle or something that can be rolled
light-years from the center
round
inner rim of the disc of clouds
wheel
heavily processed inside stars
the wheel of a chariot
the central cluster
a round thistle
five billion years
wheel at the cistern

And also to the understanding of angels.

tightly packed stars
dwelling place of demons
dust warmed by the stars
haunt of jackals
the surrounding gas
without inhabitant