Blue–outside my window, Soft–while the poem waits, Love–in the cool air, Sounds–which later become emotions. Remembered voices and sad regret for the past which never returns but with delicious pain. Faces, like Leslie’s in Lewiston, Madeleine in the distance, the snow falling softly, cool water, the world which cannot end, long afternoons–their reasons for being. Measuring the advance of poetry on the shores of your consciousness. Glad and self-satisfied, rich with emotion, overflowing with abundance and no regret–mournful the wind and this piece of blue sky out my window while I write in bed.
If I could, and I soon will, be in love, I would drink the freedom of the blue sky, admire the most beautiful forms including faces, including yours, Greece, miles and centuries, really forever away, sadness with me, pure pleasure and space for delight.
Hart Crane, The Bridge, The Dance: “star-triggered in the listening vault of dusk.” “The serpent with the eagle in the boughs.”
“You, who contain augmented tears, explosions
Have kissed, caressed the model of the hurricane
Gathered and made musical in feathery fronds
The slit eclipse of moon in palm-lit bonds
Deny me not this sweet Caribbean dawn
You, who have looked back to Leda, who have seen the Swan.”
This which forever includes
Taking a picture in England
The sound of the sea on the shore