Walden in Reflection
By William Dennis
A Cubist Conclusion
Picasso has been accused of rather old fashioned– bourgeois– values. Cubism, supposedly, so greatly interfered with the direct expression of these sensibilities, that his work became interesting. And I have read that the entire oeuvre of Wallace Stevens is one long exercise in the evasion of meaning. Well, I have aspired to failings of great artists before. There, timidity saved me. Here, at a cryptic venue, I may be carried away. The equity of my heart has low volatility, but I hope that given time, it may find appreciation.
The reflections of H.D. Thoreau resemble voices of Persian and Urdu poets, in that both employ abstract language beautifully to instance the concrete human situation. Further, there is a ready bi-polarity to Thoreau’s thought, which lends itself to the paired hemistich. Thus, for my distortions, I have borrowed elements of the ghazal form, which does not inherently lend itself to the English language. And to transform Thoreau’s seamlessly discursive "Conclusion" I have employed the Japanese flaw or virtue of disjunctive linking.
Thoreau best utters his own voice, with no need of translation for the English-speaker. So, what can this be about? Certainly not a consecutive versification of his thesis. Perhaps the entertainment of viewing bright and complex objects through a kaleidoscopic lens is fair comparison to the process I have engaged in here and the disjoint imagery it produced.
In the wood beside Walden Pond, where Thoreau’s cabin stood, there are no stones loose on the ground. All have been taken up by visitors over the years and placed in a cairn to mark the site and their own occasion. I started away, thinking not to presume by vainglorious adding to the pile. But a few yards from the pond’s edge, I stooped for a small stone, with which I ran back. To the heap of literature inspired by history’s most inner-directed soul, I come afoot with a pebble in my hand.
The reflections of H.D. Thoreau resemble voices of Persian and Urdu poets, in that both employ abstract language beautifully to instance the concrete human situation. Further, there is a ready bi-polarity to Thoreau’s thought, which lends itself to the paired hemistich. Thus, for my distortions, I have borrowed elements of the ghazal form, which does not inherently lend itself to the English language. And to transform Thoreau’s seamlessly discursive "Conclusion" I have employed the Japanese flaw or virtue of disjunctive linking.
Thoreau best utters his own voice, with no need of translation for the English-speaker. So, what can this be about? Certainly not a consecutive versification of his thesis. Perhaps the entertainment of viewing bright and complex objects through a kaleidoscopic lens is fair comparison to the process I have engaged in here and the disjoint imagery it produced.
In the wood beside Walden Pond, where Thoreau’s cabin stood, there are no stones loose on the ground. All have been taken up by visitors over the years and placed in a cairn to mark the site and their own occasion. I started away, thinking not to presume by vainglorious adding to the pile. But a few yards from the pond’s edge, I stooped for a small stone, with which I ran back. To the heap of literature inspired by history’s most inner-directed soul, I come afoot with a pebble in my hand.
Local EffectsFor me the doctors recommend to breathe another air: Apart from you I never knew another world was there. We never lay in buckeyed shade to hear the mockingbird; "Cosmopolites," we never heard them say of our affair. You set me pulling fence-rails down, I thought, to be more free; Now, breaking stone, I see you think dressed walls would be more fair. Our town clerk flown to Chile: avis rarus in summer plume– Working-days, one may presume, he trots to hell on plain Shank’s mare. |
As a JourneymanA seagull gets its herring, but what gull can cross the sea?
Eyes up from picking oakum see still less than what is there. My Dearest Correspondent, The chords we pull between us Cross my great circus sailings as sine and cosine of care. All is dermatology, reduced to taxidermy– Treating the skin where wormy, disposing of meat somewhere. Snipe hunts give the rarest sport, to bag the heart’s companion; Dive in the sack to catch that one concealed within the snare. |
The Lost and the FoundLacking a source for that river which pulses through the heart,
We settled in smart sequence for the Nile and Niger. Great Bonaparte first potted meat to conquer all the earth; Not for the worth a grocer gives to stock which time won’t wear. Touchy, petty as a Czar, reduced to ruling others, Brothers who would claim the shell, discarding pearl and oyster. A patriot is king of that mountain piled by the grave, Rather than slave to the void with its animating air. Isthmuses of ought exist, where no man lives or travels, Consuming more than cannibals or government’s high tare. |
Symmes’ Hole to the Inner Sea
On Zanzibar mankind, just ankle deep in surf, may stand;
So think how grand, if inner mines discover one’s way clear. To stump the Sphinx in her Hittite, to stay like Sputnik home, As this tome is a mirror, examine the face you wear. Once they ran away to sea or signed up in the legion; Those easy regions near to death protect us from love’s scare. Company kept on the narrow road to the interior Puts you down no wearier, another half-way there. |
So Brave, the Sane
Idle rows, militia stand, perhaps from desperation;
Our saner nation finds it fine to feel more debonair. The inner ear is not so lightly fooled as is the eye; So love and I, we lie along the line our hearts declare. |
In Pilgrim TraditionI gave up sonnets when the scope of my love became clear;
To hot tears caught in cloisonne cups, cold seas I now prefer. Habits formed within the week, years later form a fashion: Our kissing of the bishop’s ring...whose hand snatched on what stair? Bare or shod, the foot wears out our impressionable earth; Worn in our turf, ritual ruts divide what we might share. Pine masts creak in a head-wind on the world’s broad above-decks, Out where moon collects as liquid no cabin passage shares. |
Dream ConfidentlyAt least my experiment hit on some use for old dreams,
Which gleam between dull hours, with distant lightning’s flair. Stepped past some point, gravity interprets in my favor: Reward replaces labor as the law and science pair. Solitude is not lonely– the world is a simple place, Reduced to your face and hope; penniless weakness shows flair. Must you work gargoyles on your most flying buttresses? Bless their added stresses, which press your dome high in the air. |
The Natural ExtravagancePreposterous! Speak so America may understand?
Savvy makes too bland a dish to serve the county fair. Sparrows and hawks understand the mockingbird differently; As moss runs free upon the north, so birds are bound to air. Safety in a wagging head, more’s pity, comes from one’s own kin; Grief we spin at home won’t clothe the world, which stays as bare. And heeled beneath a weight of sail, careened before the blast– What masts boats step depends upon what hidden keels they bear. How I long for the wide horizons of the wild among men, And again, such mindful hearing as God would give to prayer. The thrush in pencil, though finely rendered, fails to convey; And words never say what the hermit bird looses on the air. The unlikely future is embraced best half-unbuttoned; Not hedged all ways against expansion, like some futures-bear. What every lover knows of love: at heart the word’s a husk; Truth’s musk dries and drifts away, elusive on the air. Prayer is a vague cloud of cedar smoke, not the shaft of light; Not bright itself, it evokes brilliance from undefined air. So free of form, cut reed might play tones of our devotion, A motion rising in the sense, which leaves the soul more clear. |
Democratic TyrannySquint morals and peasant wit are over-praised as horse sense;
Though it seem dense, mean vision makes a base foundation tier. You, who make no sign of haste, seem slow afoot to those of us Who splash and fuss to reach your side through ruts which your steps clear. To their discredit, some grant evening’s gold no currency; Lambency in heaven stacks up poorly next to specie. The old man was a weaver, used to patterns’ crossing threads; Tangled heads of hereabouts grasp strands, but not the whole Kabir. Presidents inveigh against decay in entertainment; By great attainment we may view convention’s heart-rot clear. |
Acquired Distaste
True obscurity may have been Kant’s supreme achievement;
May nothing worse be thought or said of all I may write here. When stepping from a smokey dive, the crisp air causes cough; Aloft, the sun brings tears to eyes unused to such bright cheer. In the drafts we like impurities are all the savor; And flavor of the dew is lost on palates stained with beer. |
The Classicist ArgumentConservatives insist youth seems more callow in this age,
And rage how ancient honor and Ben Johnson lack for peer. What cause might cant advance, in this world which turns just forward? For a lord, at day’s end, is not his undertaker’s peer. And now we know: the pygmies make a boast of being small, To call by virtue, as a grace, stature at which great oafs jeer. |
Constructing Earth in Heaven
That calamity’s beau will not have his button-hole caught,
Suggests, or ought, how he mistakes the priceless for the dear. Along the line the mummers march each string band sways the crowd; With clouds of fancies, troops of clowns...some swank, some strut, some cheer. Though oaks and apples shade our cradles and our final graves, A tree’s last leaves shade apples, improved nothing on those here. Cicadas at root’s end wait in native earth together, All weather, not heaved by frost, not wrecked on false spring’s false cheer. We still raise leaded panes, stained to show the slopes of heaven; There unborn children share our sun, our sheep and Chanticleer. |
True Work: The TaleA tale retold of old Kouroo recounts the perfect staff
An artist lifted up in thought, as if it bore his flag. Considering, in mortal works, the temporal important, He could but think immortal art escaped time’s close-knit bag. This artist yearned a common thought: that one thing should be perfect; Though he might fail all else in life, let him surmount that crag. For wood to work, he sought through woods, starting on the instant, At start intent to yoke the stuff to craft which would not drag. As he fingered stock, staff, shank and shaft, bole, bough and burlwood, His friends failed and drew away to deeds like less to fag. Gone holy, Guinevere grew old, not Arthur by a moment; The crone, Regret, retains the power to make of youth a hag. Knight of will and reverence, his union with endeavor Never showed a seam, by grip of which age might make him lag. Her compromise mouthful set time in Persephone’s flesh; His tight mesh left time no gap through which to tempt or nag. While Kouroo yet rose above its plain, he found no fit stave; But with new grass he climbed its mounds to peel his stick on slag. The House of Candahar was bankrupt, uncrowned and extinct; His stick, succinct, traced out its name, to grant it that last brag. Before the staff was balanced, equinox precession stole One season whole and slowed the sphere’s libration by its lag. While he capped his staff in gold and budded gems upon it, The Sleeper quit his dream a dozen times...all but that bright tag. On leaving man’s company, Master Lao paused in the gate; Departing late, he left behind the world in his book bag. This artist’s work, thrust in the ground, bent skies around the earth; Of greater worth than Maya’s strain, is Bramah’s morning rag. To bring his staff to flower thus, he bloomed a whole new thought; World and system wrought one piece: roots in earth, the doe with stag. Pygmalion loved the rubble left at Galatea’s feet, Which showed fleet time did not elapse, but folded out, zig-zag. Motives of his hand were unalloyed, stuffs he worked, unmixed; The staff he fixed remains upright, though wind distorts the flag. |
Truth’s UseSuch facing always into truth sets lines which show your age,
Which flatter more than childish grins, much more than senile rage. God so rarely jokes with us, we start to fool ourselves; and Mindful that we’ve been misled, we misdirect our umbrage. Strong of will, what Lear proposed was palsied in its purpose; We suppose ourselves directors, direct we step on stage. My treasure is those moments I regard the simple world; In age my thought is set to shift the dunnage of my days. Trim your meter, smooth or rough, to the measure of your thought; Rightly set, the foot may bear the weight of any passage. The better thing on the gallows was surely well before; A pious hope is well forgot, or left on its blank page. |
Poverty’s FreemenHard days, bitter leaves of walnut– countless, not infinite;
They quickly take the slightest chill, to leave bare limbs contrite. Times are not so bad as men, we could have leaned together; Rich with need, brother kings, with room to grow, had we not quit. We wasters seek our folly– and with luck– in wisest books; Meager life, the coal’s least heat, gleams on if not snuffed...quite. Your heart was not affected by the workhouse walls at all; Though small, the windows rang aloud with just as clear a light. Quick as any earth, our ghetto lot unlocks from winter; Dwelling with one quiet heart, we found contentment in it. Sparrow-poor and free of any obligation, but for crumbs, We dumbly blessed with grateful palms, receiving all by right. Looked down upon, I sought support from everyone in town; But look around, whose pocket swells and whose purse has been slit? A sage hand weeding, even house leeks of the poor set chicks; We’ll not bestir ourselves about exotics, new and bright. The same old clay yields sweet, fresh crops, forked over once again, And stays such earth as changing fancy never finds unfit. God’s orphans, poets, sell their light at cost to get the rent. Enough! God sent Milton Homer to aid him by his sight. Spaciousness was Ghandi’s prison, confined three parts by love; Think what doves lay caged before in poverty’s wide garret. Wealth would fall to stealth or steel, and power to connivance; My thought’s contrivance is my own, and safe from all despite. My love grows deep, while yours grows wide, anxious to develop; Hope less hard for influence to shape what loves respite. My brightest lights blew out, but then there was the gift of stars; Of smoke or silk it mars the sky, a tent against the night. Poor Croesus, from the start, just wished his daughter happiness; A harmless gift, prosperity, compared to debt, he thought. Constrained from texts and essays on the topic of love’s name, You became thus expert through research performed by night. Your hand around my heart gives too much strength to some contractions, By large fractions, saving me from accusations of mere wit. I learned from you to let doves steal their crumbs from my lax palms– Alms for pretty chuckles...; and they imagine me contrite. A pot of beans costs pennies and the salt’s no great expense; In wealth’s defense, well-furnished souls involve expense of spirit. |
Dress the GooseBell metal bars on my window sometimes are played on by wind;
Ought I bless the bell-maker or jailer who welcomes me in? Every station, jingling faintly, adds background to my life; Contemporaries serve as ground I strive to figure in. Must you tell me of adventures I would not have for pay? I care nothing for the Daily Times, twice that for how you sinned. Dress and garland work their Paisley spell upon the body; Sprigged parsley garnish may change sheep to lamb, but not within. Tales of Mamelukes and lascars, navvies– less far-fetched than Hon. Frock Coats of Georgia, stocks wound to the chin. Constants of inconstant man’s long love of restless thought, Navigator’s trigs is my fixed delight, my compass pin. Not to sun with Pharisees or closet with the Sadducees, A quiet angle shot with God is how I best begin. Just because they can fall, men throw themselves off love’s round hills, Posing for carved hearts the whole way down, and stopped by every inn. No one need look higher than public office, nowadays, Where orators are honored for how loud their words have been. I know I may never pin the last joist in my own barn; But this life of drifting settles toward my right foundation. What I wished and sought was better than I turned out to be; Though sorry, in some cases my power stands unbroken. A fool on top is not the mountain, skipping, not a goat; But down-hill I am avalanche, swamping all obstruction. Shallow streams in August drought take piers without a caisson, Though heaving ice and crests in spring sweep off such satisfactions. No need for goosey ganders, or exploring in the dark; Fundament is always there, with confidence unshaken. With every promise made I’ll find love’s basics sound and firm, How do I sink so fast to hips from knees, to breast from chin? I still recall the words, the look, the touch and weight of stone I thought must be a heart you gave, with firmness as its token. It takes some very downy bird to step the table’s length And leave no saucer swamped or, in the heart, no door-mouse woken. When stars conjoin, where creases meet, my hand moves toward the good Most instants lack..., most thought..., most acts..., for that matter– most men. The House-of-Thatch Pig, house-proud in his way, who saved all ‘round And slept o’ nights, lives on in lore by means of ruination. Stone-boat and barrow, by masonry make the better man, Depending less on site and miller’s trim than strength within. Make footers of stumbling blocks, so stony land builds mansions; Well found, then nights abed a man may wake with satisfaction. And unashamed, to stare up through your rafters back at God, Or set for solidness your work in thought there next to legend. Each spike driven, precious metal, whether into tie or cross; By your woodwork sawn, the splay constructs of civilization. |
Give This InsteadHe must have meant that knowledge was wealth and respect was fame,
And truth included both...and love, if he had known her name. You serve a beggar like me with charity or not at all; To satisfy my hunger you must cover up my shame. Your smile shines, a winter sun, bright enough to get on with, Making day long– not a gift I would stop again to claim. I know wines, not at all– their conversation bores me; It’s vineyards, vintners and their maker who deserve the fame. On Chippendale legs, your table goes lame, your sconce a dark bushel; A king, as host in your chilled hall, would abdicate his claim. A paper box on pavement was as much home as he had; He shared his keys and bid me back... and in the good Lord’s name. |
Rocking ChairsPatience, seated on her stoop, shrugs when called impertinence;
Portraying virtue in charade to look like abstinence. Sighs that cloud my morning mirror, wiped with cloths my wife sets out; Middays, fawning shows the girl she has my full reliance. Demons of the afternoon would send me forth to practice The turn of cheek, exemplar guilt and my famed forbearance. Empire vanity is one structural flaw in man; Who can prove self-satisfaction causes our complacence? Kick on back, contemplate the length of line we culminate; Capitals congratulate each other’s art and science. Before the apple, Adam never stared at his reflection; So, eulogize my modesty, not just my prescience. Paper out-lasts granite, but not enough, but not enough; What quick mind will wring again some sense from my great nonsense? Sands stretch and desert birds wheel; where are their historians? The clay we mold was tablets once and has been chronicler since. What old geezer out to grass has out-Methusela’d Khizer? Advised to live, great Alexander died of coarse compliance. We’d loved together long enough to have had our problems, Not so long for confidence to build in their solutions. Sunday morning’s slick brochures retail the peaceable kingdom; How little explored the earth remains, with our full connivance. Like sailors of Columbus, lost in his hold, I in yours; My compass points to you and, still, I suspect contrivance. Our dreams unraveled ivy’s twine, ciphering nature out; But woke to common bindweed and wisdom in abeyance. What whales we are, thinking deep, to fathom obscure canyons; Aspiring souls, amazed by sucker marks’ appearance. Nothing, surely, gazes down as far as I on insects, Which creep to hide their fearful heads from my most casual glance. My strength of years or knowledge might turn to your advantage; Your fixed alarm and narrow view stem from no experience. Let me muster my beetle, "thou," for some Benefactor, Whose aide I may have fled, whose help my wisdom feared to chance. |
World GovernmentFern and moss frost breathes on glass show no duplication, yet
Breath grows stale; it clogs the ear with endless repetition. In mosque and synagogue, cathedral, chapel and mandir Arch-evangelists implore our faith in their suspicions. There are! There are such hymnal words as merriment and grief, Whose heat we dare no closer than abstract definition. Limning out Old Hundred the hundredth time or more, I cough; I had meant to slip my Sunday best on and off again. Great Britain and America contain their multitudes; Any spark of which, may enliven all with conflagration. Out of stony ground call locusts, dragons sigh in the mist; What slow voice stirs now from turf we lend to cultivation? Legal heads in capitols won’t cap the poles I set, Nor fret my slack-strung cartograph with boundaries they have chosen. |
The Sea that Floats the MountainsThe river is an inspiration to one who goes dry;
It may enter deserts or strand dull fish on gasping heights. Skies crawling with comets and the millennium drawn near, I may exceed my banks, turn in my course, reach a new high. Long, long before they sink to earth, clouds grow dark and heavy; I know that waiting in this land are seeds of ammonites. We all know urban legends, far too good to be untrue, Enameled moments, gnomic beauties, great minds pass right by. A pleasance framed, set on the wall, un-hung by steady praise, Brings young marrieds eager brokers, bankers, and their rest by night. Paris to attic, recollection laid in steamer trunks; A name, voila! matured in wood and dust from rough to dry. This egg was years in hatching change of life though changing lives, As a bubble rising through the blood of generations might. Hopes burst into faith, that works are resurrected for our folk; The drafts which lift our acts up over time, blow dull hope bright. What disregarded gargoyle, shedding his concentric grit, May straighten on a Gothic height, spread angel wings and fly? This splintered coffin in the loft was once a place of safety; From age to age cocooned, death’s semblance once gleamed varnish-bright. Knockings in the night, moles in patterns on the skin were there; Such signs man’s wondering kin would read or even now descry. An uncle who saved stamps or aunt who crossed the stars in plants, May lend her prize Sweet William– history growing toward the light. |
And Wake to DawnDoxology may start old Rip, blinking through his verses;
Dawn does not renew a day, however much sun rises. Light becomes a desert, which parches vision in its glare; Where we dare no chink of sight, is night that man devises. And, Henry, there is more to waking than a morning’s work; Sun at dawn hints hardly half of full day’s thorough broadness. |