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Spicer-Jack_and_Robert-Duncan_Selections

Spicer-Jack_and_Robert-Duncan_Selections - that is not mine...

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“Sporting Life,” Jack Spicer The trouble with comparing a poet with a radio is that radios don't develop scar-tissue. The tubes burn out, or with a transistor, which most souls are, the battery or diagram burns out replacable or not replacable, but not like that punchdrunk fighter in a bar. The poet Takes too many messages. The right to the ear that floored him in New Jersey. The right to say that he stood six rounds with a champion. Then they sell beer or go on sporting commissions, or, if the scar tissue is too heavy, demonstrate in a bar where the invisible champions might not have hit him. Too many of them. The poet is a radio. The poet is a liar. The poet is a counterpunching radio. And those messages (God would not damn them) do not even know they are champions.
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“Often I am permitted to return to a meadow,” Robert Duncan Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
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Unformatted text preview: that is not mine, but is a made place, that is mine, it is so near to the heart, an eternal pasture folded in all thought so that there is a hall therein that is a made place, created by light wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall. Wherefrom fall all architectures I am I say are likenesses of the First Beloved whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady. She it is Queen Under The Hill whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words that is a field folded. It is only a dream of the grass blowing east against the source of the sun in an hour before the sun’s going down whose secret we see in a children’s game of ring a round of roses told. Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind that certain bounds hold against chaos, that is a place of first permission, everlasting omen of what is....
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