Some months the Weekly Poem is programmatic; this month they’ve been a hodge-podge. In fact, this poem by one of my most favorite poets, Kenneth Patchen, was really a last moment whim. The poem this week was supposed to be “The Desolate Field” by William Carlos Williams—oddly, this would have been the good doctor’s first appearance in the Robert Frost’s Banjo Weekly Poem (not that his reputation is suffering from that). I’m sure Dr Williams will appear in this space somewhere down the line. In the meantime, please enjoy this lovely poem by Kenneth Patchen.
AS SHE WAS THUS ALONE IN THE CLEAR MOONLIGHT, standing between rock and sky, and scarcely seeming to touch the earth, her dark locks and loose garments scattered by the wind, she looked like some giant spirit of the older time, preparing to ascend into the mighty cloud which singly hung from this poor heaven
so when she lay beside me
sleep’s town went round her
and wondering children pressed against the high windows
of the room where we had been
so when she lay beside me
a voice, reminded of an old fashion:
“What are they saying?
of the planets and the turtles?
of the woodsman and the bee?”
but we were too proud to answer, too tired to care about designs
“of tents and books and swords and birds”
thus does the circle pull upon itself
and all the gadding angels draw us in
until I can join her in that soft town where the bells
split apples on their tongues
and bring sleep down like a fish’s shadow
Kenneth Patchen