Selected Poems of Kenneth Rexroth by Kenneth Rexroth

Author:Kenneth Rexroth [Morrow Bradford]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8112-2401-7
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 1984-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

Helen’s jewel, the Schethya,

The Taoist uncut block,

The stone of the alchemist,

The footstool of Elohim’s throne,

Which they hurled into the Abyss,

On which stands the queen and sacred

Whore, Malkuth, the stone which served

Jacob for pillow and altar.

“And what is truth?” said Pilate,

“A,E,I,O,U—the spheres

Of the planets, the heavens’

Pentachord. A noir, E blanc,

I rouge, O bleu, U vert.”

When in Japan, the goddess

Of the sun, attracted by

The obscene gestures of the flesh,

Came out from eclipse, she spoke

The first and oldest mystery,

“ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,

8, 9, 10.”

All things have a name.

Every mote in the sunlight has

A name, and the sunlight itself

Has a name, and the spirit who

Troubles the waters has a name.

As the Philosopher says,

“The Pythagoreans are

Of the opinion that the shapes

Of the Greek vase are reflections

Of the irrational numbers

Thought by the Pure Mind. On the

Other hand, the Epicureans

Hold them to be derived

From the curves of a girl’s

Breasts and thighs and buttocks.”

The doctrine of Signatures—

The law by which we must make

Use of things is written in

The law by which they were made.

It is graven upon each

As its unique character.

The forms of being are the

Rules of life.

The Smaragdine Tablet

Says, “That which is above is

Reflected in that which is below.”

Paestum of the twice blooming

Roses, the sea god’s honey-

Colored stone still strong against

The folly of the long decline

Of man. The snail climbs the Doric

Line, and the empty snail shell

Lies by the wild cyclamen.

The sandstone of the Roman

Road is marked with sun wrinkles

Of prehistoric beaches,

But no time at all has touched

The deep constant melodies

Of space as the columns swing

To the moving eye. The sea

Breathes like a drowsy woman.

The sun moves like a drowsy hand.

Poseidon’s pillars have endured

All tempers of the sea and sun.

This is the order of the spheres,

The curve of the unwinding fern,

And the purple shell in the sea;

These are the spaces of the notes

Of every kind of music.

The world is made of number

And moved in order by love.

Mankind has risen to this point

And can only fall away,

As we can only turn homeward

Up Italy, through France, to life

Always pivoted on this place.

Sweet Anyte of Tegea—

“The children have put purple

Reins on you, he goat, and a

Bridle in your bearded mouth.

And they play at horse races

Round a temple where a god

Gazes on their childish joy.”

Finally the few tourists go,

The German photographers, the

Bevy of seminarians,

And we are left alone. We eat

In the pronaos towards the sea.

Greek food, small white loaves, smoked cheese,

Pickled squid, black figs, and honey

And olive oil, the common food

Of Naples, still, for those who eat.

An ancient dog, Odysseus’ dog,

Spawned before there were breeds of dogs,

Appears, begs, eats, and disappears—

The exoteric proxy of

The god. And we too grow drowsy with

White wine, tarry from the wineskin.

The blue and gold shafts interweave

Across our nodding eyes. The sea

Prepares to take the sun. We go

Into the naos, open to the

Sky and make love, where the sea god

And the sea goddess, wet with sperm,

Coupled in the incense filled dark,

As the singing rose and was still.

Mist comes with the sunset. (The Yanks

Killed the mosquitoes.) Long lines of

Umber buffalo, their backs a

Rippling congruence,

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