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Best Famous Kenneth Patchen Poems

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by Kenneth Patchen | |

In the footsteps of the walking air

 In the footsteps of the walking air
Sky's prophetic chickens weave their cloth of awe
And hillsides lift green wings in somber journeying.
Night in his soft haste bumps on the shoulders of the abyss And a single drop of dark blood covers the earth.
Now is the China of the spirit at walking In my reaches.
A sable organ sounds in my gathered will And love's inscrutable skeleton sings.
My seeing moves under a vegetable shroud And dead forests stand where once Mary stood.
Sullen stone dogs wait in the groves of water .
.
.
Though the wanderer drown, his welfare is as a fire That burns at the bottom of the sea, warming Unknown roads for sleep to walk upon.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Slums

 That should be obvious
Of course it won't
Any fool knows that.
Even in the winter.
Consider for a moment.
What? Consider what! They never have.
Why now? Certainly it means nothing.
It's all a lie.
What else could it be? That's right.
Sure.
Any way you look at it.
A silk hat.
A fat belly.
A nice church to squat in.
My holy ass.
.
.
What should they care about? It's quaint.
Twelve kids on the fire escape.
.
.
Flowers on the windowsill.
.
.
You're damn right.
That's the way it is.
That's just the way it is.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

Creation

 Wherever the dead are there they are and
Nothing more.
But you and I can expect To see angels in the meadowgrass that look Like cows - And wherever we are in paradise in furnished room without bath and six flights up Is all God! We read To one another, loving the sound of the s’s Slipping up on the f’s and much is good Enough to raise the hair on our heads, like Rilke and Wilfred Owen Any person who loves another person, Wherever in the world, is with us in this room - Even though there are battlefields.


More great poems below...

by Kenneth Patchen | |

When We Were Here Together

 when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one
another.
A bit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the wind.
What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of hair turning to ash on the wind.
But they lied about that.
From the beginning they lied.
To the child, telling him that there was somewhere anger against him, and a hatred against him, and the only reason for his being in the world.
But never did they tell him that the only evil and danger was in themselves; that they alone were the prisoners and the betrayers; that they - they alone - were responsible for what was being done in the world.
And they told the child to starve and to kill the child that was within him; for only by doing this could he become a useful and adjusted member of the community which they had prepared for him.
And this time, alas, they did not lie.
And with the death of the child was born a thing that had neither the character of a man nor the character of a child, but was a horrible and monstrous parody of the two; and it is in this world now that the flesh of man’s spirit lies twisted and despoiled under the indifferent stars.
When we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one another.
O green the bit of warm grass between our teeth.
O beautiful the hair of our mortal goddess on the indifferent wind.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

As We Are So Wonderfully Done With Each Other

 As we are so wonderfully done with each other 
We can walk into our separate sleep 
on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood 
lies 

oh my love, my golden lark, my soft long doll 
Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers 
My hands are crooked where they spilled over your dear 
curving 

It is good to be weary from that brilliant work 
It is being God to feel your breathing under me 

A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning.
.
.
.
.
Don't let anyone in to wake us


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Hangmans Great Hands

 And all that is this day.
.
.
The boy with cap slung over what had been a face.
.
.
Somehow the cop will sleep tonight, will make love to his wife.
.
.
Anger won't help.
I was born angry.
Angry that my father was being burnt alive in the mills; Angry that none of us knew anything but filth, and poverty.
Angry because I was that very one somebody was supposed To be fighting for Turn him over; take a good look at his face.
.
.
Somebody is going to see that face for a long time.
I wash his hands that in the brightness they will shine.
We have a parent called the earth.
To be these buds and trees; this tameless bird Within the ground; this season's act upon the fields of Man.
To be equal to the littlest thing alive, While all the swarming stars move silent through The merest flower .
.
.
but the fog of guns.
The face with all the draining future left blank.
.
.
Those smug saints, whether of church or Stalin, Can get off the back of my people, and stay off.
Somebody is supposed to be fighting for somebody.
.
.
And Lenin is terribly silent, terribly silent and dead.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

Fall of the Evening Star

 Speak softly; sun going down
Out of sight.
Come near me now.
Dear dying fall of wings as birds complain against the gathering dark.
.
.
Exaggerate the green blood in grass; the music of leaves scraping space; Multiply the stillness by one sound; by one syllable of your name.
.
.
And all that is little is soon giant, all that is rare grows in common beauty To rest with my mouth on your mouth as somewhere a star falls And the earth takes it softly, in natural love.
.
.
Exactly as we take each other.
.
.
and go to sleep.
.
.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

Let Us Have Madness

 Let us have madness openly.
O men Of my generation.
Let us follow The footsteps of this slaughtered age: See it trail across Time's dim land Into the closed house of eternity With the noise that dying has, With the face that dead things wear-- nor ever say We wanted more; we looked to find An open door, an utter deed of love, Transforming day's evil darkness; but We found extended hell and fog Upon the earth, and within the head A rotting bog of lean huge graves.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Naked Land

 A beast stands at my eye.
I cook my senses in a dark fire.
The old wombs rot and the new mother Approaches with the footsteps of a world.
Who are the people of this unscaled heaven? What beckons? Whose blood hallows this grim land? What slithers along the watershed of my human sleep? The other side of knowing .
.
.
Caress of unwaking delight .
.
.
O start A sufficient love! O gently silent forms Of the last spaces.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Orange Bears

 The Orange bears with soft friendly eyes
Who played with me when I was ten,
Christ, before I'd left home they'd had
Their paws smashed in the rolls, their backs
Seared by hot slag, their soft trusting
Bellies kicked in, their tongues ripped
Out, and I went down through the woods
To the smelly crick with Whitman
In the Haldeman-Julius edition,
And I just sat there worrying my thumbnail
Into the cover---What did he know about
Orange bears with their coats all stunk up with soft coal
And the National Guard coming over
From Wheeling to stand in front of the millgates
With drawn bayonets jeering at the strikers?

I remember you would put daisies
On the windowsill at night and in
The morning they'd be so covered with soot
You couldn't tell what they were anymore.
A hell of a fat chance my orange bears had!


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Artists Duty

 So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame
To extend all boundaries
To fog them in right over the plate
To kill only what is ridiculous
To establish problem
To ignore solutions
To listen to no one
To omit nothing
To contradict everything
To generate the free brain
To bear no cross
To take part in no crucifixion
To tinkle a warning when mankind strays
To explode upon all parties
To wound deeper than the soldier
To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

To verify the irrational
To exaggerate all things
To inhibit everyone
To lubricate each proportion
To experience only experience

To set a flame in the high air
To exclaim at the commonplace alone
To cause the unseen eyes to open

To admire only the abrsurd
To be concerned with every profession save his own
To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty
To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator
To lift the flesh above the suffering
To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

To HAPPEN

It is the artist’s duty to be alive
To drag people into glittering occupations

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence
To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence
To burrow beneath the subconscious
To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason
To obey each outrageous inpulse
To commit his company to all enchantments.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left

 I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders.
In a temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest.
For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the world.
With the morning breath of the snow leopard I cover her against any hurt.
Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her pillow with singing.
Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at early morning.
-- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions.
O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon her shoulders .
.
.
the lips of the moon moving there .
.
.
where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

Irkallas White Caves

 I believe that a young woman
Is standing in a circle of lions
In the other side of the sky.
In a little while I must carry her the flowers Which only fade here; and she will not cry If my hands are not very full.
± Fiery antlers toss within the forests of heaven And ocean’s plaintive towns Echo the tread of celestial feet.
O the beautiful eyes stare down… What have we done that we are blessèd? What have we died that we hasten to God? ± And all the animals are asleep again In their separate caves.
Hairy bellies distended with their kill.
Culture blubbering in and out Like the breath of a stranded fish.
Crucifixion in wax.
The test-tube messiahs.
Immaculate fornication under the smoking walls Of a dead world.
I dig for my death in this thousand-watt dungheap.
There isn’t even enough clean air.
To die in.
O blood-bearded destroyer! In other times.
.
.
(soundless barges float down the rivers of death) In another heart These crimes may not flower… What have we done that we are blessèd? What have we damned that we are blinded? ± Now, with my seven-holed head open On the air whence comes a fabulous mariner To take his place among the spheres— The air which is God And the mariner who is sheep—I fold Upon myself like a bird over flames.
Then All my nightbound juices sing.
Snails Pop out of unexpected places and the long light lances of waterbulls plunge into the green crotch of my native land.
Eyes peer out of the seaweed that gently sways Above the towers and salt gates of a lost world.
± On the other side of the sky A young woman is standing In a circle of lions— The young woman who is dream And the lions which are death.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

Pastoral

 The Dove walks with sticky feet
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with warmth
Like honey
That dips lazily down into the shadow .
.
.
Anyone standing in that orchard.
So filled with peace and sleep, Would hardly have noticed the hill Nearby With its three strange wooden arms Lifted above a throng of motionless people - Above the helmets of Pilate's soldiers Flashing like silver teeth in the sun.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

We Go Out Together In the Staring Town

 We go out together into the staring town
And buy cheese and bread and little jugs with
flowered labels

Everywhere is a tent where we put on our whirling 
show

A great deal has been said of the handless serpents
Which war has set loose in the gay milk of our
heads

But because you braid your hair and taste like
honey of heaven
We go together into town to buy wine and
yellow candles.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

The Temple

 To leave the earth was my wish, and no will stayed my rising.
Early, before sun had filled the roads with carts Conveying folk to weddings and to murders; Before men left their selves of sleep, to wander In the dark of the world like whipped beasts.
I took no pack.
I had no horse, no staff, no gun.
I got up a little way and something called me, Saying, 'Put your hand in mine.
We will seek God together.
' And I answered, 'It is your father who is lost, not mine.
' Then the sky filled with tears of blood, and snakes sang.