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Best Famous Kenneth Patchen Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Kenneth Patchen poems. This is a select list of the best famous Kenneth Patchen poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Kenneth Patchen poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of 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.


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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.