The son-poem continues
by these pastoral lines ,
in my ears put
by father , as
words of the mouth of
the poem ‘ s
father , on a short morning
saunter
he set out on alone /
A firkin of first thoughts
at my hip ,
starting out for Dawn ,
a firkin of oxen skin
cut from the finest ox ,
a firkin I hand-made
cutting the hind of the finest ox ,
who one day walked / blindly
into the Northern Lights .
A firkin , a sip from , a supper ;
crossing a crest under multiple gulls ,
a smaller voice from my lips
spilling :
“ the pink fallen petals’ shape
in the tree’s shade
is as shadow ,
is as still and blank ,
as Divine Rear shadow
whispers , as it passes
the mountain .
The prophet asks ,
‘ Is there a movement ,
a movement of something ,
/ in darkness ? ’ ”
Then , suddenly , a deer passes by ,
but I cannot believe
it has left :
in darkness ,
because of stillness ,
the senses sustain
all glimpses
as glimpses
of the Rear .
The rain starts ,
as on the day of the great rain .
The wind in the rain
tropes my tongue
without relent , arcing
me and me
into the Father .
Sauntering endlessly to wherever / at last ,
an old firkin
of first thoughts at hip-bone swings ,
leaking whatever it holds :
“ I am the future son
of all my sons
but nothing now
of this to the turning gale ;
my mouth ! , full of silence ,
tongue a foreign thing . ”
“ I address myself to myself and
punctuate my speech with controlling figures
of aversive sonhood , puncturing
my tongue by pronouncing sons at all ,
and giving them improper names .
I know what this is with certainty :
a chant of the wandering father
who loses his tongue ,
[ a chant of the glossal lump , ]
a chant of who saunters against Boreas ,
because instructed by the God to go ,
as an Aeolian harp is heard
by none but the former oxen ,
is unheard by even me . “
This word is the beginning
of the end ; but it is not the end .
I begin the word in this cave
at night ,
with a firkin
of oxen skin under head
to prop up my swollen tongue ,
by the wind
and some ladder-dream
split :
“ The silence of the thin split shore
by the hard-rocking sea sat ,
arose over the sea-side dune wandering
along the sea shore blind wandering ,
at the heaped-up Atlantic split shore ,
where all the waves come ,
words where all come in ,
the son-poem comes in to firkin ;
the son-poem stands on a white beach at night /
at the line of whatever , between blank and blank .
It has already stepped past the jamb .
The son-poem stands on a beach at night ,
nightly expressing literal words , and erect ,
addressing the gods from that split
open place , and the Son
at the same time , singing :
‘ The world is so loud /
the air so it and there /
The world is so loud /
wherever it is /
is far beyond repair /
I know it is so so /
and knows it to be is /
is so so forever /
but father is home /
and he would hate to know /
I sing these things forever / ’ ”
The firkin talking to the mouth ,
as I step past the jamb of cave .
The firkin slung from hip-bone
prattles below the belt .
The wasted sounds settle ,
as sand from the sea shore settles ,
having come to the bottom
after many years wandering ,
abiding ,
as old flesh abides in the body
and cunningly steals what is
still alive :
the father tongue ,
that unspent silent tongue .
Starting out for Dawn , now ,
starting for [ God ] whatever / home ,
unsettled ,
bowels unsettled ,
surveying the land
with my two eyes
for what I have left
and what has left me in time ,
tracking the deer’s
shadow
like a dog ,
inviting the many sensations
of the forest and the sky and the sea
to my unraveling loins ,
catching what would come
in the firkin at my loins ,
to sup upon in time
or to feed to the son rising
as I speak , as oxen rise
with the morning [ light ]
and summit the many peaks ,
I ask the poem , this old son-poem I sing ,
what he posed to me once ,
in song ,
when I [ an infant ] was :
“ What son remains when I cease to speak /
What song he says in my stop /
Could the last word ever be said /
Or would it be only a yawp /
Could the last word ever be said /
Could I ever disappear /
Could I persist in son though already dead /
Breathing secrets into his ear /
‘ Listen to what the Father said /
Listen to him , My Deer /
Listen to him though already dead /
He is speaking ; he is near /
“ Bless your sons before your breath has left “ /
But what if the tongue is gone /
“ Bless your sons before your tongue has left “ /
But it is already Dawn / ’ ”