Few have alluded to that delicious
Feeling of anticipation that continues long after
The act. Entire lilfetimes may have passed
In which ambiguous figures conducting vague activities
Habitually, repetitively, avoided recognizing
The the present is composed of so little that could
Properly be called current. Perhaps Freud,
In his effort to establish the primacy of memories
Best realized this frequent absence of texture to time
In the acknowledgement of so much repetition an absence
Of spontaneity. These edifying concepts have suppled an essential need
Though they have not settled this lingering issue of vacancy,
This annoying series of reminders that our postures
Of self-satisfaction have soothed, even supplanted
This urgent question of experience, this itch
Of dissatisfaction in so frequently finding ourselves
At the commencement of a scream that is, as yet,
Wordless. We prefer, of course, to regard
This neighboring cluster of anomalies, these chuckles
Of relief, that at times we can gather into a foam
What seems like a torrent of fizz, which just as quickly
Settled down to an even level of the liquid
We were just sipping as we turned the pages
Of a book that perhaps, in retrospect, we were reading
A bit too avidly, only noticed when we tried to explain
To a friend what was so wonderful, and could not find
A simple concrete example, but again pointed to the flow
Of the thing, to its variety of effects which produced certain
Particular sensations. But what, in fact, were these sensations
(Though, again, it is really too soon to be
Asking this question, when rushing has again replaced
An imaginably calmer, more sure footed excitement which, precisely,
Expected an actual future)? We can
Only conclude, alas, that the kind of time
We have so frequently imagined is probably not forthcoming,
And the best we can hope for is to better examine
What we've unconsciously dismissed as a poor replacement- yet
This, in fact, *is* experience, a reasonably
Typical concoction of anxiety, ecstacy, distraction, relief & despair,
All held together by wishes and hairpins,
Already falling apart at the moment that it started,
Zooming, booming , bursting, flaccid & odd,
Lying, standing, turning, stretching & bent,
Embarassed, victorious, diseased, cured, unifed & alone.
If you were flying a kite
You'd depend on the vagueries of breeze
Without charting, plans or technical advice.
You raise it to the skies with a little exuberance
And hope for the best. It would be great if it were possible
To say this is not the condition of poetry
(And nearly everything else, along the way).
Only the the power to wait, to restrain one's feeling of irritation,
However it can be done, is worth anything.
Then everything else will take care of itself.
Now it it is time to go down to the river
To feel the cool breeze against your face,
To watch the boats. There is a small garden,
There is a place to get something to drink.
Soon, it gets towards sunset. Together,
The cool air combined with the bright sun, feels great.
The trees against a blue sky look good too.