ROBERT
KELLY

Write an Iliad
every day

until the Greeks
think they’ve won
and sail off home.

And we can be
ourselves again,
near a golden river

city on a hill.

                                   9.VIII.20

Suppose I drew the day instead,
with a pencil, for god’s sake,
a dear old wooden karandash,
no ink to spill, no words to spell,
just lines and lines and lines
going out and coming home
or never, off the edge!
into the néant but most
stay here, on the paper, round
and round and with pointy hats on,
circles and sketched cubes,
scribble to mean shadow,
shapes like legs and shapes like eyes,
lines folded on themselves
in passionate embrace,
sensuous empty space, room
for you and me and you and you,
a fingerprint of the very moment,
a blueprint of right now.

                                              8 August 2020

1.
Come, this is no time
to be time, swagger
of morning through the trees,
no time to be now,

this is the pilgrimage
and by definition
it cannot end.
                            That woman
lying on the lawn,
that man reading beside her,

these are no pilgrims,
a pilgrim is never here,
here is the perilous place,
the Massachusetts of the mind.

2.
What could he be reading,
pilgrims read only the road,
the crows above them
guiding them carefully,
fork by fork through the dividing earth,
turn this way, my love,
the bird cries out
at every crossroads, signposts
in the sky, hurry, hurry,
here is at your heels.

3.
She sleeps, he reads–
her choice is wiser.
Dream is scary enough
without the paper.
And even if he’s reading
some old book, the words
are still dangerous—
the peril of reading is
thinking you’re thinking.

4.
But what does the lawn think?
That’s what our science
should be studying, this thingly earth
and how it answers us.
But no, all they care about
is why Cicero hated Catiline
or why the moon has spots.

5.
See, motive means moving,
and only pilgrims move.

Crow-blessed, weary-hipped,
they go and they go.

Come back soon
says every place they pass

but they never will,
even if they stumble down those

same cobblestone streets again
it will always be for the first time.

Pilgrim is a person with no again.

6.
Give me a spoon
and a cup of water,
cool or not it
doesn’t matter
so I can sip it
slow so slow—
I love the way
even at the bottom
the spoon can still
lip up a little water.
I’ll drink it on my way
and pray for you
who filled the cup
and all the miles to come
will cherish the spoon.

That’s the hymn I heard
some pilgrims sing
as they shuffled past
my oaken table
out on the sidewalk
where I sat to imagine
better versions of
all those passing by.
The pilgrims shamed me
with heir simple plea.
All I knew was a pen and a fork.

7.
Am I there yet?
You always are.
Do I like it here?
You’ll never know.
What religion in this place?
Thunder and rain.
Will they let me stay or make me go?
They do not know the difference — do you?

8.
She wakes up now,
he shuts his book.

Now the difficulties start,
they have come back to a world
with no going in it,

the lawn keeps talking
but they will not listen.

They stand up and walk
hand in hand into some house.
They seem to be smiling.

A passing pilgrim pities them,
says a prayer or two for them,
keeps going on the way.

                                   8 August 2020

The chances are real,
real as rain.
But chance is no answer,
does not fly
easy in the low grey sky,
unlike the Canada geese
of our private thinking
at home on lake or lawn.

2.
I’m trying to tell about
the sound of thinking,
raindrops, said one philosophe,
and another a piece by Schumann.
But most ignore
the noise of cogitation,
care only for the hen-tracks
left on the innocent blank page.

3.
More bird behavior.
The hawks of Wyoming,
Laramie country, summer snow,
we have our own eagles,
gladly, but we have a river
to keep them bright,
skimming from the west,
nesting near our lives.

4.
Back then I studied the mountain,
dull ornithologist, I need
something that doesn’t fly away,
I need to know
who does the thinking in my head
(if that’s where it is)
and who she is, or he, or they,
pick your favorite pronoun
and tell me, who, and what they
want, and from what country
do they come, flying silently
through my personal night.
And when they’re here
they speak, and everybody
thinks it’s me, because I hear
the sounds they make and try,
even now, to make
words of what they say.

5.
Now this owl-craft
some men call thinking,
There is a gender issue here,
earth and sky. Memory and desire.

6.
I like Aquinas.
He was fat and made
tough guesses into songs
some church still sings.
Tantum ergo we mumbled,
intricate argument
simple chant. Now sing,
right now, what I am thinking.

7.
By turning our bodies
into arguments
set to music we
begin to discern
the way to venerate.
I think all by itself
veneration is enough.

8.
Back to Wyoming—
the pronghorns
leaping like haiku
out of quick prairie.
But is that country really
what it looks like
to people in cars
going by at eighty on the Interstate?
Or is it a show they put on for us,
antelopes and mountains
pressing quick or slow
until we’re gone
then they go back to thinking.

9.
There, that’s what the word means.
Being conscious of being there.
Here. All the rest is
raindrops on the page.

10.
This dialogue with no one
is almost complete.
All it needs now is meaning.
That’s where you come in.

                            7 August 2020

Twist the rain

around your thought

to feel the friend

who’s always waiting.

Like music from

a passing car

the rain blesses you

with interruption–

put out your wrist,

feel one drop at a time.

And oh the space between

one thought and the next,

o Paradise of pure horizon.

                                               7 August 2020