Simple Theories

Love is such a fresh wind, an eastbound train back to the planting place. They knew it could, we know it can. Struggle with the effort, in green symbols to the waste of winter. Worcester,Massachusetts, the mountain of human endeavour near lake front properties, good fishing, and endless toil. Crying out battles of land holding, usual massacre elements, structures of demotic thought in the languages used to make distance: these are prime movers, eternal relays. Where is the best if west is left out? England, or utter Europe, or any other claim. Yet what wattage of fear, feeling stretched to maximum, without the apportionment of love squared then squared again? Curious necessities remain, which dictate a peace that infringes on peace. This betokens a war, and it seems redolent of some faction, fracture, or fair flower. Our love, nonetheless, remains. Strange, true, and declared, with simple gestures as the precision of the realm. Something needful inveighs against the details while laudi...

And then the day was the colour of resistance, a blue or yellow, perhaps, or could green entail such logic? The pull nonetheless is towards an ocean of understanding, tho that might be a lake in the middle of a car on the highway going away. Where would people go, if Worcester wasn’t home? They would go to the blue of the sun on a generous morning, or to the green of the sky, when the birds flake out, or to the yellow of the sea, when it is time. This is so obvious, required, a practice, a home, yet the standards of such revival—fitting resistance itself with new document forms—favours a town. That town can be ours. Worcester, where Charles Olson saw the sea.

People are just names inverted by numbers into cause and effect. So claimed the aspect of intelligence, taxonomic to the heart. The world causes glitters in the sky, which are timeless, and we call them stars. Those stars are hefty enough, reflected on the waters of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, near enough to Worcester to be the zest of ocean. Who in the post-glacial days clustered so many letters together, and for what peace? Spillage from existing facts. Graciously, the poets eye the task: to make poetry safe for facts. Our Charles Olson started somewhere, plain American fuddle for the best of reasons. Grace to be born and live as variously as possible, states a rock somewhere else. Earth is a minor plantation. Frank O'Hara meets Elizabeth Bishop in a rickshaw, then everything returned East.

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