(The Threshold) Poem #20
Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .
Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?
Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?
Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?
He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.
Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .
Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?
Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?
Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?
He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.
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