How our Nature
Represents The Truth


[Opening: I.i./1]

These ears remember silent lapses
        in the utter length of sound. These eyes
see from a source in voices flowing to
        the waste and soil-pipes through
the drain down under ground.

Evacuated chamber. Flushed.
        Another vacancy is filled.
        Tacit Eternity! All its investment lost.
Accounts of the exchange lie unreturned.

But the lark raised bones to a post in the wind
and sings its clean particulars of heart
        to the blue pasture.

Me, Ah Me! I feel inept and empty,
valueless, a living hollow full of holes;
a watch that stopped, whose living time is up,
        I stop to watch the sister echo
come to sip the flashing stars of water.
        slipping into an escape.

Farewell thou then, The Education of The Heart,
        for thou has been The Thing Itself.
Remember me, and aye
        we shall be with you in the long


I’ve written about the circumstances of the composition of Aleethia elsewhere (for example, In Preface to Mid Life). Here I mean to be more parsimonious with information. It might be true that I was curious about the French sense of mystic blanc, at least since Mallarmé, and wondered what English practice might make of it. In my innocence I concluded a wonder in sense with reflections that the less said about blanc makes perfect better. I came out with pure blancmange. I might have meant Aleethia in Wonderland, or that in the Language of Utopia, Nothing can be less than positively entertained. The words themselves were horrified when I explained about poor Poetry, starving with cold in its shack, the last refuge of its transmigration, after plodding stick and sack. Cop out ip dick, I am it is you are not either it, then enter it, a note or mote of glib edict: I dip. Will you ensure the abjuration of both soul and spirit, never mind surf froth and foam? Some days I’m in such seashells as I’m not so sure.

[Close: IV.iv./ 16]

a fourth square gate:
        four bars:
the blue:

Sometimes I Get So Worried

then, as now,
upon a traffic, or a green, or desert island,
(and there has to be a crossing,
and there has to be a link,
a causeway,
and a bridge that sings,)

that sings with purity,
that sings with dissonance
at which, where if I slip,
        where if I make my great mistake,
the soul makes use of unsurprising wings,
        takes flight and makes
migratory escape.


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