Love At Last Sight

by CWK (10/23/2005)


I know you began a letter or two,

started an email, or maybe a few –
but this is not about that at all. Not at all.
Because here I am, on my dime, my call.

I can count the memories I have of you
when you weren’t even there.
I suppose – but who knows? –
a man's mind might contrive such to help him cope.
I suppose – but who knows? –
such a man might hope
for one last fast chance to get it right,
and then, in the end, embrace, say grace, and good night,
for the thousandth – not the last – time:
like love, not at first, but at last – at last! – sight.

Such a man, I suppose – but who knows? – just might
stay up till dawn dreaming of way to reverse love lost:
counting the days, and ways; discounting the cost.
If so, such a man would be ready to fight
for love – at last! – for love at last sight.

I wrote all these poems, most are pretty bad:

better than my others, but still a touch too sad.
Did you really like the others? Do you like them now?
Even after all, I hope you read them secretly.
I hope they bring you joy even after our
little break up that exploded like bad alchemy
and nearly destroyed the galaxy.
Anyway, I wrote a lot of poems, as I am wont to do:
some about me; some about family;
some – um – most about you.
Actually, to tell it true,
they are all about you.
If you have a chance, I hope you'll scan one or two.
They are all about you.

What happened with us? What precisely went wrong?
What precisely did you mean, singing those sad songs?
Wishing on those wells? Did that mean anything?
Promising such things? Accepting all my rings?
Did anything mean anything? Anything at all?
Remember that time we quarreled,
and I left your house, with you still crying,
only to show up at your window
at 2 am, like some modern Romeo?
Do you still hold that memory?
Did that mean anything? I'd like to know.
For what it’s worth,
it meant – still means – the world to me.

Perhaps your heart will break.
Perhaps, you will ask, someday,
“Have I made such a mistake?”
“Did I throw true love away?”
And the answer, ahem, is Yes! Yes! And, Yes!
I could same the same for myself.

It is so hard to tell with us
where the mistakes begin and end:
what was gold, and what was rust;
what was good, and what was dust;
and who – really, really – was to blame.
Did you lose me, or just my name?
Did I lose you, or just your trust?
Your share? My share? Who cares.
We fought well – but never fair.
We fought for rights, but not each other.
We fought the same war a hundred ways,
with the same results, just on different days.
And for all our hard fighting, we gained –
I can’t remember if we ever gained a thing,
but we wreaked destruction fierce and full
on something good: on something beautiful.

This is all neither here, nor there –
but, to me, it is everything, and everywhere.
This is the last look in the last ray of sunlight:
a last grasp of hope for love, at last:
for love at last sight.

A Poem For You, Papa

by CWK

I made a painting for you, papa –

and there you are,

beside the barn,

and I am in it too:

see, there is me, dressed up all in blue.

I made a painting for you, papa,

and it means, I love you!

I made a poem for you, papa –

and I put it on your desk,

and it says you are the best

papa in the world,

and I hope you know it's true.

I made a poem for you papa,

and it means, I love you!

Adam After The Fall

by CWK

Thou art the man!

The whole world was yours, and more

would have been

freely given.

Look! Look at what you have done.

Look at the ruins lying in lies.

You are the one, my son,

who lost paradise.

You are the one, my son,

who lost paradise.

 -------

Wearied and dreary in failing my test,

my eyes now open – I see, but much less.

I see, but dimly, in blindness.

I see me: guilty, filthy, undressed.

I see creation, grieved, groaning, distressed.

Now, fallen, here I stand,
or rather, here I stagger.

I am the man.
I am the king

who fell off his throne.

No one’s to blame, but me,
and me, and me, alone.
At first, I blamed Eve.
For a time, I loaned
my distress to my lies.
But, the true truth is this:
I am the man:

the man who lost paradise.

I aspired to a god, cool and separate --
from all mortal concern distant;
strident, exalted in masterful repose --

only upon my mind, my will dependent.
And so, betwixt good and evil, I chose.

I expected to rise in a golden train,
and ascend above mere earthly plains
amid an adoring angelic refrain

-- but I fell to the earth
like a tiny drop of rain.
I fell from a world of rest
to a world of pain.
Cursed, cast out, and exposed,

I now lie fallen, and stained:

not a god, not even close --

less a god, less a man; less what I was, I am.

I am the man.

I see me: undressed.

— see paradise forsaken, and lost.

— see my hand dealt, and there’s death

in the cards; death in each breath:

death coming fast; death coming oft.
Death just leaving; death on the way,
with Hell to pay.

At last, I reckon the terrible cost

of gambling glory for glory vain.

At last, I bear the crimson cross

of all my innocence slain.

My fall I recall with regret:

so foolishly serpent was met.

My bride, unprotected, was Eve.

I weakly beheld her deceived;

I stood, whilst the snake assailed her

by heavenly words from hell’s cellar.

The temptation, so subtle, so brazen

sweetly rang in our ears, too pliant:

whilst Yahweh –  till then friend –

was slandered in lies as tyrant.

Thus, prompted by evil suggestions,

some darkness bestirred my affections.

And, the decision arose, a question

at first, no more, “Did God really say?”

How dare he! Wherefore? And why?

What, exactly was said, anyway?

To what end? How? What reply?

Really, did God say, – “in the day

you eat, in that day, shall you die.”

I look back, and try to unravel

reasons for treason – but my mind travels

to dead endings. Motives inane

mix like a mist. I see my rebellion, insane,

as if on a map – but the roads all bend

and cross on each other. Valleys descend

to darkness besmirched; reason famished

leads to mirages; mirages examined, soon vanish.

I find, alas, this task vain: like fighting sky.

My rebellion was madness! And madness lies

without sense – sin never reason had.

The mind of the sinner’s the mind of the mad.

When I gaze back, I am sometimes

somber: oppressed by former crimes,

and remiss for the garden we left.

And ever I hear the footsteps of death.

This new world is not brave

as hoped; not free, as planned.

This world is not what I craved

at all; God-forsook led not to divinity

as proffered by Satan in subtle sublimity;
God forsook is God-forsaken;
God deigns to bring slaves to freedom.
Satan frees men only to enslave them.
I know this too well, myself now a slave.

This world needs saved,

that’s all. The fall of all was the fall of man;

when I fell, I held the world in my hand.
  

I see paradise sacrificed – this I have faced.

Yet, there are signs, at times, signs of grace.

For I have also seen a new creature, akin to me,

yet strange and apposite; a new creature

which heaven hath sent to me:

a creature with succor etched in her features.

She is a creature who gives, when giving.

And amid all this death, she shall surely be,

as promised, the mother of all that is living.

My name is Adam,

and I am the man
who lost paradise.

The First Day

by CWK 

Sunday is the first day of the week.

I will never forget the first way you looked that First Day:

with the first touch of love: like later Spring roses,

(with deeper red) -- and you wore your hair with care,
slightly different than I had ever seen it; I know this
because I have studied all your little lovely habits:
until now, from afar, like an astronomer a star.

That day, I tried, many times, not to stare, but when I dared,

I spied your feet: like angels feet they repeated

a message of glad greetings. How beautiful the feet

on the floor of the banquet hall when a man

cannot raise his gaze to the blue skies which are your eyes.
That day, I exhaled, and looked away: my heart too full
of things too good to yet believe.

That was the day of the first look, which I took,

discreetly, like a man who esteems his dreams

too grand for the reach of his frail and fearful hands.

The first day, also, of your first look (with new eyes)

toward the man across the room who confounded

expectations with affections, hopes, and declarations.

This was the time, the first time, we caught each other

catching each other’s glances, like shy dancers

trying to find the rhythm with the time. In time

we will. For, I will: I will take gracious chances;

and we will take long glances, slow dances,

and long walks, and live, hereafter, lives of laughter.
Well begun: half done; this was a glorious first chapter.

And I promise you that the chapter after

is sublimer than the movie version, by far.

When we write it, you will see, I told the truth.

And we will see the Novelist turning pages new,

then we will smile, and write each line together.
It is a grand story already, and it only gets better.

You Were Colors

by CWK

I sat up late night last

'til sunrise

and tossed and turned the past                                                           

in my mind’s eyes;

I grappled with the scrapbook

of you and me

which is now

pasted across the pages of my soul.

I could not sleep for some sounds,

and fears that they portended,

and besides there were some portraits

on my wall that needed mending.

But colors drown out disoriented

symphonies of cries and cravings.

Colors cover the canvas

of past portraits we will not be saving.

I could see you in my mind and

you were colors;

You were a rich fusion of colors.

I could see you dance

across my memory and

you were a ballet blur of colors.

Colors: vivid, pure and daunting;

Colors: too vivacious too repress;

Colors: collaged and successive;

Colors: radiant and haunting.

I could see you in my mind

and you were pink.

You wore an old-fashioned pink dress,

and stole down a silver river in Texas.

Your pinkness radiated through your skin

and you sang a poem I had written.

I could see you in my mind

and you were oceanic blue.

I was on the shore to see
the typhoon azure,

but I could not move or run or speak.

I stood by weak

as the waves crashed
upon the atoms of my nature.

And I was deluged by a blue rapture

like a flimsy piece of paper.

I could see you in mind,

and you were colors.

Not Me: Meditation On The Life of Augustine

by CWK

“It’s me,” she said,

“Me! Don’t you remember?

Remember the nights of passion?

The wild life? Highways and high fashion?

Don’t you remember? Don’t you miss me?

Come now, my old friend, and kiss me.”

“It’s not me,” I replied,

“Yes you, not me. I died.”

I saw her lingering near the portico

and something in me came alive

which I had long wished dead.

She wound through the night,

and the moon shone bright, quite red.

Her eyes were on fire

with long latent desire.

The lines in her face were stolid, starker;

her hair was still golden, but somehow darker.

She looked younger and older.

For my part, I was wiser and colder.

A moment passed, my heart beat fast;

a brief glance of recognition then cast --

but it faded, and we stood two strangers.

And my life passed to death in one deep breath,

and I felt forgotten, safe, absent from danger.

It is you, but not me.

I am not the person you knew.

I hardly recognize that man:

his face young; his heart faithless:

his eyes haughty, his ways reckless.

I hate the sight of him.

That was not me, is not me, is not who I am.

He departed to Sheol. May he be damned.

“It’s not me,” I replied,

“Yes you, not me; I died.”

The War Years

by CWK

I gaze back, back, back
over the weary war years,
and I would cry if I had tears.
"Did you see the fortress sacked?"
Yes, but the sanctuary stands intact.
"How long since?" I lost track.
"How cruel! How vile! How fierce!"
Yes, but regret was the bitterest attack;
and bitter still the taste is.

"What regret? What for?"

I could have done more.

More than 1000 moons I have hasted,
like a vapor, and many have been lost, wasted.

"I guess the past is all that matters."
No friend -- what we were,
we were; what we will be,
we will be together, everlastingly.
It's not over, even when it's over.
So, come to war,
and we will fight together;
side by side, we will fight the better.

"Who else, then, besides us two?"
None, friend, but me and you.
"What may come? What fear? What foe?"
None, friend, but those we already know.

"This is not what we made --"
but, this is what we were made for
"... not how we planned our days --"
but what this day was planned for.
"... not what we prayed --"
but this is what we prayed for.
"We may fall to the earth --"
but that's where seeds will grow sure.
It's not over, even when it's over.

"I hear we create
whatever it is we fear."
Most men, then, fear hate,
but we know better
than to foolish fears debate.
If they come now, they come too late.
So, what what we to fear, then?
So, what have we to fear when
there's no outcome to await.

"I see the apocalypse assembling,
with men piled in rows, trembling
for the taste of a final victory."
I see through future history:
I see a mass of cowards cultured
in lies; their only culture is for war.
"When we are gone, in latter years..."
Gone? We're right here --
"... I guess,  they'll call it evolution."
They forgot about the revolution.
"Is this is the end; the end of all this?"
No, this is the first last stand of the resistance:
the tragic first chapter
of a happily ever after.
First comes the cut, then the kiss.
It's not over, even when it's over.
Stand not by, remiss. Enlist.
Let's cancel the apocalypse.

It's not over, even when it's over.
So, come to war,
and we will fight together;
side by side, we will fight the better.

"We will fight together;
side by side, we will fight the better.
Here my feet stand, waiting,
to dive from the shoreless shoal.
I'm tired of talk, procrastinating.
Now, at last? At last! Behold."

Indefatigueable Love

For Amos and Bethany

by CWK

Shhh.

     Say no more.

              Weep not now.

                        Sigh no longer.

It is enough to confess crimes;

take not justice to thy bosom.

You need not be your judge.

You have been your own accuser.

Weep not; this know:

whatever you say; whatever may come;

whatever you’ve done, or do –

whatever, no matter, I love you.

My dear, sigh no longer.

My love is not weakened; 

it only grows stronger

in the shade of thy distress.

And my supply of mercy – steepened

in love abundant – is sufficient to the test.

Indeed, my love rejoices at this trial!

Who can fight with none to best?

What's a victory without rivals?

I know the past:

the desperate gasps, and empty grasps

you made toward love.

Ever reaching, barely breathing,

you crawled in blackness forward,

downward, upon decaying stairs

toward the dream of love:

a dream that faded as you fared.

Yet, hopeful ever, ever on you dared,

searching, perchance, for a grain of wheat

among the tares.

Until –weary, starved, forlorn,

unloved – you mistook yourself unlovely,

and sought repast among the thorns.

Thence, each morning brought new mourning:

mourning wrenching mind and breaking bone.

My Love, I know. I know you rose at dawn

with a heavy hopeless yawn,

and a heart without a home; love without; again, alone.

And, with each waking

all dreams ended; all dreams ended there:

each time with the vision – not of dreams shared --

but dreams undone: hearts unpaired.

Then, promises of darker nights, 

in dimmer lights –

and with each new night, nightmares.

You confessed the darkness.

Now rest, My Darling.

Know now, always: I love you.

I loved Thee hence, and now -- not less --

but better, I love. I love you more.

This darkness is, I say again, a test.

For in this, Thou whom I adore

shall see – against the darkness proved –

my true loves’ brilliant brightness.

I am not shaken; not an inch moved.

Nor grieved am I; nor rattled.

Rather, I am grateful for your flaws:

like a soldier grateful for his foes.

For, here's my chance to prove my love in battle.

When your worst, my love is best.

Best loved, Thou; Thou, with love, be blessed.

My love sails with Thee, with Thee rests

on a vessel set adrift without an oar

on endless seas, 
with ne’r a dock, and n'er a shore.

Beyond time; past the past;

further than the future, too.

Beyond all, my love lasts

forever. I love you ever, ever new.

Whatever, no matter,

I love you.

Sigh not; weep not. Rather relish

this love, thine. My Love, thy love, cherish.

Merciful love meets your mistake,

and expands, and does not brake:

draws close, and does not forsake.

Under mercy, love heeds not misdeeds,

but -- by grace -- looks and sees

holy love; stony hope; only need.

My One, with me one; we shall be one.

And sweet love, Thee Loved, receive

this love like a well worn creed.

And henceforth, by faith, reread.

In my love, My Love, believe.

Toward you, I fix my eyes:

with nary a doubt; nary a sigh.

Here I stand until I die:

ever with you, ever near you, near me.

My love, myself, is mine to give, 

and I give freely, in freedom, unto Thee.

For love, I die; yet more, I live.

Still, I hear you ask, "What if love...?"
Do you not know? -- my love is a gift, Love.
I hear you ask, "How? Why? When? What love..."
But that of which you speak, Love, is not love.
The city which love builds 
never falls; it only grows.
That city shall stand, apart the will of man,
against every evil, every foe.
That city shall never lie in ruins;
I fear, My Love, your thoughts
of love are still too human.
There is, for this love, no "if love" --
there is only love, toward love, always moving.
This love is my love, and so it is Thy Love, too.
Whatever, no matter, I love you.

Cicero Alone With Scipio

by CWK 

Publius Cornelius Scipio, the first of that family

to be called Africanus,

used to remark that

he was never less idle

than when he had nothing to do,

and never less lonely

than when he was alone.

We have this on the authority

of Marcus Porcius Cato, the Censor,

who was almost his contemporary.

It is a fine sentiment:

as you would expect

from so great and wise a man.

Scipio means that

 – even when he was working  –

his thoughts were occupied

with public affairs;

and, even when he was alone,

apart the maddening crowd,

he did not stop taking counsel

 – with himself.

That is to say: he was never unoccupied.

When alone, he was never lonely;

often, the only company

he needed was his own.

Other men are depraved and deprived

by leisure and seclusion,

but he derived stimulation and concentration

from them.

He was never unoccupied.

I wish I could truthfully

say the same of myself.

Of course, however hard I try

to imitate Scipio,

I cannot fashion myself

a remarkable character like his.

Nevertheless , nota bene this

– if aspiration and perspiration

counts for anything, for anything

 – I come as near him as I can.

He was, after all, like me, a man.

I am unlike him, but he is like unto me.

He was, after all, a man.

I come as near him as I can.

At present, seeing that criminal armed violence

prevents me from political and legal practice,

I have no work to do.

Scipio, when he felt the need to rest

from his splendid services,

used occasionally to take a holiday.

My leisure, unlike that of Scipio,

is not prompted by any desire to retire.

It is forced upon me

and, therefore, I have nothing to do.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

My son! I have been excommunicated

from all that I loved by all whom I loved.

My son, justice lies lame, like a beggar

in the street: trampled on, discarded, and hungry.

My son! O, my son! What has become 

of the Rome I loved? – by which,

I am now only hated.

I built Rome,

and very Rome has torn me down,

and left me here, degraded.

Upon a time, I fancied Rome

a shining star, beaming with good will

to me and all mankind

from seven serene and solemn hills.

I fancied Rome the hope

of the just, the beautiful, and good:

the home to me and all humanity.

That Rome is now to me

a washed-out memory:

a place, perchance, which never was:

a place that shall, more than likely, never be.

Rome is now to me

a set of seven severed hills:

to which, no roads now lead:

to which, no road ever will.

And still I love Rome; I love Rome still.

Wherein I failed Rome, I weep.

It is not that I loved Rome less. Rather, justice

I loved more, and still more. 

Even here, in exile, utterly lonely,

I repent my sins against State –

but the crimes where not mine only.

Greater crimes than mine have left me desolate;

greater crimes have left Rome a ruined State.

Against such crimes I acted – I fear too late.

My crimes were crimes of time:

the penchant to believe too much, and hesitate –

but even my crimes were

born of love, and never hate.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

Therefore, I have no work to do.

What work, in keeping with my position,

is there for me to do?

I have no work to do.

I have no work to do.

At present, criminal armed violence

prevents me from political and legal practice.

For this reason, I have left Rome,

and am traveling from place to place,

from one country to another

(with no friends and not a home)

among barbarian tongues

and strange crooked faces

 – and I am often alone.

Once, I lived with great crowds around me

at the forefront of Roman publicity.

O, how I loved to hear the cheers

resounding oft in that Eternal City.

The City – the City, I see now, more clearly:

less eternal, more ephemeral.

And, I now hear those cheers

in the light of recent history.

They were of but a moment; 

momentous, only deceptively.

Now, I shun the sight of scoundrels

who swarm to harass and surround me.

I withdraw as completely as I can

– and I am often alone.

Scipio, was like me, a man

and he used to remark that

he was never less lonely

than when he was alone

 – and I am often alone.

My son! The senate has been abolished!

The courts have been annihilated!

My son, I am often alone,

and I have no work to do.

— adapted from  Michael Grant’s translation, Cicero’s Selected Works, “On Duties,” Part 3.