sw00718v-28.poem26

Venturings



 Spring Reflections: 1973


Walking
under trees
or the shadows of buildings,
taking delight
in every child,
in shapes & actions,
in clothes, sounds, smells,
in touching--
this is the first ideal.

As I write this,
I think of Janice,
of the work to be done on Road Apple,
of the border fights and the deaths of nations,
of finding again a steady job,
of moving,
of the time I waste,
of the tensions and pretensions,
of never knowing, for sure, who I am.

As I sit here in the Titan Room, U. of Wisconsin-Oshkosh,
I watch the people, compare myself to them,
drink my black cherry, & feel my bowels slip,
notice the Titan plaque on the wall, & remember the surprising football team,
observe the movements of lips, curious,
follow the progress of feet, the lengths of steps, the colors of shoes, the shapes,
          the walkers themselves,
listen to the Foghat jukebox, the silence after, the mechanism, the disjointed talk,
          the clinking of cup on saucer, The Spinners,
contemplate the lights in the ceiling, like a squadron of UFOs, an acoustic tile,
          a vent, a bright window, the six ochre pillars,
remember Samson, the love of David and Jonathan, the passing of Egypt,
          the Wall of China, the prows of Vikings, 
          Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, Homer, Tu Fu, Basho, Mishima, Goethe,
          Twain, the myths & tribes,
think on the present, everything mixed & senseless, everything perfectly right,
          the moods of Walt Whitman,
          the connotations of the song now playing: Rita Coolidge's "My Crew",
          the space for Gary, for Debie, for friendships and
          the places I want to go to, the space in my heart.

Barefoot, I step on the grass for coolness, butter my soles with dandelions,
          test them with thistles.
The sun--

Some people say I've become too personal;
others I'm not what I think I am.
It makes no difference.
Today is April 10th.
Yesterday it snowed so hard in the 40-mile-an-hour wind
I couldn't think clearly at all--
flakes of sunlight.

This is the alliance of comrades;
this is the contradictions of friends.

Knees up,
to hold the book I am writing in,
feet & ass on a tile floor,
back against a cream-painted block wall,
ears marking the sounds of air coursing the vents, 
          of closing doors, of movements & voices:
          the sensitivity group behind the X theatre's doors,
          my hand moving along the page,
          the voices of Kelly, Richard, Candy, Paul,
          your voice forming these words, my voice,
eyes following the often soundless work of my pen,
          or should I call it play,
          & Terry, & someone I do not know, & Candy again,
I grope toward 10pm.

This is what is real--
these are the trees I climb in;
these, the winds.



-
Brian A. J. Salchert