Quotations From WARREN FALCON

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  • Dear Low,

    You did it. You left the trout behind.

    Sunday the corn was cut down. Apple trees
    in the nearby orchard were felled which explains
    the screams I heard a week ago, and the droning
    of wasps.

    That hill was exposed this evening at
    sunset, reflected pink in the sky. Reminds me of
    the women I always saw through your eyes,
    their large lips and eyes,

    the dark thighs particularly,
    fields without their corn now shedding a purple
    light like Stevens' Hartford.

    And you there tonight
    forsaking the schoolyard we'd walk beside
    stopping to comment on that view of hills
    at our favorite wall where 'N*ggers Pandemonium'
    stalled on hot nights to

    break beer bottles for your
    poems' broken glass, curtains you'd pass in the
    dark where your wheels would splay the stars stuck
    to tar bubbles on the street

    when Hart Crane beat
    his words against your rhythm running down
    to Montford Park.

    **'N*ggers Pandemonium was the name of a black bar/club on 'the other side of the tracks' in a racially segregated Southern town. It was black owned and its clientele were mostly black. The bar no longer exists.
    from ' 'Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Remote Mountains For Manhattan, Circa 1981
  • Arriving late to love

    the broken tower
    mourns its ringing ruin.

    Long drought of air
    stills the clapper.

    But one breath, Trembler,
    cracks metal.

    Muteness falls away.
    Frightened doves scatter.

    Annunciation of rafters:


    Remember gaiety,
    how to sway.

    Who pulls the rope
    are many.

    Silver coin,
    fly up from

    empty fountain,

    renew into
    wishful hand
    a saint's
    pocket prayer
    from ' Annunciation- for Cesar Vallejo'
  • We lay together, two wrecks, Love,
    wooden ships conjoined by forces
    too great, too objective to blame.
    We stretch beside a shoreline,
    eels play in the one rib of our
    opened selves, our rarer fingers
    share at last, gesture horizon
    to stars, even Sun/Moon entwine
    before and behind centering a
    presumably expanding circumference
    curving inwardly toward itself
    which is an affection, a longing,
    a bottom upon which even God can
    lay hidden from secret admirers
    such are mirrors whose surfaces
    are rarely breached.

    But there is reach.

    Many ways to say the word 'love'
    from 'Here Come The Wild Birds Again - Poem For Painters & Poets'
  • This ancient tonguing
    betrays some fault
    disdaining the human world -

    which occurred first,
    the birthing or the wounding?

    Abjuring flesh of necessity,
    this, my peace, is false

    but the music woos,
    swells me up.

    It is my sleek, bleak hour
    remembering Bathsheba's girth.
    There is some mirth in remembering her,
    those skirts and veils like a cadence of sweet cakes
    and guilt...
    from 'David To Jonathan, A Lost Psalm Recovered, Recent Translation, Circa 1978'
  • and O this,
    this midnight stagger,
    nothing hurt but trembling
    hand shaking to dryness,
    the other leaning into yellow
    from 'Sleep Walk'
  • shall I call then eternity
    a home for shells, a curve
    in space? disgrace myself
    yet again with belief, any
    one, believe that such shores
    are a where after all, a place
    to shelter, each wave somewhere
    by someone or something counted
    as is every hair numbered
    counted still?
    from 'The Drying Assuages, Being A Parody In Part Of T.S. Eliot's "four Quartets" Invoking Samuel Beckett, A Bit Of James Joyce, & A Final Haunting By Ezra Pound'
  • Each night there must be one, out there,
    on the deck, supplicating in boozy tongue,
    oozing heart-love all over, spurning the way
    things go down in the world, cheap spindrift
    the cranes know of dipping their bloated beaks
    to the waves. And he must dip his head, braying,
    with his hands motioning to the night -

    Away! Away!
    from 'Upon This Wide Water, For Staten Island Ferry, Circa 1985, Manhattan'
  • far where my Mother
    toiled with me safe
    upon Her back, my first
    keel, the bow upon which
    I first learned to kneel
    to earth, to sea

    I rocked in Her motion
    rowing the faithful Earth
    the yielding softness of
    She to me (shipwrecking
    all my my future hardness
    eventually) my boy hands
    not yet bleeding with pens
    and poems
    from 'What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda'
  • by Her presence, Her
    sure toil, lullabies wooing
    ...the hard soles of Her bare
    feet, no pesetas, only
    songs, for shoes

    The rich cords, veins
    of the sun and the moon,
    conjoined in Her labor,
    hardened into the lead
    of my first pencil,

    the lap of my first page

    And conspiring late
    within me ran the black ink
    of Her relentless tenderness
    from 'What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda'
  • On with the boring center line
    endlessly dividing though broken
    on purpose suggesting a way to veer.

    No guide needed here.
    Fear is the drive shaft,
    and longing turns the wheel.
    from 'A Gypsy Cab Author Caught In A Texas Milky Way, A Letter Poem To M. Meursault'
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