I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a
temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest.
For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the
world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I
cover her against any hurt.
Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her
pillow with singing.
Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at
early morning.
-- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled
place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and
all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions.
O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon
her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . .
where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.
I also love the collaborations that Patchen did with himself producing artwork/visual poems.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A poet of unusual originality and strength. A voice like no other. Most important, a man from among all of us. A lover of mankind who is also deeply rooted in labor.