Warren Falcon Quotes
''Dear Low,from ' 'Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Remote Mountains For Manhattan, Circa 1981
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
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.''
''Arriving late to lovefrom ' Annunciation- for Cesar Vallejo'
the broken tower
mourns its ringing ruin.
Long drought of air
stills the clapper.
But one breath, Trembler,
Muteness falls away.
Frightened doves scatter.
Annunciation of rafters:
how to sway.
Who pulls the rope
fly up from
''We lay together, two wrecks, Love,from 'Here Come The Wild Birds Again - Poem For Painters & Poets'
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'''
''This ancient tonguingfrom 'David To Jonathan, A Lost Psalm Recovered, Recent Translation, Circa 1978'
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 O this,from 'Sleep Walk'
this midnight stagger,
nothing hurt but trembling
hand shaking to dryness,
the other leaning into yellow''
''shall I call then eternityfrom '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'
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
''Each night there must be one, out there,from 'Upon This Wide Water, For Staten Island Ferry, Circa 1985, Manhattan'
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 -
''far where my Motherfrom 'What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda'
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
''by Her presence, Herfrom 'What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda'
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''
''On with the boring center linefrom 'A Gypsy Cab Author Caught In A Texas Milky Way, A Letter Poem To M. Meursault'
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.''
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Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.
The ground assumes its portent.
The good of the season remains in what is left behind.
It takes what lays down or is laid down upon it.
You'd think it a kind of king of accountants.
You'd sink down an addition of arithmetics,
heartbeats, breaths, footings found and lost,
all the unintended landings of a life.
You'd think it wouldn't stop.