This poem was written to C. C. Ridge, in response to his nostalgia. The shape of the poem also alludes to one of his. I wrote it directly to him, but by that time we were separated, and perhaps he never read it. Gertsteintime For and after CCR There isnt a way back there. Go back to the place; no there is there that hasnt been modified by here and here. There was cause-driven, the same as here. There is sacred only as memory. There was green and golden--yes--but also raw, uncanny, early and unsure. There is a track that leads exactly here, assured arrival time, never a pause. To choose the chooser is the only cause. Go back there, youll see the traces, under six layers, red paint on the walls-- our paint. But the child that played in there is here, with all that is. There harbors a certain brash first light. Maybe youll find it, under the layers-- there! But what illumines here is here. No. What illumines here is there. Lacking there, here is astigmatic. Adam trips and falls down on his here. Anyway, there has never gone anywhere. Here and there are a timeless run. On the park bench, scan them: those brows, those hands, that inwardness, that keen, derisive memory. They all extend from there, are there. There is here: every leaf recalls, is, the acorn days, that power and that sun.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 14:57:48 +0000
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