Transformations

R1

So let me address you muse
In marigold spangles of twilight,
In silver reminiscence of the dawn, memories
If memories be water -- gathering, crying, suckling
In whirlpools of imagination,
In eddies of effulgent prayer, in real
And unrealized creation, syncopated or lapping
In the lines of meditations, red or blue alike -- red
Because the eye is robbed of sleep, red
Because the mind is seduced of its fancies, finally red,
The color of birth, the overcast shadow of death;
And blue to entwine them, bind them, blue to gather them all
Where the purple embankments of shadows lie, horizons
Sprinkling spice of paprika crushed clouds; blue to bud, yes, finally bud,
Into unknown fragrance of peas
-- Because the mixing of things is established and not the same,
-- Because the mixing of things produces qualities unmatched in anything known,
-- Because the mixing of things is a salvation, a tide more pure
Than the tidings it brings. So if we ring bells,
If we sweep the world in a horse's tail,
If we make or finally become electric bolts,
It was really only the rising, really and finally only
The gathering transformation of clouds,
The breaking and streaking of moonlit dawns.

O

So let me address you muse,
In gold spangling of twilight,
In the silver reminiscence of the dawn,
Memories, if memories were water,
Gathering, crying, sucking
In whirlpools of imagination,
In eddies of effulgent prayer,
In realized and unreal creations,
Syncopated or lapping
In the lines of meditations, red or blue alike:
Red, because the eye is robbed of sleep,
Red, because the mind is seduced of fancies,
Red, finally, because it is the color of birth,
It is the overcast shadow of death;
And blue to entwine, blue to gather them all,
Blue to bring the spice of purple horizons,
Blue to bud, yes, finally to bud into unknown fragrances
-- Because the mixing of things is the same and not the same,
-- Because the mixing of things produces qualities unmatched in anything known,
-- Because the mixing of things is a salvation, is a tide more
Than the tidings it brings. So if we ring bells,
If we sweep the world with a horse's tail,
If we make or finally become electric bolts,
It was really only the rising,
It was really and finally only the gathering transformation of clouds,
The breaking and the streaking,
Incandescence of a sunlit moon.