Michael McClure – “Peyote Poem – Part 1”

September 9, 2008 at 9:35 pm (Poetry & Literature, The Beats)

Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker —
               the white walls reflecting the color of clouds
                    moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms
     not important — but like divisions of all space
               of all hideousness and beauty. I hear
                     the music of myself and write it down
           for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they
                sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit
      among the peoples of myself and know all
                                I need to know 

           there is a golden bed radiating all light
     the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes
                               I smile to myself. I know
             all there is to know. I see all there
                is to feel. I am friendly with the ache
                          in my belly. The answer
                to love is my voice. There is no time!
     No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling

                The answer to joy is joy without feeling

                The room is a multicolored cherub
     of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach
           is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain
                is many pointed, without anguish 
           Light changes the room from yellows to violet!
     The dark brown space behind the door is precious
           intimate, silent and still. The birthplace
                of Brahms. I know
           all that I need to know. There is no hurry 
     I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings 
           I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain 
           I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy 
                I smile at myself in my movements. Walking
                     I step higher in carefulness. I fill
           space with myself. I see the secret and distinct
                patterns of smoke from my mouth
           I am without care part of all. Distinct 
     I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.



     And grim intensity — close within myself. No longer
                                    a cloud
           but flesh real as rock. Like Herakles
                          of primordial substance and vitality 
           And not even afraid of the thing shorn of glamour
                          but accepting 
     The beautiful things are not of ourselves
                but I watch them. Among them.


                          And the Indian thing. It is true!
           Here in my apartment I think tribal thoughts.)


     There is no time. I am visited by a man
                who is the god of foxes
           there is dirt under the nails of his paw
                          fresh from his den 
           We smile at one another in recognition

           I am free from time. I accept it without triumph

                          — a fact

           Closing my eyes there are flashes of light

     My eyes won’t focus but leap. I see that I have three feet 
                I see seven places at once!
           The floor slants — the room slopes
                          things melt
             into each other. Flashes
                of light
           and meldings. I wait
     seeing the physical thing pass 
                I am on a mesa of time and space 
                          ! STOM-ACHE!
                Writing the music of life
                     in words 
                Hearing the round sounds of the guitar
                     as colors 
                Feeling the touch of flesh 
                Seeing the loose chaos of words
                on the page 
                     (ultimate grace)
           (Sweet Yeats and his ball of hashish.)


           My belly and I are two individuals
                joined together
                     in life.


                we smile with it.


           At the window I look into the blue-gray
                gloom of dreariness 
     I am warm. Into the dragon of space 
           I stare into clouds seeing
                their misty convolutions

                The whirls of vapor
     I will small clouds out of existence 
     They become fish devouring each other 
     And change like Dante’s holy spirits
     becoming an osprey frozen skyhigh
                to challenge me.


1 Comment

  1. r2write said,


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