Sunday, March 04, 2012

What We Fear

Sunspot Loops
—Photo by NASA, taken on a "quiet day"
for the sun, meaning there were no storms 
on its surface

—Kenneth Patchen

The golden blood of the sun
Floods down in splendid abandon;
And what is full of dread
Dreams within the heart—for look,
We expect most from what we fear.

Even in this sun, which spreads its glorious
Image on our lives, is only caught
Again by the great frozen hand
Which tossed it forth. For think,
Wouldn't it be more a sun
If just once it could elude Him? If just once
It missed the relentless fingers?

The great can be little.
The fun of being God would be
In being nothing;
To really live, we should be dead too.
Isn't all our dread a dread of being
Just here? of being only this?
Of having no other thing to become?
Of having nowhere to go really
But where we are?

What power has the sun
If it must remain the sun?
We are afraid that one day the hand
Will not catch us when we come;
That the remorseless fingers will not close over us.

And I think that is our strongest will—
The reason all our dreams of paradise
Are dreams of an unlimited disorder
In a lawless anonymity.