Happy Birthday Kenneth Rexroth

Rexroth Today is the birthday of poet Kenneth Rexroth, born in 1905 in South Bend, Indiana. He was a lifelong activist, naturalist, translator of Japanese and Chinese poetry, critic, and iconoclast. He refused to be labeled a Beat poet. And he wrote some of the sexiest love poetry around—discovering him in high school set the bar high for a certain type of literary passion I aspired to, and on looking back I very much appreciate that. From warmer climes than New York City on an icy morning:

When We With Sappho

“. . . about the cool water
the wind sounds through sprays
of apple, and from the quivering leaves
slumber pours down . . .”

We lie here in the bee filled, ruinous
Orchard of a decayed New England farm,
Summer in our hair, and the smell
Of summer in our twined bodies,
Summer in our mouths, and summer
In the luminous, fragmentary words
Of this dead Greek woman.
Stop reading. Lean back. Give me your mouth.
Your grace is as beautiful as sleep.
You move against me like a wave
That moves in sleep.
Your body spreads across my brain
Like a bird filled summer;
Not like a body, not like a separate thing,
But like a nimbus that hovers
Over every other thing in all the world.
Lean back. You are beautiful,
As beautiful as the folding
Of your hands in sleep.

We have grown old in the afternoon.
Here in our orchard we are as old
As she is now, wherever dissipate
In that distant sea her gleaming dust
Flashes in the wave crest
Or stains the murex shell.
All about us the old farm subsides
Into the honey bearing chaos of high summer.
In those far islands the temples
Have fallen away, and the marble
Is the color of wild honey.
There is nothing left of the gardens
That were once about them, of the fat
Turf marked with cloven hooves.
Only the sea grass struggles
Over the crumbled stone,
Over the splintered steps,
Only the blue and yellow
Of the sea, and the cliffs
Red in the distance across the bay.
Lean back.
Her memory has passed to our lips now.
Our kisses fall through summer’s chaos
In our own breasts and thighs.

Gold colossal domes of cumulus cloud
Lift over the undulant, sibilant forest.
The air presses against the earth.
Thunder breaks over the mountains.
Far off, over the Adirondacks,
Lightning quivers, almost invisible
In the bright sky, violet against
The grey, deep shadows of the bellied clouds.
The sweet virile hair of thunder storms
Brushes over the swelling horizon.
Take off your shoes and stockings.
I will kiss your sweet legs and feet
As they lie half buried in the tangle
Of rank scented midsummer flowers.
Take off your clothes. I will press
Your summer honeyed flesh into the hot
Soil, into the crushed, acrid herbage
Of midsummer. Let your body sink
Like honey through the hot
Granular fingers of summer.

Rest. Wait. We have enough for a while.
Kiss me with your mouth
Wet and ragged, your mouth that tastes
Of my own flesh. Read to me again
The twisting music of that language
That is of all others, itself a work of art.
Read again those isolate, poignant words
Saved by ancient grammarians
To illustrate the conjugations
And declensions of the more ancient dead.
Lean back in the curve of my body,
Press your bruised shoulders against
The damp hair of my body.
Kiss me again. Think, sweet linguist,
In this world the ablative is impossible.
No other one will help us here.
We must help ourselves to each other.
The wind walks slowly away from the storm;
Veers on the wooded crests; sounds
In the valleys. Here we are isolate,
One with the other; and beyond
This orchard lies isolation,
The isolation of all the world.
Never let anything intrude
On the isolation of this day,
These words, isolate on dead tongues,
This orchard, hidden from fact and history,
These shadows, blended in the summer light,
Together isolate beyond the world’s reciprocity.

Do not talk any more. Do not speak.
Do not break silence until
We are weary of each other.
Let our fingers run like steel
Carving the contours of our bodies’ gold.
Do not speak. My face sinks
In the clotted summer of your hair.
The sound of the bees stops.
Stillness falls like a cloud.
Be still. Let your body fall away
Into the awe filled silence
Of the fulfilled summer —
Back, back, infinitely away —
Our lips weak, faint with stillness.

See. The sun has fallen away.
Now there are amber
Long lights on the shattered
Boles of the ancient apple trees.
Our bodies move to each other
As bodies move in sleep;
At once filled and exhausted,
As the summer moves to autumn,
As we, with Sappho, move towards death.
My eyelids sink toward sleep in the hot
Autumn of your uncoiled hair.
Your body moves in my arms
On the verge of sleep;
And it is as though I held
In my arms the bird filled
Evening sky of summer.

—1944

(Photo by Nat Farbman, February 1957, from the LIFE Magazine archives.)

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6 Comments to Happy Birthday Kenneth Rexroth

  1. December 22, 2009 at 7:01 pm | Permalink

    Woooooo! What an introduction to a poet!
    I like these lines the best –
    “… Let your body sink
    Like honey through the hot
    Granular fingers of summer. …”
    Precisely an image I’m enjoying on a freezing cold winter’s day.

  2. December 22, 2009 at 7:25 pm | Permalink

    Nice! Thanks for posting that, Lisa. I read the poem and then I clicked around and listened to some Rexroth. Just love the way he reads (Ferlinghetti reads in the same vein).
    You can listen to him read ‘A girl in a torn nightgown…’ here: http://jacketmagazine.com/23/rex-audio.html
    After I listened, I read the poem you posted quite differently.

  3. Mary Catherine's Gravatar Mary Catherine
    December 23, 2009 at 2:57 am | Permalink

    Gosh. Thanks.

  4. Florence's Gravatar Florence
    December 23, 2009 at 8:21 am | Permalink

    Mmmm. Thanks, Lisa.

  5. December 23, 2009 at 11:25 am | Permalink

    Oh, my.

  6. Margarita's Gravatar Margarita
    December 24, 2009 at 12:15 am | Permalink

    Delish! amazing(from someone who is a self-professed non-appreciator of poetry). Thanks, Lisa

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