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About The Poem
I was sitting in a high school classroom daydreaming, as usual. Come to think of it, I wrote a lot of my poems either in school, or wandering around the Yale campus downtown. Actually, I enjoyed the city too, with its architecture and the sky. That is why we call it a skyline, the merging of our dreams with what is given. It's a neat visual line, I mean it's complex but it's clean for the most part, the line between our dreams and eternity. And where there are lines there is music.
We were in Europe when I was small, and this poem is a kind of distant echo of a lost world. At the same time, it's pretty universal.
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Village
On a table standing in the grass—
Victorian bones of wood clashing with
spider blades -
Rests the sky rocking softly
as the ever lightly haze
brought forth from tremors of vastness
echoes from an empty hall filled with
silent wind
and colors.
Wind
behind my eyes
fills my forehead with hair
waxes my cheeks
dries my lips
From the village where the people live
the church bell is ringing noon:
Wafting sensations of stew, of sauce, of
meat, unstoppered wine, sense of
being somewhere else or nowhere
(hunger) but how possibly in this place?
The hay, the hay, Jean Pierre
The tails off the carrots, quick!
Come, children, we shall pray;
Eat, for it is given;
yes, the fields
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