In France, a young Rene Rilke sings:
“For the sake of a single poem—you must see
Many cities, many people and things, &
Know the gestures which small flowers make
When they open in the morning. You must
Be able to think back to streets in unknown
Neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters,
& to partings you have long seen coming.”
In Chile, a nobler Neruda hungers publicly:
“If only love would spread its savor through me!
—not to go one moment more without spring!
What I sold into sorrow was only my hands,
Dearest: now leave me with your kisses.
There’s nothing here but light, quantities, clusters,
Space opened by the graces of the wind
Till it gives up the final secret of the foam.”
In Manhattan, Ted Berrigan, on little sleep, gets up again:
“For my sins I live in the city
Where love can stay for only a minute
To every point along the circle of horizon
By the light of the moon the blazing sun
whose song comes up
From the throat of a hummingbird & it ends
Where the sun goes to across the skies of blue.”
Meanwhile, you’ll find me right here
Corner of Queens Boulevard & 40th Street
Among the fingers of the light & the sleeping eyes
Where they see shimmering in moonlight
These lines the selves are gathered by
I, Paolo Javier, the Original Brown Boy
Submitting, finally, to you:
“Me too.”
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