what it was like
Posted: September 29th, 2014, 1:13 am
I was not a French surrealist in the twenties
for forty some odd years I have wanted to know
"what it was like" per Philip Lamantia
I remember his speaking of Chartres cathedral
that night on the phone, all those years ago
his words were forged in alchemical gold
how ever he made them up on the spot
he had all this secret history of the core group
he studied California Indians and local birds
his words have been translating in my head
since the ancient of days, that night on the phone
If the Chartres cathedral was made of his poetry
like the symbols that were coded into that house
it would make not any difference,or all the difference
viva la difference, there is a special place in France
or as my grandmother use to say, "oh the poor people
in France", when I would not eat my crust of bread
but what mattered to me, was the sound of the voice
that poured those thrice gypsy kissed words into my ear
and the connection to events that influenced the poets
to make those connections from the literal elements
and the crumbs of bread that the local birds ate
outside the entrance to the church made of magic words
near the end of his life Philip wanted to read,' Maldoror'
at a midnight mass in a North Beach cathedral, however
it did not come to pass, even so, he knew "what it was like"
for forty some odd years I have wanted to know
"what it was like" per Philip Lamantia
I remember his speaking of Chartres cathedral
that night on the phone, all those years ago
his words were forged in alchemical gold
how ever he made them up on the spot
he had all this secret history of the core group
he studied California Indians and local birds
his words have been translating in my head
since the ancient of days, that night on the phone
If the Chartres cathedral was made of his poetry
like the symbols that were coded into that house
it would make not any difference,or all the difference
viva la difference, there is a special place in France
or as my grandmother use to say, "oh the poor people
in France", when I would not eat my crust of bread
but what mattered to me, was the sound of the voice
that poured those thrice gypsy kissed words into my ear
and the connection to events that influenced the poets
to make those connections from the literal elements
and the crumbs of bread that the local birds ate
outside the entrance to the church made of magic words
near the end of his life Philip wanted to read,' Maldoror'
at a midnight mass in a North Beach cathedral, however
it did not come to pass, even so, he knew "what it was like"