HPN

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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 5

YEARNING FOR THE STARS

The stars are fresh
the wind is stiff
it is winter
I yearn for
the stars
some god
is leaning on
his celestial
plow, massive
Olympian oaf,
shoulder to plow
stubborn and muscular ox
made from the stuff of stars –
rude, black, sooty, bold, strong
and bush-browed, putting his
back into it, whetted with God-sweat;
the progress of hoof and furrow Is
slow as time in star territory, sd
god (the ox) to man the fool
(following hurriedly behind
his god-master) carrying
a basket of seed potatoes,
singing praise songs re:
his legendary relationship
with his legendary god, (who
is intent on the legendary
path of his plow, not men,
crushing stars into rock,
rock into soil, furrow by
furrow) -- this sad ritual
of self-negation before
a silly He-God expressing
sexual hotheadedness on
earth (as it is in heaven,
with a dull knife); all hail
the leading edge of
human ingenuity,
fired by lightning
His sweat
His brow
His cock
His brain
Senseless!
wrangled
like a yoke
of leather
and oak,
ivy and bone,
while the
greenwood,
so recently cut
from forests, sings
its anglo saxon
reverences, in
bonfires far
and wide,
to sullen
signal
mountaintops

  George Wallace