Warren Falcon Quotes

One cannot be sweet toward all except in mind alone. Alone, the hog loves lowly, loves slowly, but it loves thing by thing which, something, is a beginning. I am for something.
from 'Hog Which, Something, Is A Beginning - For Tom Gone Awandering, Somewhat Shakespherical'
For Workers everywhere, bricks, straw, verse. The breast naturally of Woman is bread before there was bread, the child the loaf swelling in Her arms to farm & from such frame a world. Thus Labor. Bread is History. Child's toil, unspoiled, forms a culture beast, he crawls forth, makes bread of soil native & other, a Mother culture all & still, everywhere.
from 'History Before Lunch Was Ever'
...while reading 'Z'** evoke old ward Jews, Italians, horse-drawn venders, runners about with carts heaving, vegetable griefs returned to church to synagogue dark-alley dead-ends where what is left out of grief is carved into bricks with knives (O what is the name, lost perhaps, of he who once sharpened all our knives?) : THIS OUR LIFE SOME FEW RETURN TO HEAR/SEE EVIDENCE OF THE NATURE OF A CITY IS TO CONTINUALLY ERASE ITSELF
from 'History Before Brunch Was Ever' **'Z' is the lifetime poetry opus of American poet Louis Zukofsky
A gardener dressed in bright red work clothes is planting tulip bulbs nearby. Looks like a tulip himself. Old tulip petals stack up. Stalks. See, his hands moving slow, gentle. Why, he's singing into dirt older than cities. Either he's in love or I am. Roots splay up gray reaching for his eyes. That's love all right. I think but don't say it. I see those withered tulips. See? I'm seeing. What's he mean mask? A young woman rolls up her short sleeves to her shoulders so that the sun may warm them. She's fair. Arms red as her hair. Already. Almost. Her eyes are closed. Face up toward the sun. Ah sunflower weary of time, I say. What? Where's that from? he says. Bastard's curious. Hypocrite. William Blake. The Sunflower. I say. I point to the girl. Motion toward the sunflowers in a patch beyond the fountain. He just stares, Shakes his head. I see, I say, and I hear. I hear in response to seeing. What I do. I hear the rhythmic squeak and grind of a swing behind us, a child's little feet are kicking high as the swing climbs. I know that. Don't have to see it. Glimpse a yellow cab passing on the street disappearing behind the yellow sunflowers. Cricket right on time starts to insist in the shrub to our right. I think but don't say it, Poems to a Brown Cricket. Hello Father Wright**. What's not to praise, I mutter.
from 'Ok Mister Rogers Of Zen. I Do.'
I will not speak of dawn's greatness, how you quickly forget. You say that I repeat myself often, am limited in expression to only a few notes, clipped patterns in the song, the cryptic call always an ellipsis. Boring, you say. Interpretations, really, it's all in the inflection after all the years now. Now there's always the dancing too in powder blue without shoes or need of them, claws nicely do the deed is done the changeling comes note that I am singing to you how the way it's done. I tell you the weather but do you listen? For love, shall I say it again? I shall say it again.
from ' I Can't Close My Eyes, What Dreams Are For'
...one cannot say too much about rivers—their irreverence of edges scored, spilling themselves, proclaiming natural gods deeper than memory yet dependent upon memory for traced they must be in every human activity no matter the breech, for something there is to teach even deity though it may be wrong to do so, or hearsay to say it or sing, but the song is there for those whose ears are broken onto bottoms from which cry urgencies of Being and Between, dutiful banks barely containing the straining Word.
from 'Paean - Tennessee River
because much there is in image melody, blood song, appealing oranges in the wooden bowl a monk once gave "handmade for poets, " (he whispers) bending forward as if to lunge pointing toward the heart and what is left between its beginning lilt there and the pretending to end though displaced air and silence be captivated, miscreant tongues at work in darkness and breath. What remains, remains.
from 'It Bears No Rhythm In Its Head'
a wild stallion counts his sins in mares
from ' Words Of An Old Poet To The Younger'
You emerge from the bath reaching for the towel, soft, obeying daily habit, wipes you dry, each cleft, the pit of my longing rubbed without caution. Much there is I will make of this moment, drying your back as I have daily done - once began the rite first night, gathering now the last one o when the towel easily un- folded, drank woven little mouths many deeply into what has become natural in me with the wiping. In this I am become free now of thinking intent to this my task to last this minute or two, to linger, each is become a touch this one and this
from 'Woven Little Mouths Many'
Rain persuades even the dead that it bears no rhythm in its head and I am persuaded most thinking again "of the bewitchment upon that hill" the forest fire that startles holy there, the captured hands among leaves do ramble, crab and out-star bestowal beyond what can be said of it
from 'It Bears No Rhythm In Its Head'