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Incantation for Henry Miller
By Joe DiCarlo
Copyright 1967 Joe DiCarlo
A poem in which the writer expresses his concern for the human condition.
Calling calling into the reservoir of life
Incantations I make, Incantations I call
Incantations that play me like a wire whistled by the wind.
Hard long thin every part of me I joyfully surrender to the song,
A grief song I joyously sing assuaging my neighbor's heart in China;
Incantations I make for my song
For the sake of my song that plays me as I must rhythmically dazzle in the night of all our minds,
Against black I dazzle
Against hate whistle wire orchestrate a drumming of the heart.
Something to chant, I want
Something to beat again on natives drums
Something to sing for every man in the street
Reach every lonely 20-watt lite-bulb of a heart
closeted in any dark shack,
The power system, I want to turn on
The great dynamos turn on
The great feeling systems relocate
The forgotten man raise on high like a soul
hoisted out of an ape carcass
Come screaming raging into the lite of day
One stem of a new flower.
All those who fell not, I want, who see not, I want
The thick-skinned Cain I want
The murderers who reap the whirlwind fleeing before the thunder.
My family is unhappy, there is no peace in my land,
And cautious men sing cautiously a song proposing caution
Till Cain, blackened by many suns, kills again in blind fury,
and kills again and again.
Who will sing for Cain?
Who will sing for the shunned man?
His face is hideous, the mark on his forehead is hideous
Who will sing for him?
Who will die for him?
Come to me, do not hesitate, I will feed you
Come to me, or to me, or to me.
These I want to whom I am more than to any of the rest,
I loaf and invite them to feed upon my soul.
This is the covenant of the new testament which is made for you
and for many.
My family is unhappy, there is not peace in my land
Weakly I retreat to the fortress of my imagination,
I fix my sights on some paleolithic factory
of grim smokestack battlements
With a spectroscope I note the exact shade of the dull cold steel grey of the sky
And determine whether there is any lead in it.
I catalogue polluted rivers,
And hold the image of fender-twisted toppling rusting car-huld
scrapyard happenings before your eyes.
The only antidote to this world will be violent and blasting beautiful,
No mincing poet of calm capacities but rather big reserve of
hurricane and ocean.
But words only, blasting , ideas blasting.
Calling calling into the reservoir of life
Incantations I make, Incantations I call
Incantations that play me like a wire whistled by the wind.
Fire and ice, I want
The perpetual flux, I want,
The great rushing, mixing of the poles, I want,
All things co-mingled in the dust, I want,
The mixing of the East and West, I want,
The mixing of the high and low, I want,
All things co-mingled for the morning sun
To start anew.
All this in spite of myself I want
The cup is bitter but it will not pass, not now,
The force of life that governs all, now calls
To break the static stagnant mold, so old
To witness coitus of the universe, unfold --
miscegenation of the stars
The backed up waters of the gods untold,
Will break to smithereens all our dikes, and levees,
and our hearts so cold.