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I Write For One And Only One Purpose, To Overcome The Invincible Ignorance Of The Traduced Heart. I Wish To Speak To And For Those Who Have Had Enough Of The Social Lie, The Economics Of Mass Murder, The Sexual Hoax, And The Domestication Of Conspicuous Consumption.

-Kenneth Rexroth

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I Write For One

Kenneth Rexroth

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I Write For One And Only One Purpose, To Overcome The Invincible Ignorance Of The Traduced Heart. I Wish To Speak To And For Those Who Have Had Enough Of The Social Lie, The Economics Of Mass Murder, The Sexual Hoax, And The Domestication Of Conspicuous Consumption.

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Love Is The Garment Of Knowledge.

The Meaning Of Life Can Be Revealed But Never Explained.

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You Learn Nothing If You Carry With You A Journalistic System Of Values, Which Is Invented To Save Reporters From Experience.

We Have Forgotten Love, And Sat Lonely Beside Each Other. We Have Eaten Together, Lonely Behind Our Plates, We Have Hidden Behind Children, We Have Slept Together In A Lonely Bed. Now My Heart Turns Toward You, Awake At Last, Penitent, Lost In The Last Loneliness. Speak To Me. Talk To Me. Break The Black Silence.

Harvey , Galileo , Copernicus Do Not Seem Occult To Us, But They Did So To Their Contemporaries, Hierophants Of The Mysteries Of Natural Law, Revealers Of The Secrets Of A New Order Of The Ages. After All, The Movement Eventually Came To Be Called The Age Of Enlightenment.

It Takes Great Labor To Uncover The Convincing Simple Speech Of The Heart. Poetic Candor Comes With Hard Labor, So Even Does Impetuosity And Impudence.

It Is A Commonplace That Racine Is Untranslatable. This Is Not Because His Verse Is Difficult, But Because It Is Not.

There Have Always Been Those Who, Though They See Tragedy As The Outcome Of Freedom, Will Nevertheless Judge That Tragedy Is Not Too High A Price To Pay.

Against The Ruin Of The World, There Is Only One Defense: The Creative Act.

The Basic Line In Any Good Verse Is Cadenced... Building It Around The Natural Breath Structures Of Speech.

Erotic Love Is One Of The Highest Forms Of Contemplation.

When The Newspapers Have Got Nothing Else To Talk About, They Cut Loose On The Young. The Young Are Always News. If They Are Up To Something, That's News. If They Aren't, That's News Too.

I Write For One And Only One Purpose, To Overcome The Invincible Ignorance Of The Traduced Heart. I Wish To Speak To And For Those Who Have Had Enough Of The Social Lie, The Economics Of Mass Murder, The Sexual Hoax, And The Domestication Of Conspicuous Consumption.

A White Crowned Night Sparrow Sings As The Moon Sets. Thunder Growls Far Off. Our Campfire Is A Single Light. Amongst A Hundred Peaks And Waterfalls. The Manifold Voices Of Falling Water Take All Night. Wrapped In Your Down Bag Starlight On You Cheeks And Eyelids Your Breath Comes And Goes In A Tiny Cloud In The Frosty Night. Ten Thousand Birds Sing In The Sunrise. Ten Thousand Years Revolve Without Change. All This Will Never Be Again.

The Mature Man Lives Quietly, Does Good Privately, Takes Responsibility For His Actions, Treats Others With Friendliness And Courtesy, Finds Mischief Boring And Avoids It. Without The Hidden Conspiracy Of Goodwill, Society Would Not Endure An Hour.

I've Been Around Jazz And Jazz Musicians Most Of My Life.

Crooked Cards And Straight Whiskey, Slow Horses And Fast Women.

Maturity Is Having The Ability To Escape Categorization.

As Aristotle Said, You Have To Be An Aristocrat Or A Reactionary To Write A Good Proletarian Poem.

An Entomologist Is Not A Bug.

The Free, Creative, Loving People Who Shine So Brightly In My Memory Of Studios And Coffee Shops Have Become Models For A Huge Section Of The Population. If They In Turn Can Just Stay Alive In The Face Of Power And Terror, They May Become The Decisive Section.

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

Victorian Society Was Homogeneous Without Being Homogenized. It Was, To Paraphrase The Epigram About Parliament, A Society Of Extreme Eccentrics Who Agreed So Well That They Could Afford To Differ.

The Dumping Of The Mentally Ill, Full Of These New Psychiatric Drugs, Into The Streets Is A Scandal. It's Been Carried Furthest In New York, Where Whole Sections Of The Decayed Upper West Side Are Being Filled With Pensioners And Psychotic Patients On Stelazine, Lithium Carbonate, And Everything Else Under The Sun. They Can't Diagnose The Patient, So They Give Him The Whole Psychiatric Pharmacopoeia At Once, And He Walks Around In A Psychotic Trance Beautifully Painted All Over With Petrochemicals.

Marriage Is The Last Sacrament Available To Modern Man, And With The Terrible Destruction Of Interpersonal Relations By Capitalism And Its War-making State, It Is Not Very Available, Nor Is It Surely Enduring. But Then, Vision Does Not Come With Guarantees.

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Today We Hear A Great Deal About Organizational Men, Mass Culture, Conformity, The Lonely Crowd, The Power Elite And Its Conspiracy Of Mediocrity. We Forget That The Very Volume Of This Criticism Is An Indication That Our Society Is Still Radically Pluralistic. Not Only Are There Plenty Of Exceptionalists Who Take Exception To The Stereotyping Of The Mass Culture But That Very String Of Epithets Comes From A Series Of Books That Have Been Recent Best-sellers, Symptoms Of A Popular, Living Tradition Of Dissent From Things As They Are.

Art Is The Reasoned Derangement Of The Senses.

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The Modern Sensibility Attempts To Drain The Contents Of Experience; These Greek Poets Strive To State The Fact So Poignantly That It Becomes An Ever-flowing Spring As Sappho Says, "more Real Than Real, More Gold Than Gold.

Lost In Loneliness And Pain. Black And Unendurable, Thinking Of You With Every Corpuscle Of My Flesh, In Every Instant Of Night And Day.

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The Moral Issues With Which Marcus Struggles Would Be, As He Points Out, Unchanged Whether The Universe Were Mechanical And Devoid Of Meaning Or Value Or Ruled By Deity Or Providence; Whether The Will Were In Fact Free Or Determined; Whether There Were Or Were Not A Future Life, Or Any Even Fugitive Rewards And Punishments At All.

Poetry Has Ceased To Be A Public Art And Has Become, As Whitehead Said Of Religion, "what Man Does With His Aloneness.

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