Still More Writings From Dresden

And the poems continue...LOL!

If you were Rilke,
Then what, to you, am I? Nothing
And as well...if it makes
That sort of difference.
My blue-tinted swan and if you were
Then would the World become
Austria, I there, on
Some Godforsaken out-skirt,
Still, conceiving that often,
A little is enough.
If you were Rommel,
Then, perhaps, more than
Aimless words and meandering
Notes on description, and
I, following suit,
Which was the point to begin with, and
If you were Auden, would
There still be that edge of composition,
Comparative to the poor sense of
Phrases I write all to capture
What cannot simply be, and
If you were Luther,
I would be on the other
side of the Cathedral

You are not
Shiloh. He, more so, he
Is yet remembered from
The principle of it,
You are
Oh, therein, therein
My Winter-left reminiscing, grasping,
Last-breath quality,
That you laughed
In the hallway and in
Austria in
Dresden in
Prague a Flag flew.
Not Shiloh, tho',
It began it ended it was
And you were
I miss you
How, in a small capacity
Shiloh does not compensate

Where all This is concerned:
What is found, when Germany
Was Feudal, in state,
Varied princelings despite:
And still, prevalent
Ascendancy. You then.
Tiring, perhaps,
Roundabout metaphors and
Ducking Eastward to grasp
What inherently, may
Have always
We search everywhere
But the place from which we
I have used that before
And until your winging
Swan-shape imparts a final
Dazzle of lifting shadow
Along the water,
Than I will
Continue to do so

You are varied compass points.
Each way: yet, not West,
Perhaps, for I am here.
And what is,
Or is not, may
And the same, the same, when
The only one to remember is
The City, encompassing
All Ways
I stand and wait
If I could, turning my face
To Dresden (or where it would be, if so)
And letting the truth go.
It came to me.
You had, once,
And ever-realizing, there
Is no such thing
As One Time.
Thru' every open door,
Flashing Prussian Blue
And slight sun

Ireland's Mad.
A mother, wild-eyed, that
Beauty in Daftness.
Ah, gentle Yeats.
And how Auden must have
Bathed himself in
So many varied moments
To capture
"the barking dogs of Europe"
I love you.
As simple as saying
That a poet dies--and what
May be left
To remember.
O, you are not of
Mad Ireland, no my Berliner,
My Prussian, but that European
Sense in so many
Echelons of Though
And Language.
Mad Ireland,
And Simply--above all,

The fortunes of smiling
Fate and the perplexing
Blessings towards the
Poor sons of that Firestorm
And children of Dresden,
Those men, now, who
Hunt thru' the snow-kept
Forests, looking for faint
Senses of blooming
"The Flowers of the Forest"
In that,
Summed up. O, you
Among them! All that
You have seen, son of
European Wars.
And the heir to the beauty of
Fear nothing,
My Darling,
And in sifting sepia tones,
Let the flowers of Dresden
Brush across your

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