P. 15-16 June 7 by Kenneth Patchen Lyrics
June 7
The feeling of love for all beings. The days pass without blemish of any kind. How true it is that every man his own level, his own geography. I am content to drink at my own lake, to walk on my own hills. How little I wish ill to anyone. Yet, and this thought is never far from my mind -- what frauds we practice on our neighbors. We permit no one into the web of flesh where we have our home. "There was never a better friend," we say, we really mean, "He never bothered me, nor I him."
With every passing hour, we retreat more deeply into ourselves. With each advancing moment, the Self retreats from us. We are cemeteries where lay sleeping the millions of men who bare our destiny.
What are values? Is what happens in a grasshopper's head a value? Today I went into the hills, sun was shining, I sat down beside a stream and a cow approached to drink. She had a good look in her eyes, and I felt lonely.
"What's it like to be a cow?" I asked her.
"Why should I tell you?" She answered, so politely, dripping water from her spongy lips.
"I'm writing a book and I'd sort of like to record your point of view."
"In that case," she said, "I'll tell you. Do you know the story of the wren and the mole?"
I was compelled to admit that I didn't.
"Then the story of the grasshopper who fell in love with a water-lily? Surely you know that?"
Again, I had to confess that I didn't.
"Do you know why the little men in the grass are unable to eat barley?"
I shook my head.
"I can't explain anything to you," she said.
The feeling of love for all beings. The days pass without blemish of any kind. How true it is that every man his own level, his own geography. I am content to drink at my own lake, to walk on my own hills. How little I wish ill to anyone. Yet, and this thought is never far from my mind -- what frauds we practice on our neighbors. We permit no one into the web of flesh where we have our home. "There was never a better friend," we say, we really mean, "He never bothered me, nor I him."
With every passing hour, we retreat more deeply into ourselves. With each advancing moment, the Self retreats from us. We are cemeteries where lay sleeping the millions of men who bare our destiny.
What are values? Is what happens in a grasshopper's head a value? Today I went into the hills, sun was shining, I sat down beside a stream and a cow approached to drink. She had a good look in her eyes, and I felt lonely.
"What's it like to be a cow?" I asked her.
"Why should I tell you?" She answered, so politely, dripping water from her spongy lips.
"I'm writing a book and I'd sort of like to record your point of view."
"In that case," she said, "I'll tell you. Do you know the story of the wren and the mole?"
I was compelled to admit that I didn't.
"Then the story of the grasshopper who fell in love with a water-lily? Surely you know that?"
Again, I had to confess that I didn't.
"Do you know why the little men in the grass are unable to eat barley?"
I shook my head.
"I can't explain anything to you," she said.