After Dante Alighieri’s Vita Nuova…

“He who has no sympathy with myths has no sympathy with men.” 
—G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man
 
“First, if any opinion is compelled to silence, that opinion may, 
for aught we can certainly know, be true. To deny this is to assume 
our own infallibility.” 
—J.S. Mill, On Liberty 

First Beginning

Into my mind there came the gentle orb-weaver
Spider, who, in order to show the natural laws,
Invited both the sun and me to tea. The sight of its web…

Second Beginning

Into my mind there came the gentle maple leaf
Whose shadow stepped on sunlight’s paw. Cold Spring
Creek plays the flute and make believe. The sight of my ebb 

Got moonlight’s claw abusing drugs ad lib. There is no way
That this can be explained to those who are unwilling
To purchase an ounce of humility from Tamanawas Falls;

But to the willing, the meaning is clearer than Falls Creek
In June. From Tamanawas Falls, I first heard the poem
That begins: “Shame is virtue’s hiding place.” 

“Shame is virtue’s hiding place. You’re just the man
I want, but just a man, so half of what I want. Priorities,
From this day forward, come with spiritual pruritus.

Don’t write off the stars. No two threes are exactly alike
Down here. I sit so patiently, with you in this minute’s maw, 
And can’t believe you’re as smart as you believe you are, 

Standing so naïve and satisfied with half the truth 
And even less of awe. If gratitude is self-control’s right 
Hand, its sturdy stuff is anti-death and anti-hell; both yours 

To spin and yours to spill. The golden eagle of the midnight 
Legion is never still. It marches toward memory’s merry 
Meridian. To move beyond its troubled past, your 21st-century 

Lifestyle rejected ways it never fully knew; it uses the world
To reach for greener suns and fruit-bearing walls.” This 
Sonnet has many parts: the first tells how Tamanawas Falls

Laughs at my humble ideology and idealism, wishing (as it 
Always does) high art to be realistic; the second tells
What love said in evening’s golden voice on the pale

Surface of Olallie Lake; the third relates how, after I was
Not anointed (ah, but the prettiest protest reduces what
Erodes), I walked all night from Durham Road to Dartmouth, 
 
Craving bánh mì. I feel like a thousand bishops doing push-ups. 
I know a large meal after fasting makes a vivid dream.
I’ll carry Milwaukie’s most milquetoast scimitar tomorrow.