When Pussywillows Last in the Catyard Bloomed (rtf) by Roger Zelazny Page B

of yets.
We assemble ourselves slowly,
collecting pieces (such as the above).
Not all of them fit
and some should not have
but did (such as the above).
Yet... I lack. Many things.
But have the pussywillows,
and there are the cats
(envision them in heat if you would;
hear their drawn-out wet-baby wails;
hear them purr if you'd rather,
or spit).
    I have the yard.
The sun dies to the west of it,
placing me in an enviable position
stage left of moon and star.
Constellations chart themselves,
stick-figured: geometry,
parsimony, pieces...
Yet you are there, Old Bear,
despite;
and beyond, the God of Galaxies?
(Praise Him, praise Him, Van Doren?
I cannot.
I've learned when to keep my mouth shut.)
Regard and rejoice with me
if the piece be there.
Yet I lack the art critic's part.
Forgive.
    When pussywillows last in the catyard boomed—
Yes. I recall a day. Many days.
In the yard. The green and the gray.
The sun and the wind. Singing leaves to light.
A bird, a tree, a war.
He was there. The me
of me to come, memory-bound,
unknowing, yet of yets,
conjuring a self that did not come,
as I call spirits from the vasty deep.
Peace, piece. Summoned,
thou art there. The imaged word,
Hart, pussywillows anchored in its glow—
no farewells and unbetrayable—
you were right—
for there in the catyard—boom,
blooming, boomed—they grew,
were growing, grow.
    Child, I have come.
I bring, beneath the indulgence
of self and words, the love learned late,
the places drained of hate,
the extra reels of seeing.
Piece by piece, yet by yet,
I affirm what I affirm by denying
what I do not, negative man
of a thousand selves betrayed.
I have a center,
a place as still as a windless,
birdless, bugless day
without clouds.
And it is from this place
that I see you—
    In the catyard last when bloomed the pussywillows
walked I backward into my arms.
Yet.
Coming I have gone
and going will I be. Yet.
Madre de Firesong, Padre de Darkness,
walking is how I see myself,
always on hills or wet pavement,
city by night, country by day,
with no desire to rest,
hopefully conjured, always wondering,
never knowing, beginnings for endings
and vice-versa, piece-
meal, yet growing, like morning
or evening shadow. Some you,
in the pussywillowed yard of cats,
farewell me not,
but color, anchor me walking.
    Within are we all.
Slowly ourselves assemble we,
lacking accompanying thought,
singing stars to sinking, citying the sea,
we blood and bone about us,
pump spirit, populate the dimness
with past’s suns’ flicker, ray, day . . .
    I hang my yets on the catyard gate,
booming where pussywillows
last in the backward-turned time
evolved their reply,
whose accent denies my good-bye:
Yet, yet and yet. And I walk
singing not praise
but wonder,
part apart;
imagined cats dance at my heels,
at least as important, ever yet equally wise.

 
    BRAXA
    In a land of wind and red,
where the icy evening of Time
freezes milk in the breasts of Life,
as two moons overhead—
cat and dog in alleyways of dream—
scratch and scramble agelessl у my flight . . .
    This fin al flower turns a burning head.

 
    BRAHMAN TRIMURTI
    I
    Brahma! Creator!
Thy suppliants abound:
A diplomat,
A paranoid,
A Democrat,
A Man of Freud.
Before Thou,
Initiator,
All would bow—
Tomorrow’s door—
Create!
Renew!
Resolve!
Change things as they are.
Deflate,
Review,
Revolve!
Status quo and par.
     
    II
    Vishnu! Preserver!
Reactionaries’ forte.
Maintain!
Uphold!
Retain!
Infold!
Support the present!
Bar the change!
And hold the pleasant
Present range.
Mediocre middle!
Constant average!
To Thee we hie!
Here Thy minions bow.
Neither much nor little.
Grant our suffrage.
Hear Thou our cry:
Hold the Here and Now!
     
    III
    Shiva! Destroyer!
Eternal rebel’s liege!
Grant to wear!
Grant to bend!
Grant to tear!
Grant to rend!
Ere Thy Throne,
In legions ’round,
Madmen prone
Abound the