Kenneth Patchen Quotes

You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world: And each is the work of all.

O my love my dear lady
The world is not very big
There is only room for our wonder
And the light leaning winds of heaven
Are not more sweet or pure
Than your mouth on my throat
O my love there are larks in our morning
And the finding flame of your hands
And the moss on the bank of the river
And the butterflies
And the whirling-mad
Butterflies!

To leave the earth was my wish, and no will stayed my rising.
Early, before sun had filled the roads with carts
Conveying folk to weddings and to murders;
Before men left their selves of sleep, to wander
In the dark of the world like whipped beasts.

Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were
broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the grave of God's
hand?
Do you want to acquaint the larks with the fatuous
music of war?

As we are so wonderfully done with each other
We can walk into our separate sleep
on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood
lies

The animal I wanted
Couldn't get into the world...
I can hear it crying
When I sit like this away from life.

You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road: And each is the work of all.<p> Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag... We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.

You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search: And each is the mission of all.<p> For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes The built cart out; and where we go is reason. But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.

Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers
My hands are crooked where they spilled over your dear
curving