We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
One The man bent over his guitar, A shearsman of sorts. The day was green. They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are." The man replied, "Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar." And they said to him, "But play, you must, A tune beyond us, yet ourselves, A tune upon the blue guitar, Of things exactly as they are."
Two I cannot bring a world quite round, Although I patch it as I can. I sing a hero's head, large eye And bearded bronze, but not a man, Although I patch him as I can And reach through him almost to man. If a serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
---read last two verses on continuation page below
Three A tune beyond us as we are, Yet nothing changed by the blue guitar; Ourselves in tune as if in space, Yet nothing changed, except the place Of things as they are and only the place As you play them on the blue guitar, Placed, so, beyond the compass of change, Perceived in a final atmosphere; For a moment final, in the way The thinking of art seems final when The thinking of god is smoky dew. The tune is space. The blue guitar Becomes the place of things as they are, A composing of senses of the guitar.
Four Tom-tom c'est moi. The blue guitar And I are one. The orchestra Fills the high hall with shuffling men High as the hall. The whirling noise Of a multitude dwindles, all said, To his breath that lies awake at night. I know that timid breathing. Where Do I begin and end? And where, As I strum the thing, do I pick up That which momentarily declares Itself not to be I and yet Must be. It could be nothing else.
Some biographical info on the great Connecticut poet and insurance executive here.
...and you start to think, reading down, that the palm could be not the tree but the palm of your hand, that is 'at the end of the mind' because 'beyond the last thought' must be death, because fools rush in where angels fear to tread, because the wicked flee when none pursue, because your mind is fluid but your body is snot, because a rapt mind heeds no wrapped time, hears no rap on chamber door, because the fire-fangled feathers that dangle down are sign of the raptor bird that hunts by talon not beak, that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, that enough is not enough if it isn't when it is, so that ''enough IS enough'' becomes the thought that must be coming next to the last, as it does in the next to last line of the poem, where at the end of time and space the hand of fate has come back to the tree of knowledge, wherein 'the wind moves slowly in the branches' because among the other reasons in 1954 you wind the time piece slowly not to over tension the spring and leave your watch dead broke and stuck in rewind.