THE COMPLETE DRAFTS OF PRESENTATION #2185
Learn at the feet of a poet, what it is to create the germ of a poem from daily thoughts and emotions. Watch this germ take root and grow, being fed by inspiration. See it come to full-fledged ‘Poem’ as you read this unique peek into Hunt’s diary. At the end of the trail you will read the final, a hundred-word gem tempered by the process of writing.
Editor’s Note: Four years before Burning Word began it was my pleasure to publish The Presentations, a collection of hundred-word prose poems by William B. Hunt. Cantos was the 69th poem in the collection, which was originally written for Elaine Thomas, publisher of interweave(zine). interweave(zine) is no longer online, but we were fortunate enough to salvage this manuscript and give it a permanent home. We hope you enjoy the journey.
As always, William has given permission for his poetry to be used (printed, distributed, etc.) by educational institutions, and it is our hope many classrooms will continue to make use of this material. All drafts below by William B. Hunt, Nov-Dec, 2000.
I think and I feel and I know what is real and right for myself and also for you, darling.
The heart is bent toward the summer and my love of her, wings in the wind that never will dwindle or be still in me. You know that this is true I think, or so I choose to believe in the autumn icing into winter. We are wardens of our thoughts. Be a victor unto me, sunlight, not a terror or terrier. My guinea pig in its cage is dear and dangerous. The heart is bent toward the summer and my love of her. What in the wheat is white and what brown, I wonder? Keep clean of it all.
Take your lead from these things and do not stop with them. Bend your heart toward summer in me. Autumn has its own sunlight, a heart bent, and we will not be solitary or still or too vague. Descend from the mountain with greenery in your park, so sibyline that I love you for your hissing. Come now along. There is plenty of time for this, and I will make time. An hour is not enough, a day is not enough, a chill is not enough. Be clean and plural. I am my own Zionist now.
Fearful art, stand before me, for I need you. I am Tom Thumb, you must remember me. Autumn is like a heart bent, solitary and vague like bolts of light. The mountain greenery is sibylline, and I am horny for your hissing. Make time, make a day, come along. The Zionist autumn is in our hearts. The darlings are assembling on the porch, the darlings are coming out of the trees for me. There is nothing greater, no collision to see, no ice in the ice cream. Sibyl, tell me, what is on your body now if not bugs, tattoos?
I wish she hadn’t done it, but Sibyl got tattoos all over her back. It must have hurt. This ruined Sibyl for me, she is a goddess no longer. Fearful in my memory is my heart bent over her, that little bolt of light by the mountain greenery. We are lucky the trees are iced over this year, what with the global warming which the Chinese have found is melting part of Mount Everest. I like the warmth of Sibyl’s tummy, my emotion recollected in tranquillity. Poetry redeems the time. Such ancient redwood thoughts relieve me, the electric kitchen.
Dear, your heart is burning soundly in me like a furnace without favor, a furnace for lovers. My memory is a little bolt of lightning by the Green Mountains where Ethan Allen rode. Redeem the time and my ancient redwood thoughts titanic as steel. I actually have an editor now. Mount Everest may melt, but there will be a way. A way out. Moon take your lead from these things, do not stop with the unrivalled summer in me ever. A furnace without foam. She has such timing, Sibyl. Clever thunder, I revere this new year, heart bent to parks.
Poison was the name of a great band, O bandoliers and gondoliers, furnace forever in me and out of me, my memory a bolt of lightning or a belt of stars or a belt of whiskey. Redeem the time, ancient redwood, and far out moon take your lead from these things. A fearful unravelling continues in the ice, love’s flower is raging and real. Such was the eye of Sibyl, standing over the city. Poison rose, you are the lover Sibyl needs and wants. I alone control the theme. Oh, emotional redhead, hot number, dance like a tiger in me.
Sibyl Not a Fraud
Don’t be a fraud, Sibyl, be a friend indeed not too shy to dream or take my fingers and my hand. I remember a brilliant belt of stars, enough to redeem my moments fruitfully enough, and so costumed in ice I travel, waiting for the eye of Sibyl, my poison rose whom I alone want. I alone control this theme. She was such an emotional redhead, such a hot number, she created a sort of dance in me. What an idea. Her timing is perfect, comedic girl. I take my lead from these things and arrow my heart to summer.
She has Nazarene and tinder eyes, not a fraud, this girl, not too shy to dream or be mine. The hourglass is full of sand, take my fingers in your hand. Such a brilliant belt of stars up north tonight my friend, I am not lonely for you whiskey sour ever. Be fruitfully costumed, lover, my poison rose whom alone I want to know. Here is the theme, the emotional redhead, the hot number, who creates a dance in me, and her timing is perfect. My comedy lady with a glass of whiskey, my Sibyl, my candy, yet very great.
Sibyl in a Sphere
Sibyl is in a sphere of her own, not the biosphere but the Sibyl Sphere. How lonely for the poison rose I was when the arrow really got the shaft. Here is a glassful of comedy for you, thou who art costumed in ice for my party. Oh poison rose, create a dance in me, alarm me with your timing like a great band in a stream of stars where my grandmother walks among the redwoods of which I dreamed fitfully. Heart to heart, and our heart to summer by the lake of poison. The eye of Sibyl is watching.
The Eye of Sibyl is Watching
A shaft of sunlight passes through a glassful of comedy in me tonight, and she arrives costumed in ice for my party. The eye of Sibyl is watching you, the violet eye. There is a poison rose that dances in me, I fear, like a fever, that alarms me with its push Miltonic. An hourglass of sand has been turned while I take her fingers in my hand under the brilliant belt of stars up north far over our tree roots. The fruit of the poison rose is our passion to know, but we will know, that is our theme.
Under the Eye of Sibyl
I shudder to think of sunlight passing over me, that heirloom eagle fantastic and fanatical whom I cannot stop even for wind to pass by it out of cowardice and a throw of the dice. A shaft of sunlight will arrive at my party where the eye of Sibyl will be watching over you, protecting your coat and hat, her violet eye and she holds a poison rose for me like a fever Miltonic. Oh hourglass of sand I shudder to think of the sunlight passing over me. Let me embrace your fingers in my hand forever above tree roots.
Beneath Sibyl’s Golden Eye
Give me hair cuttings from Sibyl for a souvenir in an envelope, rocket man. I shudder to think of the sunlight that passes over me every day but Thursday and I cannot stop the wind now or ever. Only a coward will throw the dice. Thy violet eye thy poison rose forever I choose, as I choose to shudder from your embrace and your fingers in my hand above the tree roots where we lay. I need a glassful of you, costumed in ice for me in this violet age. So arrive costumed in ice. Sibyl’s eye will watch you.
Beneath the Eagle Eye of Sibyl
Forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is watching you come forth out of the unchanging land to court. I want hair cuttings from Sibyl in an envelope to keep as a souvenir. The rape of the lock. Rockets shudder in the rain or sunlight over me, among the larks. Is this okay? I have a fever for this. I cannot stop the wind. Forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is weeding you out lover. She doesn’t take any crap. Let me make you a costume made out of tree roots which would be very revealing. This heirloom makes me shudder.
It was tree roots forever in her, in Sibyl, that pulled in the rain from the forest, and forever the eagle eye of Sibyl is watching you. The unchanging land is okay. Is it okay? The unchanged land, crying land? Sibyl will weed you out, for I think she doesn’t take any crap. She is an heirloom of thunder and I am the thunderer. Meddle with my costume? No. This heirloom makes me shudder, this bride and groom. Hair cuttings from Sibyl on the floor, for I am her barber. Thursday’s rocket has a violet eye. If Thursday merely comes.
Don’t talk to me when I am thinking about Sibyl, I pull her hand as we run through the rain. From the forest. The brazen eye of Sibyl is watching you. Over the unchanging land. Sibyl doesn’t take any crap from anybody, though she is decent. My goddess of thunder she is, and I am her thunderer. Her costumery makes me shudder. She is both bride and groom to me. When violet Thursday comes in beneath the eagle eye of Sibyl, the unchanging land might shudder with a fever for my lover.
A Silver Sibyl
Don’t talk to me when I pull the hand of Sibyl while we run through the rain, away from the forest. I think her eye is watching you. She is decent. She was invented for violet Thursdays and for the tree roots I pull up and drape over her hair. This fevers me, this sun on green. A souvenir, a comet, grows fiercely in her hair. Lie down with me above the tree roots in the garden, darling. But don’t talk to me when I lead Sibyl forth from the unchanging land. The fantastical wind embraces me, protecting my coat.
They bombed a whole country full of Sibyl’s friends, and she cried. She cried out loud before me. But don’t talk to me when I pull the hand of Sibyl as her eye watches you. This is a girl who was invented for the tree roots I pull out and drape over her hair as I kiss her. She is such a dragon to me. She was invented for violet Thursdays and pastel sun on the lawn. Lie down with me darling upon the unchanging chic land of polygamy and plastic cards but don’t talk to me until then.
Sibyl in the Snow
The bombardier cried out, “don’t talk to me when I am bombing the land of Sibyl, her magic kingdom and paradise.” This is a girl created for music, her eye watches you, and she was invented for the tree roots I pull out and drape over her hair and kiss her. Pastels are her colors. Lie down with me darling upon the unchanging land of Nod where polygamy and plastic cards go hand in hand. But don’t talk to me until then. Don’t talk to me when we run through the rain either, we might get maced, our flesh eaten.
Sibyl in Paradise
Don’t talk to me girl, just be my music now on the porch of paradise, girl created for music and vibes whose eye watches me for fun. A kiss pastel for you, girl! Don’t talk to me so we don’t go mad with crying and lying as I pull your hand in a dance around a tree and then close the drapes upon us alone, two in a fever. Here is a kiss. You are my pastel. Don’t talk to me until you can speak decently to me, goddess of thunder where it heavily showers. Eagle eye and unchanging land.
Sibyl A Mother
Sibyl got pregnant without asking me to be the father, so I got mad and repealed the divorce to my ex-wife. Here on the porch of paradise I will long remain, O girl created for music in me and vibes around me and kisses pastel. I pull your hand into a kind of dance around a tree, then I close the drapes on us alone and our fevered kisses made for film, oh pastel you! If you can’t say something nice, don’t talk to me, goddess! Your eagle eye over the unchanging land. We share heat and light now.
Her pregnancy, with me the father, put me on the porch of pearly paradise. You, girl, were created to be the music in me and the viola for my ears, the white of my teeth, all of my vibes and kisses pastel. I pull her hand into a whirling dance around a garden tree, then close the drapes on us alone and our fevered kisses made to be filmed. Porno Sibyl. Eagle eye and heart-filled land. I pull out tree roots and drape them upon her hair. Darling, talk to me until we cry. Violet Thursdays upon the lawn.
Sibyl, In All Sincerity
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, you girl have become the music in me, the viola for my ears, the very vibes and kisses I need.
Pastel whiskey dance by the garden tree, to the very roots of your hair I know you and pull your hand. Later we close the drapes and someone films us kissing. But don’t talk to me now. Sibyl’s friends are many. She is my comet above the trees. She is the fantastical wind. Heiress, she will shudder in joy for me. A sun-dried violet to set next to an hourglass. Such a brilliant belt of stars up north now. Our biosphere is full of fruit. O red arrow among the redwoods. I can take your fingers again, poison rose.
Garden roots below us. Sibyl’s friends are many. My sun-dried violet, on the table is an hourglass. Red arrow over the fruit as your fingers hold a poison rose. Pastel girl walking on the unchanged land. The showers are blowing against my eye. Such an echo in your hair. The sunlight is shining through the hourglass of sand. Your ice costume is brilliant. Fruit candy under the moon. My heart bends over you. Greenery and ice cream. There is a chill in the wings and blue bright candles. The old words are intense, and the mountain is big tonight.
In the garden below us where your friends are many and are waiting for you, the violets nestle near the hourglass. There is a pastel girl when showers begin blowing down from grim clouds. She is like an echo to you, and her costume is brilliant. She is like fruit candy under the moon. Or like ice cream served among the greenery. The chill moves along well under the mountains. I tug at her hand to come inside. Close the drapes on us. Sibyl’s friends are many under the brilliant belt of stars. I know her joyful shuddering under me.
(This draft was sent to Lainie Thomas before continuing.)
The pastel showers that drop from grim clouds echo through my costume. The garden is my costume. In your fingers you feel the evening showers beginning, and now the evening is blowing against your eye. It is through the old words that I know you. Rain upon the hand of Sibyl. I have shark fever before the poison rose. Sunlight at my party. I am tuning a great band. I lead a fearful unravelling. Wing of winter and unneeded notes. On the parquet floor, a thousand old words. Goodbye to fifteen billion years of nature in leaf, my racing stopwatch.
Pastel dropping from clouds into the garden. In my fingers the evening begins, it blows against me, it blows against my eye. Her name is Misty. She is a love-creation. I know you through the old words, evening. Rain falls upon the hand of Sibyl. The poison rose unravels as one wing of winter flutters through unneeded notes. Parquet floor. A thousand old words of goodbye. Nature in leaf, and my stopwatch is racing forward. Your friends are many and are waiting for you. We place violets near the sand hourglass. From greenery, we view the mountain.
A pastel garden. The evening is beginning and blows against me, against my eye. It takes old words to describe a good evening. The rose is one wing of the winter. There are notes I do not need as I walk with brown, Italian shoes upon the parquet floor. I like to look at a sand hourglass, and like to see you turn it over to measure one more hour. A red arrow in the heavens points West to the solar disk. Well north of the fruit orchard I take your fingers and find the very roots of music crying.
A pastel evening begins and blows old words to me not bogus darling. The rose is on its way to winter. It must take the flower train south for the winter, for we will not have a Christmas rose. I do not need to walk across a mile of parquet floor to feel I am in a grand building. An hourglass is the best way to measure one hour to me, for I love to watch the sand departing with my life. I take your fingers in the fruit orchard, Dulcie, your father’s orchard. Crying roots of music urge me.
Pastel evening, and the old words, from some church, flower. A pastel garden. Evening is beginning. It takes very old words to describe a good evening. The notes in the heavens surround the solar disk north of the fruit orchard. I take your fingers in the garden. Evening begins, and blows against me. Rain feeds the poisonous rose. One wing of winter finds nature still in leaf. Goodbye to this greenery, except for the evergreen. It is always green. You hold a pistol (this word is crossed out) aimed at me as you brush your hair by the blue, bright candles. Someone follows us. Intensity.
Have your say in poetry, in poetry have your say today darling. It is a pastel evening, and old words, as if they had arrived from some church fall into your fingers in the garden. This evening, I find a late rose, for nature is still in leaf. Goodbye to this greenery, except for the evergreen, which is always green. Bright candles and a Christmas rose in the pastel garden. Evening is beginning, and it blows upon the rose. Notes sound out the chime of the hour. There is pastel in my fingers. I see you again, evening’s crystal hourglass.
Let’s not be shy about orgasm. I have my say in poetry fully, using old words, the ones that happen to fall into your fingers (last 3 words crossed out) every evening. Nature is still in leaf, but goodbye now to this greenery, except for the sacred evergreen, ever green. Evergreen are the lovers as the chime sings out the hour and I see you again by the crystal hourglass I love, but the old words from some church speak loudly to the solar disk. Rain on my poisonous rose and bless the leaf that says goodbye, all of the greenery saying goodbye except for the evergreen.
A poetry of old words falls every evening into Nature, which is still in leaf. But say goodbye to all of this greenery, except for the evergreen, which is ever green. And evergreen are the lovers where the chime sings, sings out the hour. I see you again by the crystal hourglass I love. Turn it over for me please. I need the old words from some church to speak loudly to the solar disk. I need Georg Frederick Handel. I need rain all over my poisonous rose, that celebrity. I need a poetry of old words. Nature’s last rose.
Say goodbye to the ice on the evergreens, let the chime sing (we do not know the customs here). Turn over the crystal hourglass full of the old words I need. Give me rain and celebrity, not vulgarity but rain. My pantry is full of old words tonight. Nature’s last rose this is, so let us say fully goodbye to the sovereign chime and love God, and love rain and goodbye, and the very evergreen mist. I will have my say today as I will say goodbye to the Christmas rose. I will let notes chime out their blue notes peacefully.
Goodbye, evergreens on forest hill, the chimes are singing for Christmas, and you must be cut. That is the custom. Perhaps you came from a tree farm to be Christmas trees. Rain, nothing but clear rain. Old words describe Nature’s last rose beneath the evergreen mist. Peacefully again I see you, going to church to hear the old words which Nature has told. This is the hour when passes the solar disk. In your fingers, bright Catholic candles allegro. It is Christmas. The stars in the heavens are a musical score surrounding the solar disk. What is this winter intensity?
The evergreens and chimes are customary, but the rain at Christmas is new. Warm rain. Old words are at peace as we are nearly, and peacefully we wait for the hour solar and musical on the ice. Give me one more rose before the warmth is gone, and the blue notes will sleep peacefully at their pleasure. This is a poetry of old words. They come to rest in this poem. I have to dig readers out of the woodwork. Goodbye to the greenery sung by chimes.
Evergreens are customary at this time of year when old words are gone and blue notes sleep peacefully. We have evergreens to cut now, and old words peacefully give rain and the love of God. Oh, those blue notes in my poetry, my poetry still in leaf but a poetry saying goodbye forever when my pen is still. You have earlier poems to keep, earlier dust that settles down. The greenery sends its branches through this hour. The old words arrived on time, those firecrackers. Those winged arrows. The burden of the solar disk above the fruit orchard, finding winter.
Evergreens at this time of year, when the old words are gone and blue notes climb–my poetry is still in leaf, but it is a poetry saying goodbye forever should it be that my pen is stilled. I have my earlier poems to keep with my earlier dreams as the greenery sends its branches like winged arrows everywhere. Now, the burden of the solar dusk is upon us, even if it rains at Christmas. Even if it rains at Christmas when warmth is gone away I will wait peacefully as the pine needles fall on my cat named Juniper.
Once I sold evergreens, but the old words from that time are gone. Blue notes climb. My poetry is still in leaf. The greenery sends out its branches and vines. Pine needles fall mysteriously and mat. Now, I have earlier poems to keep, the poems still in leaf, the poems saying goodbye. The old words rest on the solar disk. Applause for those who sleep peacefully. Dig for a treasure darling, reach for it here. Evergreens on forest hill must be cut down. That is the custom. You came from a Christmas tree.
(Here some things are pulled out of Presentation #1912 drafts, often used as a source of raw material.)
The time-bomb of old words in poetry–but the old words are gone. Poetry is still in leaf with earliest dreams of rain or Christmas. The warmth of old words peacefully give us rain and blue notes. There is ice on the evergreens and a montage of self-education detonating into high art. Archaic reflections storm the ruins. I play this in C-sharp, a song to the Big Bang, a formulation that counteracts the modern crisis of constant change. Goodnight is spoken to the woodwork. Tints are pulled out of their gems, the warm beating heart of the sun.
If the old words of poetry should be challenged by your blue notes, then poetry is still in leaf where pine needles fall. Old words, the ones in earlier poems, are like candles (last three words crossed out) compared to the solar disk of your applause. Now I dig for a treasure, I reach for it before the forest is cut down. The old words say goodbye. Forever it rains until the rain is gone. The century’s last month will end in chimes customary. There will be no new sayings here but new singings will advance into the clear rain. The celebrity of this surge deals out twilights.
(title crossed out)
Old words (last word crossed out) art mingles with blue (last word crossed out) strained notes of poetry (last word crossed out) wind. Your applause is a treasure (last two words crossed out) so thundrous I won’t forget, and I need a treasure in (last word crossed out)on this century’s last month (last word crossed out) day, to be found in sayings and singings (last word crossed out) sighings and your celebrity. Old words blur into reflections, until (last word crossed out) and then old words are gone. Here in the greenery I have enough earlier poems to keep a poetry in leaf (the next word is crossed out) and (last word crossed out) with the (last word crossed out) a sun-drunk (with a is crossed out) musical score. Achieve (last word is added) Allegro to (last word crossed out) you blessed leaf and late (last word crossed out) last rose, each pastel note walked (changed to walks) its own mile to the base of the mountain. This (last word crossed out) Its echo and chill do (last word crossed out) will not change the viola-kissing fevers. (last word crossed out) sunlight.
Old words (last two words crossed out)
Old art mingles with strained notes of wind. (last word crossed out) heat. Your applause is so thundrous I won’t forget, and I need a treasure on this century’s last day, to be found in sayings and sighings and your celebrity. Old words blur into reflections, and then old words are gone. Here in the greenery I have enough earlier poems to keep a poetry in leaf with a sun-drunk musical score. Achieve allegro you blessed leaf and last rose. Each pastel note walks its own mile to the base of the mountain. Its echo and chill will not change the viola-kissing sunlight.
I have found a treasure on the century’s last day, borne by sayings and old words, how they reflect and are gone. I will abandon them for they have left me alone in the greenery of autumn with my earlier poems sun-drunk with their youthful glory, now faded but not insincere. Allegro to the rose! And its blessed leaves. The last rose of the year, I give to you by the base of the mountain where everything is echoes and chills. A poetry still in leaf endures, and does not fall down the the (sic) winter. Through rain, the chimes.
(At this point, I emailed Lainie Thomas that I had had a good writing session, and I quoted to her the line “Allegro to the rose!”)
Treasure on the century’s last day, borne by sayings in old words which reflect and leave and are gone. I will abandon what has abandoned me left to be lit by the greenery of my earlier poems, faded into blue-gray and green-gray. Allegro to the rose! And its leaves. The last rose of the year which I give to you by the base of the mountain in the chilled and echoing air. This is now a poetry still in leaf and on fire, enduring the winter, the rain, the chimes. It is an old art, now echoing back.
Treasure (last word crossed out) Forestry in old words which reflect (last word crossed out) reach from earlier poems (last word crossed out) lovers into (last word crossed out) above the last (last word crossed out) final rose of the year, a poetry still in leaf or on fire through rain (last word is crossed out) Summe (sic) (last word is crossed out) and chimes. It is an (here a line is drawn across the page) old art, now echoing back to touch everyone sun-drunk in the fields. Allegro to the rose and its blessed leaves, the last rose of the year which I give to you by the base of the mountain where everything echoes and chills. The blue notes of the solar disk are the old words saying goodbye. If I could hand out a twilight made of dreams or Christmas, peacefully.
Old words reach the final rose. This poetry is still in leaf, beyond all reason. It echoes back to touch everyone in the fields. To the rose, Allegro, the last rose of the year whose blue notes say goodbye.
The manuscript continues with a page of working notes:
& how about clarity for the reader, what
the writer owes/obligation
Lessons from “Especially When The October Wind” by Dylan Thomas
1. Dramatic statement, full declamation, full music.
2. Very subtle surrealism
3. Beethovian theme and variations of images (last word is underlined) and refrain lines
4. Repetition of sounds
5. A medallion as a nature poem
A medallion as a poem of the self
A medallion as a declamation
6. Tragic sense of life fully worked out.
7. Short words used effectively with punch.
8. Two alternating musical “hook” lines.
9. soaring music
10. First class intellectual qualities
11. on his game
12. it deliquesces/titration
13. Sets the bar higher
15. deliberately an anthology page
The leaf beyond reason echoes back to the rose allegro, the last rose of the year. Your blue notes say goodbye. A gemmed twilight on Christmas. We are lit by the greenery. A mountain does not fall down. Allegro to the blessed leaf the last month of the century and of ten centuries. Out of gems, tints are extracted and pure tints result. And there is a crystal raven, and a second full moon in the month, called a blue moon. Therefore, I write my poor man’s cantos. The solar disk. Summer frolic will sleep peacefully all winter. Sayings rest.
A rose last month was a gem, but a crystal raven flew under the second full moon of the month, the blue moon. These impoverished cantos surrender to the solar disk of summer, then sleep peacefully as more sayings and mutterings all winter. Old words are in leaf unreasonably in the fields. The last rose of the year touches everyone, and I give it to you in the chilled and echoing air. Poetry hangs in the stillness, in the fire, in the rain, reflecting ice of the evergreens that detonates ruined storm in the warm, beating heart of the sun.
A rose, a crystal raven flew through the blue moon into the canyon where cantos slept peacefully and old words were in leaf with (next word crossed out) mice abroad in fields. It is a trend which touches everyone alive, a stillness and a fire in the evergreens detonating ruined storm in the warm, beating heart of the sun. The leaf beyond reason echoes to the rose allegro, the last rose in the blue notes of my web site saying goodbye at once to ten centuries. Out of gems, out of tints, the crystal raven caws this poor man’s cantos under the solar disk.
(one check mark under this draft to indicate “good draft”)
Without reason the crystal raven flew the last rose into the canyon. I slept peacefully blanketed by old words. When (last word crossed out) Mice were abroad in fields. This trend touches everyone alive in the stillness, everyone alive in the olive evergreens beneath me which detonate as ruined storm carries the leaf beyond reason and the rose allegro, the last rose in the blue notes of my web site that says goodbye to ten centuries in the mist and fire. Then gems, then tints spectacular in the poor man’s cantos strike the solar disk with a rose last month, gems inside the crystal raven.
The reason the crystal raven flew my last rose when I slept peacefully enjoying old words, the reason mice in the stillness thrive, my (next word crossed out) trend touches (next word crossed out) everyone as the evergreens withstand ruining storm which carries the leaf beyond reason and the rose into allegro, the last rose on my innocent web site with the blue notes played to ten centuries. Gems spectacular in these cantos of the poor strike the solar disk with outside heat. One rose last month is the gem inside the crystal raven’s eye of flame, and that flame of reason in me I share.
The reason the crystal raven flew my last rose of the season when I slept peacefully on ice in the universes of (last word crossed out) old words (and mice stirred quietly in the fields) is that evergreens withstand ruining, flag-whipping storm that carried the leaf beyond reason, and (last word crossed out) rich roses racing into darling, daring allegros, last roses and blue notes walling off the last ten centuries of the heart. Gems in the cantos strike the solar disk and one rose is in the crystal raven’s eye, a rose of reason racing the rising orchestra while I slept peacefully with the Twins rising starrily (last word crossed out) starry-eyed.
The reason my last rose raced my blood forward this season when I slept peacefully protected by ice and the universe’s old words while mice (next word crossed out) stirred quietly in (next word crossed out) fields and hell spread its stain, its roots of fire throughout my starry frame: flags are whipped by rain which the evergreens withstand, and the leaf beyond reason in the cities (next word crossed out) carelessly falls, while allegros of the last ten centuries gem throughout my cantos ringing the solar disk like a cymbol (last word crossed out) round cymbol (last word crossed out) brass cymbol. Rise, orchestra, in the starry-eyed allegro, the (changed to these) innocent cantos (the word are is inserted) cut with dust in the crystal raven’s eye.
The reason I slept when I did under the universe’s starry frame when flags were whipped by rain in the evergreens and the leaf beyond reason fell every stage down among ten centuries: let my cantos ring with pride the solar disk like a round brass cymbol, and rise, orchestra, into starry-eyed allegro. Innocent cantos are cut with dust in the crystal raven’s eye which is a solid-gold rose, the last rose before the flag-whipping storm carries the leaf beyond reason into the blue notes of ten centuries. Gems rush through these cantos striking the solar disk.
The reason ten centuries, which have just passed by us, ring in a starry-eyed allegro of magnificent achievement (though also eternal failure and loss): but let my electrical cantos ring with pride like a drummer’s brass cymbol in orchestras full of cantos in the crystal raven’s eye which, viewed more closely, is a solid gold rose. Now the flag-whipping storm rushes through these cantos, and my blood drives forward in me night after night. The starry frame far over the rain sees my pure, innocent cantos. A last rose after ten centuries. Reason thrives: the poor share it.
Poetry (next word crossed out) Rocketry (something crossed out)
The reason the starry-eyed cantos ring like a cymbol is that there are cantos in the crystal raven’s eye which is a solid gold rose, if you noticed. I wonder if you noticed the flag-whipping storm that stirs the meteor night, and I wonder if you have seen the blood drive forward into the rain of pure, innocent cantos my dear. I erect one rose sculpture after ten centuries devoted to you, and Reason thrives, and the poor share it over the soil. The world is one country if electricity is, the reason the nebular cantos re-ring rocketry.
Rocketry in Words
The reason these cantos ring (next word crossed out) night with wonder, if you care to know: it is like building a rose sculpture in a park to celebrate ten centuries gone by, one rose sculpture devoted to reason and the world and the rocketry (next word crossed out) in these nebular cantos, wept allegros I can accept into my orchestra. View it more closely night after night, the rain of the centuries sleeps under rain-whipped flags. Let these cantos ring the cash register and make me rich, you Republicans! Pardon my gems, you cantos, the reason my last rose is insecure, raven’s eye a golden rose.
Rocketry of cantos showers sparks down upon the park’s giant rose sculpture. I am devoted to reason, that is my endgame, and these nebular cantos celebrate centuries gone by so I can view them more closely, the rain-whipped centuries. The gem of reason, in the raven’s eye a golden rose flashing to my starry-eyed cantos, if you have noticed. We all want (next word crossed out) praise but must authentically earn it always, or it is worthless. I wonder if you know the sculpture of the rose in our nearby park? A century full of cantos where shall thrive reason and beauty.
Sparks showering from a rocketry of cantos: here in the park, a giant (next word crossed out) sculptured rose, and though I am devoted to reason, and reason is my endgame, these nebular cantos shall celebrate centuries gone by. I can view them more clearly by the rose sculpture in the park. Under the rain-whipped centuries, the gem of reason fulfills my starry-eyed cantos, if you have noticed. All night, the centuries are marching by the graveyard, if you have noticed, I wonder if you have seen the poor in the age of rocketry, for we have poetry as we have rocketry.
(notes below this draft:)
a red rushmore
Sparks, cantos (last two words crossed out) The sculptured rose I view. (next word crossed out) My dear endgame approaches. These nebular cantos celebrate centuries gone by when the gem of reason moved forward (in my starry-eyed cantos) which I trust you will care to know very (next word crossed out) well, the cantos I weep all night until first light, cantos bass and treble rocked out on fire night after night. Rain, strike beads on my cantos, I need your starry-eyed allegro at warp-speed blowing a leaf, taking old words to the poor and to the rich a stillness far down in the evergreen bone. I detonate ice with my cantos.
(note at the end of the draft)
Of My Cantos
I view my nebular cantos, the starry-eyed things, and rock them out on fire all weekend. What a riot, my cantos, night after night after night after night it is you, my cantos that tear into allegros at warp speed with old (next word crossed out) words. I detonate ice with you. Sparks shower down from you. The rose of reason and the gem of the reasonable are in you in every march past the graveyards at night by the living or the dead. I wonder if your sparks shower the rose sculpture in the park. Make reason my endgame, my much-praised cantos.
(note at the end)
David Steiling, look up on net, “casting new eyes for the blue dog.”
My nebular cantos, starry-eyed and on fire in this neighborhood, rock the weekend from end to end. My cantos riot at warp speed to decimate evergreen poverty with poetry and rocketry in my hand. The cantos shower sparks upon the century gone by. Spectacular flags are these cantos, and solid-gold electrical storms are they in their flights of fantasy and reason. A drummer’s allegro is too innocent for you, you re-born lyric. The reason I slept when I did when the universe gathered rain was that for ten centuries the universe’s old words withstood hellfire, evergreen cantos.
(a check at the end of this draft indicates “good draft”)
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, as they (last two words crossed out) gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted (last word inserted) above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.
(two checks under this draft indicate “very good draft.” Eventually, this draft is chosen as the final version.)
(Entire draft is crossed out)
Nebular cantos in an evergreen century. Electrical storms hoard new rain like my own cantos protect words, old words evergreen and emerald. The sculptured rose is a scripture built into rock which night takes to the poor. Centuries storm the lost red rose and blue moon above the canyon. The evergreens? Flashfire, a ritual storm. Reason is my rose allegro, starry-eyed and on fire, rocking us from end to end. Reason rocks, reason rules. Warp-speed cantos are the rocketry rain declares as it marches by the graveyard in downpours. I wonder if you have ever seen the poor.
(entire draft is crossed out)
Nebular cantos, words evergreen, the blue moon above the canyon is my rose. At warp speed the rocketing rain disappears and marches by the graveyard in one last downpour. Nebular cantos, starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century is innocent of rain. Night after night, the pulse of the ancient blue moon above the canyon stirs to my coat-of-arms and cantos, at warp speed showering sparks upon reason. The innocent universe gathers rain for ten centuries. Old words are starry-eyed things. An endgame approaches. I trust you know that very well. Iced cantos, rocketry of cantos, Gem cantos.
Draft 68 (and last)
(draft is crossed out)
Blue moon above the canyon, the rain will soon make one last downpour. An evergreen century at warp speed takes night to the poor.
All drafts by William B. Hunt, Nov-Dec, 2000
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.