Kenneth Patchen Quotes

Come now, my child, if we were planning to harm you, do you think we'd be lurking here beside the path in the very darkest part of the forest?

The one who comes to question himself cares for mankind.

There are so many little dyings How do we know which one of them is death?

All at Once Is What Eternity Is.

Art is not to throw light but to be light...

There are so many little dyings that it doesn't matter which of them is death.

God must have loved the people in power, for he made them so much like their own image of him.

She smiled like a story entering the mind of a cat.

Ah I can see that.... You can see anything once you've been told it's there to see

The question is not: do we believe in God? but rather: does God believe in us? And the answer is: only an unbeliever could have created our image of God; and only a false God could be satisfied with it.

You look nice in those old slacks, but in the raw you are Beauty herself.

Truth is always what they don't say.

This is the evening of the two-fisted prayer

Never oppose what seems strange in yourself. That is the only part which is aware.

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

Literature is what you write when you think you should be saying something. Writing begins when you'd rather be doing anything else: and you've just done it.

Destiny is the music of the improbable. Were it otherwise, almost anyone could exist.

Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.

I want to buy me a hat with a golden feather & a book with the confessions of God in it

Everyman is me. I am his brother. No man is my enemy. I am Everyman and he is in and of me. This is my faith, my strength, my deepest hope, and my only belief.

You will protect with the last drop of someone else's blood what was never yours.

I have forgotten my mask, and my face was int it.

Nobody's a long time.

It's dark out, Jack, the stations out there don't identify themselves, we're in it raw-blind like burned rats, it's running out all around us, the footprints of the beast, one nobody has any notion of. The white and vacant eyes of something above there, something that doesn't know we exist. I smell heartbreak up there, Jack, a heartbreak at the center of things, and in which we don't figure at all.

The question is not: do we believe in God? but rather: does God believe in us? And the answer is: only an unbeliever could have created our image of God: and only a fake God could be satisfied with it.

People don't want to be healed. They want a nice juicy wound that will show well when they put neon lights around it.

Law & order embrace on hate's border.

Greatness and Truth can never be in danger from these murdering wretches. To perform one's duty, be it now, be it clean, and be it done with humility… A man is a sacred thing. ANY ACTION OR THOUGHT WHICH INJURES THE HUMAN IMAGINATION IS EVIL.

What is a 'thing'? All is movement, a flowing. How stupid it is to speak of the 'mind'. There is a body; there is a mind: they are mixed up together. Shakespeare with a hole in his sock will not write the sonnet of a Shakespeare with socks intact.

Snow is the only one of us that leaves no tracks.

What shall light us to murder & defile if by some chance the Laws of the State happen to get turned off?

Why should anyone be surprised at what the men "in power" are capable of --didn't every mad-Judas one of them begin his career by slowly & brutally strangling an innocent child?

Modern scientific accomplishments" --a wealth of methods coupled with a poverty of intentions which, having nearly exhausted the hell-potential of the earth, move on now to the first frontier of the heavens.

Any who live, stand alone in one place, together.

Flowers alternate with her eyes as we journey through these prodigal catacombs

Humanity is a good thing. Perhaps we can arrange the murder of a sizable number of people to save it.

Man is not to direct or to be directed anymore than a tree or a cloud or a stone Man is not to rule or be ruled anymore than a faith or a truth or a love Man is not to doubt or to be doubted anymore than a wave or a seed or a fire There is no problem in living which life hasn't answered to its own need And we cannot direct, rule, or doubt what is beyond our highest ability to understand we can only be humble before it we can only worship ourselves because we are a part of it The eye in the leaf is watching out of our fingers The ear in the stone is listening through our voices The thought of the wave is thinking in our dreams The faith of the seed is building with our deaths

The Reason for Skylarks It was nearly morning when the giant Reached the tree of children. Their faces shone like white apples On the cold dark branches And their dresses and little coats Made sodden gestures in the wind. He did not laugh or weep or stamp His heavy feet. He set to work at once Lifting them tenderly down Into a straw basket which was fixed By a golden strap to his shoulder. Only one did he drop - a soft pretty child Whose hair was the color of watered milk. She fell into the long grass And he could not find her Though he searched until his fingers Bled and the full light came. He shook his fist at the sky and called God a bitter name. But no answer was made and the giant Got down on his knees before the tree And putting his hands about the trunk Shook Until all the children had fallen Into the grass. Then he pranced and stamped Them to jelly. And still he felt no peace. He took his half-full basket and set it afire, Holding it by the handle until Everything had been burned. He saw now Two men on steaming horses approaching From the direction of the world And taking a little silver flute Out of his pocket he played tune After tune until they came up to him.

O take heart, my brothers. Even now... with every leader & every resource & every strategy of every nation on Earth arrayed against Her - Even now, O even now, my brothers, Life is in no danger of losing the argument! - For after all .... (as will be shown) She has only to change the subject.

Take taking from those that give & nobody anywhere will need any more such gifts.

Stirred...the fur-toothed graves of young boys...a thousand slain in the time it would take to do love with a pretty girl or think of a new God.

Then I felt her hand .... ** ....while I tried to get away ..... "Please, Mrs. Pippin!" .... She took her ... **** ... panting and saying .......... as she ........ under the bed where I thought I'd be safe for a little while, but she reached under and ... ** ..... Just then someone opened the door and I said, "Help!Help!" as loud as I could but he only smiled and said, "Well that's one I'll have to try sometime." as Mrs. Pippin ....

I'd carry the mail for you, Ethel, Stop running around with that pup, He's got a car, sure, and jack to throw Like water but what does he want? What do they all want? something easy, Something that somebody else worked for. Ethel, lay off rich kids, you'll end dirty.

It is the nature of man to expose with laws of doubt & impatience, no feeling of wonder that he should a participant in such an incredible undertaking; but rather the shameful certainty that what has been willed without him must in some way resemble the productions of his own sand-castle magnificence.

I got the fat poet into a corner and told him he was writing shit and couldn't get away with it Now it is night and time for sleep. Everyone is tired from garbage-glutting lifting their snouts from the trough long enough to ease their gut— I won't urge the point. Gold-plated poems to stuff up their mind's ass or politics watered down so as not to scare the blue bloods Boo! you well-fed bastards

You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world: And each is the work of all. There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know. See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall, Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are. You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search: And each is the mission of all. 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. How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love, The grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow: See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest Stare upon the architecture of our innocence. You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road: And each is the work of all. 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. Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken? Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand? Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war? There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.

The best hope is that one of these days the ground will get disgusted enough just to walk away - leaving people with nothing more to stand ON than what they have so bloody well stood FOR up to now.

The rest of the letters were pretty much the same as I got every day now. Two hundred and forty-six proposals, a number of them for marriage. Almost five hundred photographs taken in various stages of undress, the majority in the last. Several invitations to strange places where they wring the necks of chickens and take turns beating each other with whips, etc. (In case any of these correspondents may chance to read my book, I'd like to just say this to them: Doubtless you are sincere in what you do, but it does strike me that more useful pursuits could be found for grown people to spend their time at.)

Literature is what you write when you think you should be saying something. Writing begins when you’d rather be doing anything else: and you’ve just done it.

In the richest and the most powerful country in the world there is no means of insuring an invalid poet such as Kenneth Patchen against starvation or eviction. Neither is there a band of loyal fellow artists who will unite to defend him against the unnecessary attacks of shallow, spiteful critics. Every day ushers in some fresh blow, some fresh insults, some fresh punishment. In spite of it all he continues to create. He works on two or three books at once. He labors in a state of almost unremitting pain. He lives in a room just about big enough to hold his carcass, a rented coffin you might call it, and a most insecure one at that. Would he not be better off dead? What is there for him to look forward to—

Then I felt her hand .... ** ....while I tried to get away ..... ;Please, Mrs. Pippin!' .... She took her ... **** ... panting and saying .......... as she ........ under the bed where I thought I'd be safe for a little while, but she reached under and ... ** ..... Just then someone opened the door and I said, 'Help!Help!' as loud as I could but he only smiled and said, Well that's one I'll have to try sometime,' as Mrs. Pippin ....

Then I felt her hand .... ** ....while I tried to get away ..... ;Please, Mrs. Pippin!' .... She took her ... **** ... panting and saying .......... as she ........ under the bed where I thought I'd be safe for a little while, but she reached under and ... ** ..... Just then someone opened the door and I said, 'Help!Help!' as loud as I could but he only smiled and said, "Well that's one I'll have to try sometime,' as Mrs. Pippin ....

Then I felt her hand .... ** ....while I tried to get away ..... ;'Please, Mrs. Pippin!' .... She took her ... **** ... panting and saying .......... as she ........ under the bed where I thought I'd be safe for a little while, but she reached under and ... ** ..... Just then someone opened the door and I said, 'Help!Help!' as loud as I could but he only smiled and said, 'Well that's one I'll have to try sometime,' as Mrs. Pippin ....

The angel lay in the little thicket. It had no need of love. There was nothing anywhere in the world could startle it. We can lie here with the angel if we like. It couldn't have hurt much when they slit its throat.

As We Are So Wonderfully Done with Each Other” 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 O my lady, my fairest dear, my sweetest, loveliest one Your lips have splashed my dull house with the speech of flowers My hands are hallowed where they touched over your soft curving. It is good to be weary from that brilliant work It is being God to feel your breathing under me A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning . . . Don’t let anyone in to wake us.

What is the function of man? Surely the sheep can get along without him; horses run better wild; rifles make nothing; of what good are banks when ninety-nine percent of us have no money?—I have said: what are we on earth for? WE SERVE NO PURPOSE IN NATURE. It is my guess that we are slated for extinction.

Ambition is the weakness of all the great spirits who in acceptance will find the joy & the despair the seek. The physician can only cure when he is willing to assume your disease. To be shunned is to be God a little...

Out of slavery, freedom --yes, & roses from the pig's behind.

I have told the story of the great plague-summer; as an artist I could have wished that there had been more structure and design to it – as a man, that there had been less of the kind there was.

If the truth is inside, And the form is outside, What is the truth of sleep?

To live, fellowbub, is essential but to overlive is to court the devil's wife, & in loving that she you will be lain in such sparkling cold labyrinths

I tell you that what has changed is the whole conception of human life- that men of every race on this earth may have the same opportunity to live beautifully- to live in purity without fear or hunger or hatred- as brothers, not as brutes tearing through these hideous swamps of ignorance and war. Men speak of a belief in God. I am beginning to understand what every Christ- and their skins have been every color- what every Christ has taught: That love of God is love of mankind. That no one can profess to love God while he hates the least of his fellows. Jesus, if He were on earth right now, would fight to free men from oppression and evil and war; and you who have made a pious mockery of his every commandment- you would kill Him.

But if your precious illusion should turn out not to be real, where then will you leap, my little flea?

Who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for eternity outside of time, and alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decades, who cut their wrists three times succesively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried.

I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest. For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I cover her against any hurt. Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her pillow with singing. Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at early morning. -- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions. O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . . where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.

There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest. For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I cover her against any hurt. Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her pillow with singing. Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at early morning. — Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions. O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . . where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.

There Are Not Many Kingdoms Left I write the lips of the moon upon her shoulders. In a temple of silvery farawayness I guard her to rest. For her bed I write a stillness over all the swans of the world. With the morning breath of the snow leopard I cover her against any hurt. Using the pen of rivers and mountaintops I store her pillow with singing. Upon her hair I write the looking of the heavens at early morning. -- Away from this kingdom, from this last undefiled place, I would keep our governments, our civilization, and all other spirit-forsaken and corrupt institutions. O cold beautiful blossoms of the moon moving upon her shoulders . . . the lips of the moon moving there . . . where the touch of any other lips would be a profanation.

Come now my child If we were planning to harm you, do you think we'd be lurking here beside the path in the darkest part of the forest?