Reflective Study Of Howard Nemerov's Blue Swallows

Across the millstream below the bridge
     from where I work and where we cross
Seven blue swallows divide the air
     into big patterns all their own
In shapes invisible and evanescent,
     as if to thwart the witnessing:
Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s
     imaginative stagnancies
Or memory’s power to keep them there
     but there they are.

“History is where tensions were,”
     giving stages to society, and
“Form is the diagram of forces,”
     seeing patterns in biology:
Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge,
     between birth and forgetfulness
While gazing down upon those birds—
     having the time and taking it
How strange, to be above the birds!—
     to end up here, so out of place!
Thus helplessly the mind in its brain
     wanting to make some sense of it
Weaves up relation’s spindrift web
     trying to trace the winds of waves
Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs
     in nature, begging imitation,
Dipped in invisible ink, writing . . .
     an ever-changing rhyme.

Poor mind, what would you have them write?
     Poor poet, sticking out your chest,
Some cabalistic history
     of old traditions being reclaimed
Whose authorship you might ascribe
     to fit your backward preference
To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost,
     leading the living to their unrest,
You’ve capitalized your Self enough
     and overscored the trinity.
That villainous William of Occam
     trimming off inelegance
Cut out the feet from under that dream
     in search of more simplicity
Some seven centuries ago
     out of the dust of time.

It’s taken that long for the mind
     collectively, immortally
To waken, yawn and stretch, to see
     beyond its unreality
With opened eyes emptied of speech
     and turned to continuity,
The real world where the spelling mind
     in a state of higher consciousness
Imposes with its grammar book

     of meaning being read into
Unreal relations on the blue
     brushstrokes over stream and sky,

Swallows. Perhaps when you will have 

     time to gaze awhile,

Fully awakened, I shall show you
     what you have not seen before,

A new thing: even the water

     sharing colors with the sky
Flowing away beneath those birds

     dancing above the moving stream
Will fail to reflect their flying forms,

     can't capture what they seem to be
And the eyes that see become as stones

     bewildered in the river bed
Whence never tears shall fall gain
     nor add life to the stream.

O swallows, swallows, poems are not

     O sister, brothers, water is not
The point. Finding again the world,

     the point.  Watching it flow, that
That is the point, where loveliness

     is the point, and celebrating
Adorns intelligible things
     truth at every shore...
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.

     to become the fire.