0 N T E N T S:
Song for David, My Son
Boy with Frogs
Son Writes In Stone
In The Trees
On The Lookout For Robber Jones!
Standing At Midnight
A Sorcerer, A Lover
Distance Between Who And Who
For Two Women
Heart Breaks As the Mountain
My Advancing Age
Signal At Rocca Sinibalda
As A Waterbird
and other poems
by Sy Kahn
with an introduction by
A Castle Continental Edition
Italy, 1963 (1st ed.), 1968 (2nd)
the 1963 Introduction:
"Sy Kahn has written a book of poems as personal and I believe
as humanly involute as any collection of poetic expression published
in these tormented days. . . . here we have the whole gamut of the
This is a first edition of first poems, many already published in
the little magazines of the era. The content of the volume is impressive
because of the continuing strength and richness of the cosmogenetic
image. One can feel sure that there is much yet to come of flesh and
stone and of sun and moon that with conviction will be skillfully
expressed by the poet."
sample poem from this book, shown below,
may not be reproduced without permission.
© Sy Kahn.
by Sy Kahn
of our separate darkness
We move to our appointed time,
Awakened from our sleepwalk lives
By the passion that marked
Our meeting and our birth.
There was always the moon -
Silver running down the mountainsides
Like marvellous volcanoes,
And the quicksilver sea
With its phosphorescent stars.
Black were the trees in the aluminum night,
Black the leaves and the skeletal ships,
But the air was white, the boulders bright
Giant's jewels, the moon a white torch.
It was a bare room and often cold.
Wooden shutters, slat upon slat
Came down like a wall.
Or they were bars -
The blazing moon striped our flesh;
Moonwhipped we were, mysterious, soft
Flagellation. Then was the moon our jailor.
A long time
Before the moon was merely moon again,
It burned so long. It whipped us more apart
Then when we took light blows together.
Wearily, under the flagellating moon,
We fled, and seas, countries, continents
Rose between us
And we returned to our separate darkness.
At the center of the whirling world,
At the still point,
David stands tranced
By the prancing, skewered horses
And the circling, golden cars.
They gallop in the air,
Flying mare and stallions,
Charging and churning
In the burning summer light.
One hand upon the center pole,
He, not yet four, seems
A tiny Atlas, an axis
For the clanging tumblerumble world
All shadowed in his
Unblinking, brownblond stare.
And my prayer as I watch him,
He, unruffled, except by the wind
In his hair, is this:
That when he has ten times his age
He will be as stable and as sage
At the center of the spinning globe,
Tranced still, aglow,
Moved but unmoving,
Watching the golden horses go.