FAMILY POETRY

THESE THIRTEEN SELECTIONS ARE FROM ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN THAT GRANT GOHEEN WROTE DURING HIS SEVENTY YEARS ON PLANET EARTH. MOST WERE WRITTEN IN THE NINETEEN TWENTIES AND THIRTIES. DURING HIS DAYS HERE HE PUBLISHED TWO COLLECTIONS WHICH HE CALLED SONGS OF LIFE AND LOVE & VOICES FROM THE INFINITE.

 

THE BROKEN CHAIN

You iron serpent that entwined me round
Since first my eyes beheld the light of day.
Within your cankered folds have I been bound,
Yes, long before I came into this world.

Your fetid coils in silent menace spread,
As in your scaly horror you did lay
Ready to snatch me from my Mother's breast
And bind me in the treadmill of the dead,
There to be broken on the wheel of fate.

But even so you fell on me too late,
Your curse shall never triumph over me;
Take heed, e'er long my heel shall bruise your head.
Today I feel the slacking of your coils,
Tomorrow they shall fall and leave me free.
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THE CRITIC'S LAMENT

O sing me a song of the universe,
And meaningless outer spaces;
Where countless worlds in their circuits run
Their tireless, endless races,
Of millions of far flung milky ways,
Of wandering comets and cosmic rays;
But do not sing, O misguided man,
Of a perfect law or an ordered plan.

Oh tell me the tales of a by-gone age,
Of earth's first lowly races;
With slanting foreheads and drooping jaws,
And terrible ape-like faces.
Who lived in their caves like the troglodytes
With feasting and fighting and hellish rites,
But do not tell, O benighted fool,
Of man made upright and given rule.

O paint me a gem of descriptive art,
That will set my heart aglow.
Take me up to the mountain crowned
With a diadem of snow.
Then lead me down to the timber line,
Past granite castles with marble domes,
Where cataracts leap and mountain sheep
Stand like castles carved in stone.

Let me linger there in the mountain air
Till the curtain of evening lowers,
Then let me go to the plains below
To wander amongst the flowers,
By a whispering brook that glides along
Through meadow and mossy brake;
Then murmurs on with its ceaseless song,
Till lost in a limpid lake.

But do not tell me the hand of God
Carved out the face of the rocky wall,
Or stills the wind on the crystal lake;
If you do you will spoil it all.
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THE DREAM

I had a dream, it was wondrous strange.
I held within my hand a golden key,
That would unlock the prison cells of souls
And send them forth to be forever free.

I stood before the temples of the souls,
I knew my key would open every one.
Alas, alas, I could not reach the doors,
They were all girt 'round with walls of stone.

Each door of every temple had a wall,
Every wall a massive iron gate.
Within their cells I heard the captives call,
Each seemed to moan--too late, too late.

Before my eyes the gates all opened wide,
As if by some invisible power swung,
But when I stood before the inner doors,
I looked to find the key and it was gone.

I was helpless to unlock the doors,
As I had hoped and prayed and nobly planned.
Then, as I turned and passed the gates again
They closed--and lo, the key was in my hand.

I heard a voice that answered from the void,
The voice was stern and yet 'twas strangely kind.
"Go wash your filthy hands and make them clean,
Even gold can be defiled."

The dream passed on--but life is wondrous strange,
I contemplate good deeds and pray and plan,
But when I come to offer up my gift,
I find it turned to ashes in my hand.
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ENCORE

Must I search thru my long years of song
Seeking her lovely image, and at last
Concede my art has only done her wrong?

Must I look backward thru times overcast
Scanning a maze of long vanished ways;
Glimpse but her dim shadow flitting past,
Shuttered casements of dead yesterdays?

Elusive muse--come back to me and sing
A richer, fuller song that shall endure,
When my life's night on folded sable wings
Strikes down, and I shall see her face no more.

Build her a house of song within my heart;
There let her image come and live with me,
So shall I rest in peace till I depart,
Life or death shall be alike to me.
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CHILD OF LIGHT

I am a child of Light, born in the midnight hour.
Straightaway I raised my voice hungering after Power.
All thu my infancy Phantoms appeared to me,
Beckoning me ahead into Infinity.

Scanning the shining face of the motionless polar star
Set in the empty place I envied him from afar;
Millions of miles above the lowlands that I must trod,
Standing adamant like the Gibraltar of God.

Nightly I find my soul housed in its cell of clay
Cringing in sullen fear, under the lash of day.
Nightly my soul comes forth clothed in a robe of white,
Flies to the gates of space seeking the land of light.

To that unchartered land, lit without stars or sun,
Henceforth I too shall fly, I and my soul are one.
Seek not to stay my hand or bind me to nature's laws,
I am a breath of life cast from the primal cause.

Post no forbidden ground,
Set me no danger mark;
I am a child of Light--
I must explore the Dark.
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THE LOST PICTURE

'Twas the silent hour that steals along
When another day is almost begun,
A river of cloud flowed from the east,
And blotted the stars out, one by one.
Beyond I could see the hand of dawn
With outstretched fingers of coral light,
All ready to rend the sable cloak,
From the fleeing form of the vanquished night.

I saw the moon in her silver veil,
Serenely passing along her way,
To rule for a night in eastern lands,
Leaving the west to the King of Day.
Dark clouds encompassed her all about,
She vanished away beyond my sight.
Then, thru a rift in her inky shroud,
Steamed forth a radiant shaft of light.

Then I called aloud for an Infinite voice
To portray the glory painted in the clouds.
I searched the depth of my inmost soul
'Til my wells of thought at last ran dry,
No words to describe what I saw that morn
On the wall of the western sky.
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OUT OF ONE BLOOD

They speak in many tongues,
Each sees each through clouded vision;
Like lights cast through a prism
They dance before each other's eyes--
Blurred outlines--whirling shadows--
Lost in a maze of age-old imagery,
Their senseless hates live on,
Fed like old vestal fires.

Their strifes, dissensions, wars, incessantly
Rise up like dust to fill their blinded eyes;
Yet never quite so blind but that they see,
Or sense their oneness, witness how they strive
To heal the wounds they made the day before,
How earnestly they prate of world-wide peace
Between their maddened frenzies, for they know,
Eternally, unalterably, they are one.
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THE PROCRASTINATOR

When the sun sweeps up in its glory
At the dawn of a fair young life,
Who has fixed a star in his vision
Welcomed the call of strife;
He looks to the rock of knowledge,
That high in its fastness stands,
But wooed by the glorious morning,
He builds on the lowly sands.

When the splendor of noon-tide is burning,
He still is pursuing his star;
But finds at the end of his dreaming,
That life is a ceaseless war.
And viewing the rock of knowledge
That towers so high in air;
Secure on its firm foundation,
Cries, "O, had I builded there!"

When the west is aflame with its crimson,
Where the ensign of eve is unfurled;
The sun is despondently sinking
To rest 'neath the rim of the world.
His star on the distant horizon
Is glimmering fitful and pale,
The promise of morning and noon-time
Is lost in oblivion's vale.

When the sun has descended forever
From the range of his wavering sight,
The light of his star is dissevered
By the curtaining clouds of the night;
Then alone in the gathering darkness
He seeks for a sheltered place
To hide from the world forever
The shame he can never erase.

So he staggers along in the darkness
While ever he blindly gropes
Thru the tangled and twisted ruins
Of h is blighted and blasted hopes.
He hurries with feet that falter,
Searches with trembling hands,
In the place where his house was builded,
Finds but the shifting sands ....
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THE RIDDLE

Life is a crazy quilt of light and shade
With zig-zag patterns merging to a maze
Of jumbled lines with alleys in between,
All shadowed by the speeding nights and days
Blended by moonlight glows and sunlight rays,
Into a Chinese puzzle time has laid
Upon our life-span's ever-flickering screen.

The mystery interwoven, who can read;
Or trace the way from entrance to end,
Or guess the plot, till time shall condescend
To bring the last long chapter to a close.
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QUANDARY

O sparkling star that from afar
Looks down on earth with shining eye,
Do you behold this pygmy shape
That gazes up at you agape?

Do you behold the soul in man,
That nightly yearns and longs to know
Why you are flaming in the sky,
And nightly strives with puzzled sense
To solve the mystery of your whence.

What forms of splendor and what power
Sustains you through the centuries?
Since you were placed there long ago,
One thing, bright star, I know full well,
If you do know you will not tell.
*************************************************

SUNSET ON MOUNT HOOD

I saw you standing in the sunset glow,
A monarch crowned with splendor, far below
The wilderness in shadowed silence lay.
Save a lone eagle winging to her brood,
Launched a last cry against the solitude,
Soft breezes murmured in the firs,
A benediction on the dying day.

While darkness swallowed up the lower range,
I watched the lights upon your summit change
From red to rose, then coral, pearl and white,
As last light faded from the west,
I stood enchanted by your loveliness.
Until, at last, in robes of somber gray,
You passed behind the sable veil of night.
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TO A STEAM TURBINE

O haunting voice that sends your cryptic note
In ceaseless cadence from your brazen throat,
Strange voice that drones out one dull monotone
Like some great sea that from a world unknown
Dashes with tireless strength against our own.
You wake in me a want for something lost,
A vagrant thought that thru my brain cells tossed,
Fades, e'er the sea of consciousness is crossed
And leaves my baffled reason plodding slow
Longing to know the things I cannot know.

Speak on strange voice, foretell what shall befall,
The over-Lord of life adjudges all,
And while your taunting voice its challenge flings
My brain is silent but my heart still sings.
I question not what revelation brings,
Where eyes are blind the spirit yet may see;
Whate'er your words they are the same to me.
Within your elemental rhapsody
I hear the voice of all Infinity,
And glory in the things that yet shall be.
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TO A NIGHTINGALE

O feathered jewel, who in your native glades
Once trilled your motions to the rising sun;
From your sequestered bower,
Where the wisteria clings along the wall.
Flitting thru the leafage all night long,
From dark till dawn enriched the hearts of all
Alike with your bright beauty and your song.
No shadow dark across your pathway fell;
No evil omen of the ruthless hand so soon to come,
To pluck you from your nest, an exile in a distant land.
Your beauty now but a show to please the idle crowd.
Within your gilded cell your golden voice
Was lost within a well of loneliness.
With head now bowed on your crimson breast
Your ceaseless pining broke exiled heart,
Made destroying death a welcome guest.
In death still beauty your form reveals
Two concepts--one high, one of low degree:
The workmanship of Him who marked your fall,
And the magnitude of man's depravity.
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THOMAS ALVA GOHEEN (Dec 23, 1927--Dec 24, 1948) lived but one day beyond his twenty-first birthday. While attending Aberdeen Central High School in South Dakota he contributed these poems for the WORDCRAFT. THE POEMS SHOW PREMONITIONS THAT HIS YEARS ON THE PLANET WOULD BE BRIEF.

I'LL LIVE MY LIFE

My fleeting moment in eternity will pass;
The hour glass will sift its sands relentlessly;
My dust will quickly fall into a shapeless mass,
And I will drop, I think, into infinity.

Or will I, when my mortal body breaths no more,
Live on, my soul, if one I have, receiving peace
Or suff'ring pain and endless misery to the core?
I cannot know until I end, on earth, my lease.

The search for certainty could never end for me.
There is no way to know if every life
Is everlasting or an instant which will flee
To never more be found, regardless of the strife.

So I will live this life on earth in disregard
Of all man's theories of an after-life. In peace
I'll seek the pleasures of this life, not make it hard
With feelings of uncertainty. And then I'll cease ...

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LIFE

Life is like a tapestry or painting.
It is started; it is finished.
The difference then between the life of a man
And that of an animal is that man,
to a certain extent, is able to choose
What that picture will show.
It may portray peace, security, happiness
And comfort, or it may show
Struggle, danger, bitterness, misery.

No two lives are the same.
Some may resemble others somewhat,
Just as trees of the same species do.
But just as each tree, each flower,
Each blade of grass differ--
So do lives which follow the same general pattern differ.
The finished life may be ordered and rigid
Or it may appear a surrealistic splash.
But each is beautiful in its own way.
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FRESHNESS IN THE AIR

I feel a freshness in the air,
Here on this peak, wind-swept, bare.
Above I see a sky of blue;
That sky is old--my life is new.

Below I see the moving trees,
Green leaves wakened by the breeze.
I scramble down a tortuous trail;
I'm young, I'm strong, my spirits sail.

While in the forest, dense and wild,
Darkness by sunlight undefiled,
I stop beside an aged tree;
A wood bird's song trills, "I am free."

I hurry on. How late the hour!
I pause again to pluck a flower;
A taunting brook is rippling by,
"I will flow on, but you will die."

**************************************

 

CAROL WAS THE FIRST DAUGHTER OF GRANT AND HULDA GOHEEN.
SHE ALSO CONTRIBUTED TO THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL WORDCRAFT LITERARY MAGAZINE IN 1946.

DOWN AIRY STAIRSTEPS

Down airy stairsteps flakes come skipping,
Flurrying, on smooth ice slipping,
Shouting, "Come play with us--You must!"
White, playful, sug'ry silver dust.

On misty, purple eve they're drifting,
Through lacy branches softly sifting,
Making glist'ning rainbows on window pane,
Their path becomes a fairyland.

 

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REASSURANCE

He walked by the stream in the pouring rain,
His solitude caused his despair,
For as lightning shattered the sky above,
The drifting away of the two he loved
Had broken his heart beyond repair
And scattered the shreds.

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EUGENE GOHEEN'S CONTRIBUTION TO THE WORDCRAFT
INCLUDED THIS SHORT POEM

DESTINY

Ever watch a piece of paper blowing in the wind,
Twisting, turning, never caring where its goal might be?
Until the wind, its only breath
Dies down and leaves it lying in the dust.

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NOW EUGENE IS SIFTING THROUGH DECADES OF SCRIBBLING AND EXTRACTING THIS POETRY FROM HIS MEANDERING MIND.

 

 

 

STARLIGHT MEMORIES

She sees herself as a speck of mirrored light.
Wanting to shine her light for others to relish.
But there is no one telling where to shine her smile,
To display the beauty within her eyes.

Hunger for star dust will quench her yearning,
Devoured star beams radiate from her soul
Bringing the sky alive--
Star veins gleaming with her lifeblood.

******************************************
EDGE OF THE SOUL
.
Life itself became making a good picture.
It became a matter of photogenics, good xeroxes,
The double Helix, the winding staircase
Was apt to give a good picture.
When there was a mistake, so what?
Everyone is human--we all l make mistakes.
Even the composition of humans is human.
If the fucking baby is born without arms or legs,
So what? We throw the bad print away.

It was fine to know what base should be lined up with what base.
What little twist should create the life force,
Distill the booze of human reproduction,
Great to learn this business of over and under exposure,
How to throw the bad prints away.
Eugenics--a trade only dreamed of by Adolph
Carried on much more efficiently by his survivors--Wasn't it?

Only a matter of time before some guilty edge
Would rub the soul clean,
Showing the bone edge of the soul.
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VIBRATIONS IN SPACE

We learned that worlds, skies, heavens were but space.
Then learned all life but vibrating space.
All matter has kept space unwound 'til this day,
But space could wind up to make a black hole.

Space--a garden patch out of which things grow,
Unseen foundation of all we can know,
Vibrating matter provides us our shape--
Allows us to mold with wavering words!
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