A Pythagorean Traveler
By Patti Smith
Awoke in a light not known before
the lodging's glass door mirroring
a likeness not hoped to glimpse again
clouds of my childhood, clouds of God
that supported the feet of Jesus Christ
ascending the brush of Raphael.
The young on their motorbikesdo not lift
their heads nor cry: The clouds, the clouds.
They are always there––Mediterranean arias
mounting with swift and terrible calm.
Do they know me? Do they know I am here,
scribbling as they are decomposing?
The moon rises filled with moonblood
drawn from the Italian skies. Here Byron
unwound his turban and shook out his locks
as gulls dropped into th esea. The moon
knew her rival and hung like an ornament
from the ear of a bright deity curling his lips,
expelling great puffs, the clouds of San Remo.
I will sit here until dawn tripping the spine
of the stars, a Pythagorean traveler marveling
another numerical scheme, adding to his shoulder
a music not heard but attained.
Beauty alone is not immortal.
It is the response, a language of cyphers,
notes, and strokes riding off on a cloud charger-–
the bruised humps of magnificent whales.
Clouds of my childhood, clouds of God
awash in rose, violet, and gold.
Copyright Credit: Patti Smith, "A Pythagorean Traveler" from Auguries of Innocence. Copyright © 2005 by Patti Smith. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc..