FESTIVAL
By
Charles Morris's is a cerebral celebration of the Festival, ""the total cosmic deed,"" and of man, the ""remarkable animal"" who is able to remark it. Joy is ""the body's fated mission,"" and very little is said about ""the black beast in the self's intestines,"" although we are reminded that ""We too/ are drum beat, dagger jagged, sacrifice final,"" or indeed about any passion, although there is a paean to prodigality in the name of proportion. Morris's pace is mainly meditative and at a remove, although occasionally he achieves a compelling rhythm as in the refrain of ""Kachina Dance"" (""Hoteh! Hoteh! Come! Come!"") or the closing stanza of ""Proportion."" He dissipates the promise of ""Elate and hopeless locus/of a bright labor"" with ""A selfless making/out-of-love a flavor."" While his concerns are eternal, his constructions are not, as he metes out his pensive pleasantries.