Kevin Boyle Foundation

Song of Manayunk

About Us
Just a Few of the Families We Have Helped
Contact Us
Kevin's Poetry
Make A Donation


Voice of the Hawk 

Drinking Beauty was a squaw in the days when the Lenni Lenape grazed this hill, and it was her father, Voice of the Hawk, who named this place Manayunk.  Manayunk means Where I Go To Drink, and Voice of the Hawk named it thus when he was just a boy.  He had been wandering alone away from camp one small day when he discovered a spot by the banks here where the river water was cleaner, crisper, dulceter, and deliciouser than anything he had ever tasted.  All the river was good then, potable and pure, more a crystal aqua than the sullied brown of now; but he had found a point within the purity that was lovelier than all, that was truly rare, that seemed to have its own special source far below.  A glint of light had caused him to notice the spot, and indeed, when he drank the water he felt like he was drinking liquid light, swallowing wet beams of the Sun.  He felt holy, like he was being suffused by some strange, powerful force.  Later he would compare it to Love.  Still later, Death.  Well it got so that young Voice of the Hawk was sneaking off every day to drink the water, to sate his mouth, nose, throat, and soul completely.  Then he wanted more, and more.  He stayed longer.  He went twice a day, then three times, then four, and all the tribe was wondering where was Voice of the Hawk going and what was he doing?  Finally they caught him crawling out his hut just before dawn.  They encircled him and they demanded to know where it is he is always going.  Voice of the Hawk was trembling, scared to tell his secret, but he felt compelled by the crowd of others to speak.  Mnynk, he mumbled.  What? they yelled.  It is Manayunk!  he screamed.  Take us, they commanded.  Voice of the Hawk did, and this was the beginning.

Voice of the Hawk’s Poem of the Grass
Written in a former life and said to have been penned in fondness for the Kojiki. 

Behold!  A New God visible!
Behold!  A New God in the grass!
Behold!  Rejoice!  Laugh!  A naked Goddess sleeping!    

Voice of the Hawk’s Other Poem of the Grass
Written in a future life and said to have been penned in fondness for the Man’yoshu. 

Manhood I
who love the swollen breasts
of holiness, the writhes of rising trees,
the bouncing heads of prancing horses,
and all these forces I am learning to control,
who hold the soar and burrow in me
like a sword and dagger, O I for whom
she who rides the sorrel is true guide
at the behest of our sensuous God.
Plush fertile curiosa!
Aureola of truth, everywhere.
Summer lies about me
while all things linger
ere they flee.

The Yellow Green Lane Bridge 

This is the bridge that holds the vision
of Venus chasing the Moon, and that story goes like this.
The Goddess of Love and Beauty went seeking satiety
and she went to the God of Power and Force
and they lusted, and it was good, but when it was done
she felt this vague, uncertain something missing,
so she went to the God of War, and they lusted, and it was good
but again she felt this something missing
so she went to the God of Light and even to some men,
and then to Goddesses like Aphrodite and Isis,
and then to exotic, erotic mortal women,
but there was always this something
so finally she went to Zeus, God of Gods, Champion of Gods,
and they lusted, and all the heavens trembled
as they writhed, all the heavens plucked and twined
with each gentle touch, with each breath,
with each flick and lick, all worlds shook
with each gyration, with every motion,
with every thrust all eternity took
the rolling waves, powerful and sublime.
          O it was Lovely and Beautiful
but to Venus there was still this vague something
so yet again she went somewhere else.
But this angered the mighty ego of mighty Zeus
so he convinced Hermes to convince Venus the Moon had the powers
she was seeking.  So she took wingéd flight
but Zeus fixed it so that she would never reach the Moon
locking her in a gravity from which no god or planet can escape
and now Venus she chases the Moon forever.

The Pleiades 

I don’t buy any of those myths.
Atlas’ seven daughters turned into stars,
eight wise men thinking, seven sisters fleeing Coyote,
six boys aplaying, a band of dancing children, five golden rings,
I don’t buy any of those things. 
I take them
and with madness gleaming from my azure eyes
roll them like die into the blue-black carpeted
festively bespectacled holy holy sky.
I wait long with a now fixéd, now vague gaze for truth to appear.
I wade centuries, generations, seasons, sunsets, moons,
O so many deep, amorphous, throbbing hours,
I anticipate fate.  The turn comes:
tenthousand ones! 
I always been lucky.
I leave with what I won stuffed in my back pocket
including the simple, formidable lesson
eternity always changes.


Sweet Secret

I come to you sweet secret in the night
One abyss behind me, another in front
Supplicant to all the Holies, with you as avatar
Haven and respite for those aweary of the fight

I come to you sweet secret of the night
On the verge of undoing myself, outcacooning
Getting out of the canoe, putting it down, and walking away
Through you, to you, with you, in the divinity of the sacred light

I come to you sweet secret, for the night
Is black and empty and I feel great, gaunt fright
At the sight of terror I cannot comprehend
One abyss behind me, another in front

Supplicant to all the Holies, with you as comfort
And heavenly respite for those aweary of the flight 
Sweet secret, I come to you like the night  


Drinking Beauty 

Voice of the Hawk was just turning gray one Moon When The Cherries Turn Black when his wife, Ears of Ten Deer, gave birth to a girl.  Since it was incumbent upon Voice of the Hawk to name the newborn, he of renowned naming acumen in a tribe where naming was revered strode to the infant in a manner Gods and men admire.  A white tinted, broad wingéd, eagle-eyed hawk escorted his walk, and its energy penetrated him and went with him as he entered the uterine hut.  Chanting aloud to Manitto he traveled a circle around the unnamed child and stopping he gazed awhile possessed by the darkness of her pupils and trembling he lifted her up to the holy holy sky.  After a crescendo of inaudible laughter he said, “Drinking Beauty!”  And Drinking Beauty grew to be the most beautiful woman any Lenape had ever seen or dreamed about.  And her light brought the tribe together and gave them a great, just pride.  But the unanimity and unification fractured when men began to ponder why she had the name she did.  Her huge, rouge lips are the reason for her name, said Walks Same Time Each Day.  The glow they exude can come only from lips that are drinking beauty.  Her lips are cinnamon, argued Airs of Turtle, and they are not the reason for her name.  The referent for her name is the person who sees her, for whoever sees Drinking Beauty is drinking beauty.  Others took sides, and splinters and factions arose proclaiming her eyes, and the eyes of Voice of the Hawk, and more.  Once they went and asked Voice of the Hawk, but to no avail, as he just gave a queer, quizzical smile, shook his head, and walked away muttering under his breath.  The conflict persisted, and it reached a head one afternoon when Walks Same Time Each Day and Airs of Turtle were arguing in the center of camp.  People gathered and the two took to screaming and more people gathered so they took to pushing and shoving and when near the whole tribe was there they took to silver knives.  Voice of the Hawk got wind of the event and straightaway sent Drinking Beauty thru the parting sea of Lenape right to the space between the blades.  She stood, silence came, endurance, sighs, the knives disappeared, and by and by the entire tribe dispersed, Drinking Beauty last, without a word being spoken.  It is said she married a man her father nicknamed White Cousin, and that their blood still flows thru these parts today.

Voice of the Hawk Smells and Tastes the Future 

One day the Schuykill smelled sort of strange.  Voice of the Hawk stopped, slightly stunned.  He sniffed.  Something was the matter.  He put one drop of the river water on his fingertip, smelled it, tasted it, swallowed it, and on the next day led the Lenni Lenape away from this beautiful hill forever.

Voice of the Hawk’s Death Verse
It being reported that Voice of the Hawk etched these words on stone, ventured unseen into the sepulchral woods, and died. 

              Spirit Soar Earth Winter Hibernation
                   I hawk up phlegm no more.
                      Each life seeds another.

Church of a God Turnt Ghost

Sitting on the silver stone steps of St. John’s Church one lithe and idle hour,
An organ of madness, a Bachian adagian organ
Of sublime, dark, unwordable rapture
Drew me in
Thru the doors
Of piercing fear
And I stept
Softly, slowly, silently,
Until I was beneath the balcony of praise
And I stopt to listen because I stood to learn
More joy for being held within the mind and blood of God,
When suddenly the organist’s throat began to wail
Some Hinduesque chant, some arcane cant
Of a man in private meditation,
In deferent, wild love.
Conscious of the discrepancies between Gods, conscious of fleet, vile time,
And conscious that I was an invasive, eavesdropping presence
On this personal, beautiful grace,
I left,
And I went
To the bridge that holds the vision
And after suffering bliss with the winds
In one of the aged, elegant, yellow archways,
I trekked the tracks over the river and gazing from some woods
Watched the organist’s waves reverberate about the timeless sky,
Aware that he is he, It is It, Deus Es Natura, you are you, and I, O I am I.

Orion’s Belt 

What’s Orion’s Belt without Orion?
O who am I and what am I in?  Or
Am I out?  What is going on?  I roar:
What is happening?  Where, O where, is Orion?

I am three stars in a corner of the Universe
Who once was found, but now I’m lost, and worse
Than that, sometimes I forget I’m even gone.
I am Orion’s Belt without Orion.

Who’s Orion’s Belt without Orion?
Who’s not?  O I can holler all I want
But I have this stirring intuition
Everyone is Orion’s Belt sans Orion.

I just heard:  Orion was slain by Dawn!
Now who will pick me up and put me on?



Then Of Time

Time for song, is it then, time for a dirge
For all these dead gods, time for a hymn
For all these live gods, time for a prayer
For the Goddess who is coming?

But how can it be time when time is dead?

Now that time is over it is time,
For only in timelessness can a true God come.
So say a prayer from your knees, in your home, everyone
Bow to the glory of her beauty who is coming
To change the world as we knew it.

How time became over is for the,
So don yu werry bout nothen.  Now there’s space to breathe

And You, you who are coming,
Know that I love you more than I love myself
And that I love myself more than I love the day,
And the day more than the night,
And the night more than eternity itself.
         And Love the world more than I love you.

To A Man I Love

I have had as many failures in my life as successes, and this book, too, may very well be a masked failure.  It may even be an unmasked failure.  I failed you more than once, and you I care about, and I care about few things--therefore I have necessarily failed in most things.  I am even failing now in this stuttering attempt to communicate with you.  
                                                                  You scare me because I love you--
But that I have known you and will know you forever is a success.
No man is completely devoid of some victory in life—

You know these computers hurt my eyes, Thomas.
I turn off the lamp in favor of candles, so the computer light is the
Strongest, really the most dangerous light of all.
And light is as dangerous as truth, and almost as sharp--

How come I got all these voices in me trying to get out?
How come I got all these voices in me tryen to get out? 

Do you know what I am trine to say, Thomas?
If you do, tell me, because I am still uncertain myself. 

If this book were not for the whole world…

The mad monotony of the sound of ceaseless running water fills my brain
And, aye, therefore my long tongue, like the madness were raindrops
And I was sticken my tongue out in a thunderstorm
And laughing to my Self in the wind.

Do you know I love you more than I am capable of fulfilling?
That’s not true of all men, is it Thomas, or of any man all the time? 
                                                      It is you in a Book of the Gods.  


Woman, WOMAN, woman,
You are more beautiful than the day itself,
I hum at the end of the night,

You are more beautiful than the sea and the sky,
You are more beautiful than yourself, because you do not realize
You are more beautiful than the beauty you size.

Beauty is an idea, you are a woman,
Fragrant, fertile, alive.
Your eyes change colors in front of my eyes—

I don’t have to think about that.
I hum at the end of the night,
You are more beautiful than your very own light.

Let the haughty history of judgment pass,
For all its glorious praise, none of it has seen you
And therefore it has been deficient.

I praise you who are more beautiful than the day itself,
I hum at the end of the night,
You are more beautiful than yourself.

The End of Time 

And God said, Come, let us come,
Let us come up from out of the essence
Of our being, and grow like seeds that sense
The fate of flowers.
Let us endure electric fear, let us march staunchly
thru the throbbing empty nothingness like we have nothing to lose.
We understand the obligations, and choose to be audacious, and accomplish what we would not have otherwise accomplished.  

God said, Come, let us penetrate into unknown realms, because it is true
What that Man said, You never step into the same stream twice.
Come let us delve, let us experiment with other languages, other tongues,
Other realms, because we do not know the details of what awaits us
And neither do we care, because we know what to care about—
Listen to what I am saying. 
There are truths hidden behind everything
As etymologies essence words.  It IS up to GOD, because I am God,
You are Goddess, and we make of the hour what the hour is made of.
GOD is everything, GOD is all. 
Come, let us acknowledge and homage with our lust
And love like only lovers such as us can love.
It is all waves, and I always want every wave to continue forever.
Forever and ever, I want forever and forever for you and I to come
Up from out the essence of our being, and surge forth
With eternity as if this is our only opportunity ever.
This is the end of time, and we know it.
Fleetingness is, but death shall not do us part.
It is up to GOD whether anyone knows it or not.
This is the power of the Word:



Sweeter Secret 
Death shall not do us part…
It’s two a.m. Wednesday, you’re asleep round the time
Of the red lunar eclipse in the days of the white Asian Comet
And I know we share a secret.

What are you dreaming as I write
in the middle of the middle of the holy holy night?
Am I writing what you dream? 
Are you dreaming what I write?
We LOVE each other more than we can say.
GOD is on our side, and more than we know or can say.
SWEET tragic secret truth is with us now and forever
Hardly knows our names, but what is that to us?
Do you get my drift?
The TRUTH is I love you

And I would toss this little book into the brook, and none of that would

The world is leaning, and I am leaning
With it, but I dont know how.

This is your version, typed the day we planted Two Reeds,
And your version is our prayer. 

Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus,
Safety, sunlight, and soil, be on our side.
Holy Holy Holy God of Power and Light,
Deus sive Natur,
O Goddess of Safety, Sunlight, and Soil,
Be with us now.
There are many gods and goddesses,
And there have been many gods and goddesses,
As there will be many gods and goddesses,
But all gods and goddesses serve GOD.
GOD serve us now.
May the angels of Big Chief In The Sky be on our side,
And may we be on theirs.
May the angels of Dionysos swarm in sufficient proximity,
And fertility be our rule.
May the angels of the Earth return to Her thru us,
And water comingle with light like whores in a radical orgy.

This is our prayer, Paul and Kevin's, Holistic K,
May the spirit of Two Reeds prosper.   

Come, Let Us Pray 
Hallelujah, hollay luya, holl ay lu ya.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,
Selah, selah, selah.

Come let us pray,
And in our praying let us not supplicate, or beg, or anything like that,
Rather let us praise, cause praise is the origin of pray, and we love origins.



Nothing came, and I was dismayed.
But then something came, and I was happy.

The space between the lines remembers the history of a life
and anticipates a future. 

That is to say, it is midnight in the summer
and a world's at play. 

You never know what a day is going to hold.
Do not let the expectation diminish the experience.
You never know what a day is going to give.
You never know what a day is going to give.
Do not let the expectation alter the experience. 
Art is live and it shows
Reality enframed. 

Then I went to a bar, a bar of many bars in Manayunk, Manayunk,
Where I Go To Drink,
And I sat at the bar aware of many hours
In Manayunk, unk,
And drank eternity in every gulp of ale I drunk, drunk,
Kerplunk.  In Manayunk

I went to a bar to ponder the hour of hours
I was with her, and we made love
Like the frequencies of alterations
At one with time.
We were so at one with time
We realized there was no such thing as time.
And all this time they thought there was such a thing as time!
We made love at dawn
In Manayunk 

I hear the tenthousand voices in tongues at a bar
And the strange thing is they're whispering.
Hallelujah, Hail Elijah, Hail Alla,
This is my destination, this is my bar,
At least for an hour this is 

So I left and I went
To live in the woods with a beautiful woman
And await the coming of god.
We make fires, we eat meals, we walk, we talk, we joke, we lament,
we sleep, we shower, we make love,
And all the while I am awaiting the coming god.
She laughs at me, my wife.  She hasn't had a god since her brother died.
She doesn't really see it.  What I see is her, The New God.
"I see the New God within you."
I see four hills in the distance.  I let her laugh at me
All the while realizing that the coming god is in her
That she represents, that she is an avatar of the new god, who is
Beautiful, Lovely, Harmonious. 

All These Gods 
Dead Gods, live Gods, all these Gods--
I think that the next God is a Goddess.

Fling this fragment, you, this shard, You,

this sharp segment of my anger,
my contempt for the superficial miscreants and stupid shits of the world
who do not understand the word.

This is her world—

Dead Goddesses, live Goddesses, coming Goddesses,
all these Goddesses,
and still she needs a man, a poet, someone who can understand--

and me to her and my anger subsides in favor of
tonishment at the raw primal Beauty inherent in her bent.
And she even laughs.
Christ replaced a century after his death—
This is her world.

Live Goddess, Goddess coming, Goddess here,
and I cannot say your name. 

Yahweh old man blesses you like Buddha's bliss and Allah,
Big Chief in the Sky approve of you come from Harmonia,
You gather up the ways of the gods,
Yours is the regeneration of eternity, the death of time,
This is your world and you are our god, our goddess,
our avatar of GOD.

Harmony Chaos
Live, overture, underture, ..., side bar, to be sure,
But never let it be said that our consciousness could not be construed,
America on the verge of a new God, a new Goddess, to be specific,
Our minds ever rolling like the Heraclitean Mississippi River,
We who tremble thru each moment propelled by an emotion
that keeps us always at the edge of the surge of a new tear,
Electrical existence in our veins, let us be understood:
We stood at the nerve of a new, unheralded and misunderstood, underrepresented God.

And we knew she was a Goddess, and we rejoiced,
Because she was, because she was a Goddess, and because
Our legacy to the world would be one unified voice.
America's laws permitted the arrival of a new god, encouraged it, birthed it
And such a deed worthies saying.
Because is why, now and forever, so never let it be said that why is unknown to anyone including us.
And in the rain I heard a haiku about the rain.

Dew rises on the world every hour, every second, every millimoment,
Tenthousand times.  Tenthousand lives
Cross every life tenthousand times every electronic instant.
"Nathless" America made itself understood, and I have stood
Beneath a flag of the thirteen colonies and been proud.
Goddess, remember us, you eternal femme, remember us as those who knew you,
Before you came, during, and after, who helped you come, who enjoyed your coming, who endured it, and who savored it after it came.  And we will remember you the same.


amid the chaos and the glory there can be such gory fucken pain.
the pleasure of pain is with me now no more than the pain of pleasure.

so be the wind and turning seasons, so be the beauty of the burning reasons.
yea tho the computer can be taught how to learn, god is coming like a woman. 

such histrionics i have never experienced in all my lives
as i experience in this continual evolution of being on earth in sun of milky way.

circa tenthousand.
son of bochangson not know now what he know later. 

how does it make you feel that there is no time and a new goddess is coming.
how does it feel to know she is coming before her time. 

it hurts and i like it, it pleases and i despise it.
what's a man to do. 

ha, ha. truth is moonie ha ha.  truth is a minnie ha ha, and we are all to blame.
yea tho the wind reacts perfectly to its nature, man does too.

circa tenthousand.

how does it feel not to know.  how does it feel not to know.

i know that i dont know now, and i know that somethings i will never know.
so.  so what.  whatsoever may occur in this year of our lord, so be it.

and i will not contradict my contradictory nature in determining what it is.
and i will eliminate my i in the process, and my i will not even know it. 

selah, selah, selah.


Me I live in the woods with my beautiful wife

And this, this is the version that I put together last night
And you who glean the meaning of the trtptych hold the knife.

Then I left Manayunk an enemy of time
Befitting a poet concerned with the gods, befitting a poet reviled
By the superartificiality exposed in summer light.

Ha!  What is that to me?  I chant in the woods with my beautiful wife
And let it go, let it go. let it go as it goes,
As it goes, so it goes, so it goes.

There's a new god acomen
There's a new god a cummin, can't you see,
She's comin round the mountain as she comes,
She's comin round the mountain as she comes,
There's a new god a coming, can't you see?
There's a new god acummin as she please.

And I am humbly praying at her knees,
Looking up at the dulcet region of the holy
Where legions of soldiers throughout history
Have bowed in supplication to the seas
And seas of peace She brings.  My piece I give
To the world:  She is coming 

Poet, Kevin Boyle
Muse, Lauren Newman
Paper, Mi-Teintes Canson
Font, Prose Antique
Table of Contents Image, Reproduction
From Cicero’s Cato Major,
Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin,
Center Image, Reproduction
From Camillo Agrippa’s Trattato di scientia d’arme,
Rome, Blado,
Bo Changson
© No. 1 Of an edition
Of 21 variable bindings
Full Court Press  Philadelphia  MCMXCIV 

Back to Kevin's Poetry