In A Hotel Writing-Room

We artists have strange nerves!
That man in front of me,
I had been hating him
Implacably,
Just for the lines and curves
Of his unconscious face,
Lines that brought no disgrace
Upon humanity.
But when that same man spoke,
And with a grunt and wheeze
Asked me how many cs
Had the word "Necessity,"
The cord of my hatred broke.
"For how's a beggar to tell"
He said; -- and I loved him for it --
"With a word as long as hell,
If no wise blighter tells us?"
-- "You are right, my friend. We may score it
Over and over with c;
But at last it is not we
Who spell 'Necessity,'
But Necessity who spells us!"
He smiled. I smiled. And between
Your artist and your drummer
Swept, on a breeze of summer,
A wave of sympathy;
And we even came to wonder
Where -- in the name of thunder --
We had met before this scene.

Mayakovsky

1
My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.

2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

Live Flesh

Stand up carcass and walk
Nothing new under the yellow sun
The last of  the last of  the louis d’or
The light that separates
under the skins of  time
The lock in the heart that shatters
A thread of  silk
A thread of  lead
A thread of  blood
After these waves of  silence
These tokens of  love in black horsehair
The sky smoother than your eye
The neck twisted with pride
My life in the corridor
From which I see the undulating harvests of death
All those greedy hands kneading loaves of smoke
Heavier than the pillars of  the universe
Heads empty
Hearts bare
Hands scented
Tentacles of  the monkeys who aim at the clouds
Among the wrinkles of  these grimaces
A straight line tightens
A nerve twists
The sea sated
Love
The bitter smile of  death

(translated By Lydia Davis)

A Step Away from Them

It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
             On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating.
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
    Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of
Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
    There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,
which they’ll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
    A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

Bleeding

Stop bleeding  said the knife.
I would if I  could said the cut.
Stop bleeding  you make me messy with this blood.
I’m sorry  said the cut.
Stop or  I will sink in farther said the knife.
Don’t  said the cut.
The  knife did not say it couldn’t help it but
it  sank in farther.
If  only you didn’t bleed said the knife I wouldn’t
have  to do this.
I know  said the cut I bleed too easily I hate
that I  can’t help it I wish I were a knife like
you and  didn’t have to bleed.
Well  meanwhile stop bleeding will you said the knife.
Yes you  are a mess and sinking in deeper said the cut I
will have  to stop.
Have you  stopped by now said the knife.
I’ve almost  stopped I think.
Why must you  bleed in the first place said the knife.
For the same  reason maybe that you must do what you
must do said  the cut.
I can’t stand  bleeding said the knife and sank in farther.
I hate it too said  the cut I know it isn’t you it’s
me you’re lucky to be  a knife you ought to be glad about that.
Too many cuts around  said the knife they’re
messy I don’t know how  they stand themselves. They don’t said the cut.
You’re bleeding again.
No I’ve stopped said the cut  see you are coming out now the
blood is drying it will rub  off you’ll be shiny again and clean.
If only cuts wouldn’t bleed  so much said the knife coming
out a little.
But them knives might become  dull said the cut.
Aren’t you still bleeding a  little said the knife.
I hope not said the cut.
I feel you are just a little.
Maybe a little but I can  stop now.
I feel a little wetness still  said the knife sinking in a
little but then coming out a  little.
Just a little maybe just enough  said the cut.
That’s enough now stop now do   you  feel better now said the knife.
I feel I don’t have to bleed to   feel I   think said the cut.
I don’t I don’t have to   feel said   the knife drying now
becoming shiny.

Among the Trobairitz

Lady Maria,

        value and valiance,
joy and beauty and intelligence,
    honor, worth, and hospitality,
noble speech and pleasing company,
fine, sweet face and merry countenance,
    gentle gaze and loving glance—
all these, in you, and not the trickster’s art,
they draw me toward you with an honest heart.

I pray you, if it please you, fine amours
    and jouissance and sweet humility
may bring the solace I’ve been longing for,
    and grant me, lovely lady, if it please
you, the gift from which I’d draw all hope and happiness:
    in you lie all my love and lust and liking,
through you I drink up all I taste of gladness,
    and for you I’ve spent many hours sighing.

    And since your valiance and beauty elevate
you over other ladies—none surpasses you—
I pray you, if it please you, in song I dedicate
    to you:
        Don’t love a wooer who’s untrue!

Lovely lady, whom worth and joy exalt,
    and noble speech, to you I send my song,
        for gaiety and gladness are in you,
and all good gifts a man might choose among.

*I must conjure from my past *

I must conjure from my past
the dim and unavowed
spectre of a slave,
of a bound woman,
whose bound figure
pleads silently
and whose blood I must acknowledge in my own

faniciful wraith? Imagining?
Yet how else can I reconcile my rebel blood and protest
but by acknowledgement
of that spectre's mute rebellious blood.

Before Dark

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.

He came down the river, splashing
against the water’s dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing

on down out of sight. And still
I could hear the splashes
farther and farther away

as it grew darker. He came back
the same way, dusky as his shadow,
sudden beyond the willows.

The splashes went on out of hearing.
It was dark then. Somewhere
the night had accommodated him

—at the place he was headed for
or where, led by his delight,
he came.

The Before Picture

It’s complicated, my relationship status
with progress. I often prefer

the “before” picture. The future
is where I’m going only because

I have no choice, because time
moves in one direction, dragging

a bit of itself behind like meat.
An unseen hand keeps

tugging it—time’s rabbit leg,
time’s hunk of red venison—

just out of reach. Did I just describe
the future as bait? Am I strung

along? I know, when I arrive there,
it won’t be there. Won’t be that.

It’ll be now, the way it is
right now. And again. Refresh,

refresh, refresh. The befores
pile up behind me. It’s now again.

The Assignation

I think I must have told him my name was Juliette,
with four syllables, you said, to go with violette.

I envisaged the violet air that presages snow, the dark campaniles of a city beginning to blur

a malfunctioning violet neon pharmacy sign jittering away all night through the dimity curtains.

Near dawn you opened them to a deep fall and discovered
a line of solitary footprints leading to a porch:

a smell of candle-wax and frankincense; the dim murmur
of a liturgy you knew but whose language you did not.

The statues were shrouded in Lenten violet, save one,
a Virgin in a cope of voile so white as to be blue.

As was the custom there, your host informed you afterwards—
the church was dedicated to Our Lady of the Snows.

Drake's Drum

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)
Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

Childhood

When I was a child I knew red miners
dressed raggedly and wearing carbide lamps.
I saw them come down red hills to their camps
dyed with red dust from old Ishkooda mines.
Night after night I met them on the roads,
or on the streets in town I caught their glance;
the swing of dinner buckets in their hands,
and grumbling undermining all their words.

I also lived in low cotton country
where moonlight hovered over ripe haystacks,
or stumps of trees, and croppers’ rotting shacks
with famine, terror, flood, and plague near by;
where sentiment and hatred still held sway
and only bitter land was washed away.

Ex nada

Salir del vientre
Salir del miedo
Salir del nido

Arrancar
Apretar cueva
A toda raja

Vivir escondida
Sin ser oída

Ni vista
Ni oída

No ser
De la tierra
Si no de la nada.

My Father

My father lived a simple life
But he was a man apart
With gentle ways and humble mind
And an understanding heart

He loved and cared for people
Helping those in need.
He strove to make folk happy
For kindness was his creed.

He never aimed for dizzy heights
Of luxury or fame
But where he walked and where he talked
With love he carved his name.

He was like a rock to lean upon
Each problem he would share.
He found his strength in his belief
And in kneeling down in prayer.

He loved his home and lived his life
With fullness to the end
He taught me much I owe him much
A father and a friend.

Death was peace and joy to him
It was no fearful thing,
His faith was simple and sincere
And God alone his king.

The Old Man's Complaints. And how he gained them

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away;
You are chearful, and love to converse upon death!
Now tell me the reason I pray.

I am chearful, young man, Father William replied,
Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age.

Ocean of Earth

  To G. de Chirico

I have built a house in the middle of the Ocean
Its windows are the rivers flowing from my eyes
Octopi are crawling all over where the walls are
Hear their triple hearts beat and their beaks peck against 
the windowpanes

   House of dampness
   House of burning
   Season’s fastness
   Season singing
  The airplanes are laying eggs
  Watch out for the dropping of the anchor

Watch out for the shooting black ichor
It would be good if you were to come from the sky
The sky’s honeysuckle is climbing
The earthly octopi are throbbing
And so very many of us have become our own gravediggers
Pale octopi of the chalky waves O octopi with pale beaks
Around the house is this ocean that you know well
  And is never still

Pagan Passion

I am sweetly perplexed by love sallies, releases,
By the countless retreats and the numberless captures,
By the petulant coldness and agreeable raptures,
By the whisper of phrases that hurts and then pleases,
I am drunk by the prodigal total of leases
From her body and spirit, her soul and her senses,
I revel in approaches and artless offenses,
In her challenging taunts and her tenderly teases.
Now will I disengage a red flower from her tresses,
And uplift her lithe form from a divan of roses,
For the zephyr of night too much passion opposes,
And in delicate folds now has rumpled her dresses.
On tomorrow’s new ventures the heart eager presses,
I repose now to ponder on life-soothing losses.

“I dwell in Possibility—“

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—For Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—

"If I should learn, in some quite casual way,"

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
  That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
  Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
  And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—
  At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
  Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
  With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

The River

The slow Connecticut,

clean enough

for sweet salmon

to run its course again

snakes through

greening grass banks

unstartled by spring.

We drive across

macadam bridges,

River Road

to River Road,

over a millenium

of winding water

never getting wet.

Is progress counted

in the distance

we travel

or the distance

we still have to go?

Visit to St Mary’s Hospital, 1986

My mother pulled my hand hard
through the hospital gates as though

I was a lifeline. Her mended stockings
looked like sutures on her legs & her shoes

were deformed with walking—she’d searched
our entire town that week to find milk,

& the mud splashes on the back of her legs
had stuck to her skin like leeches.

The hospital smelled of its straining bodies,
its boiled implements creaked

against tissues & rib cages. Lime powder
had been scattered over the middle

of the floor as though death would make
a game of getting to the right bed.

A nurse was waiting for my mother
with scissors & forceps, & the assurance

of someone who’d gutted fish at the market
for years & never heard them screaming.

I played hopscotch on black & white tiles until
I got my mother back: bloodied,

lighter & limping. She wouldn’t look at me
until years later. The walk home was long &

the morning air swelled with the voices of children
playing in the park, among the living. Their laughter

bounced against concrete fences, loud,
as though they thought their mothers would

always come back for them, even
to see them through the last hour of the night.

Look or Ere You Leap

If thou in surety safe wilt sit,
If thou delight at rest to dwell,
Spend no more words than shall seem fit,
Let tongue in silence talk expel:
In all things that thou seest men bent,
See all! say nought! hold thee content!
In worldly works degrees are three,
Makers, doers, and lookers-on:
The lookers-on have liberty
Both the others to judge upon:
Wherefore, in all, as men are bent,
See all! say nought! hold thee content!
The makers oft are in fault found;
The doers doubt of praise or shame;
The lookers-on find surest ground,
They have the fruit, yet free from blame:
This doth persuade in all here meant,
See all! say nought! hold thee content!
The proverb is not south and west,
Which hath been said long time ago,
"Of little meddling cometh rest,
The busy man never wanteth woe':
The best way, is, in all worlds sent,
See all! say nought! hold thee content!

Byzantium

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the starlit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

Dirge

The glories of our blood and state
  Are shadows, not substantial things,
There is no armour against fate,
  Death lays his icy hand on Kings;
      Scepter and crown,
      Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made,
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
  And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
  They tame but one another still;
      Early or late,
      They stoop to fate,
And must give up the murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
  Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
  See where the victor-victim bleeds,
      Your heads must come,
      To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.