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.