To sit down among the treesand breathe with themin murmur brool and breeze —And how can I trust themwho pollute the skywith heavensthe below with hellsWell, humankind,I’m part of youand so my sonbut neither of uswill believeyour big sad lie
I dreamed Ted Williamsleaning at nightagainst the Eiffel Tower, weeping.He was in uniformand his bat lay at his feet– knotted and twiggy.‘Randall Jarrell says you’re a poet!’ I cried.‘So do I! I say you’re a poet!’He picked up his bat with blown hands;stood there astraddle as he would in the batter’s box,and laughed! flinging his…
Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteriestell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinetsthen desire her and kiss her and all the preliminariesand she going just so far and I understanding whynot getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstoneand woo…
Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an assThe bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axeCatapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger RathboneAh and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger BogartAnd hath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a slingBomb…
O sovereign was my touchupon the tan-inks’s fragile page!Quickly, my eyes moved quickly,sought for smell for dust for lacefor dry hair!I would have taken the pagebreathing in the crime!For no evidence have I wrung from dreams–yet what triumph is there in private credence?Often, in some steep ancestral book,when I find myself entangled with leopard-applesand torched-skin…
against the Eiffel Tower, weeping.He was in uniformand his bat lay at his feet– knotted and twiggy.‘Randall Jarrell says you’re a poet! ‘ I cried.‘So do I! I say you’re a poet! ‘He picked up his bat with blown hands;stood there astraddle as he would in the batter’s box,and laughed! flinging his schoolboy wrathtoward some…
Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an assThe bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axeCatapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger RathboneAh and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger BogartAnd hath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a slingBomb…
and finally I look my age, if not more.Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face?It seems fatter. And my hair,it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big?The lips are the same.And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts,but there’s lots…
and the needy-yap of my youthhas gone from ear to ear:I HATE OLD POETMEN!Especially old poetmen who retractwho consult other old poetmenwho speak their youth in whispers,saying:–I did those thenbut that was thenthat was then–O I would quiet old mensay to them:–I am your friendwhat you once were, thru meyou’ll be again–Then at night in…
there to see; you and America, like the tree and theground, are one the same; yet how like a palm treein the state of Oregon. . . dead ere it blossomed,like a snow polar loping theMiami—How so that which you were or hoped to be, and theAmerica not, the America you saw yet couldnot seeSo…
