artist who played Turkey in the Straw, with
variations.
They asked him the name of the piece calling
it a humdinger and he answered, ‘I call it
‘Hell on the Wabash.”
The two next best were The Speckled Hen, and
Sweet Potatoes Grow in Sandy Land, with
variations.
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THE BRIDGE says: Come across, try me; see how good I am.
The white water says: I go on; around, under, over, I go on.A kneeling, scraggly pine says: I am here yet; they nearly got me last year.A sliver of moon slides by on a high wind calling: I know why; I’ll see you to-morrow; I’ll tell you everything to-morrow.
Come you, cartoonists,
At seven o’clock in the morningOn a Halsted street car.Take your pencilsAnd draw these faces.Try with your pencils for these crooked faces,That pig-sticker in one corner—his mouth—That overall factory girl—her loose cheeks.Find for your pencilsA way to mark your memoryOf tired empty faces.After their night’s sleep,In the moist dawnAnd cool daybreak,FacesTired of wishes,Empty of dreams.
THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.A white pigeon reels and somersaults.Frogs plutter and squdge-and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits…
LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.
It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a…
Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Clots of red mess my hairAnd the tiger, the buffalo, know how.I was a killer.Yes, I am a killer.I come from killing.I go to more.I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juicesof my inside bones:The child cries for a suck mother and I cry…
THE SHEETS of night mist travel a long valley.
What was it we touched asking nothing and asking all?How many times can death come and pay back what we saw?In the oath of the sod, the lips that swore,In the oath of night mist, nothing and all,A riddle is here no man tells, no woman.