Europe will find Christ with our Russia Showing the way, which is her destiny -- But America? Ha. Recall how Svidrigailov Speaks of "America" as a euphemism For what? For suicide! Ha. So I speak of Trump as a double of Papa Karamazov Who in his turn speaks of Grushenka as "My little chicken." Ha. Needless to say, Yes, yes, yes, there is also an aspect Of Smerdyakov in Trump -- I know this -- And the bottom line (as you say!) is this: America must not, cannot, and will not Be redeemed. I'm just so terribly sorry. Russia -- the third Rome! America? Ha.
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Address delivered by Abraham Lincoln at the dedication of the Soldiers' National Cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. November 19, 1863
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
from "Some comments on my last book of poesy" -- Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)
why do you drink? I saw you at the racetrack but I didn't bother you. I'd like to renew our relationship. do you really stay up all night? I can out-drink you. you stole it from Sherwood Anderson. did you ever meet Ezra? I am alone and I think of you every night. who the hell do you think you're fooling? my tits aren't much but I've got great legs. fuck you, man. my wife hates you. will you please read the enclosed poems and comment? I am going to publish all those letters you wrote me. you jack-off motherfucker, you're not fooling anybody.
And the Moon and the Stars and the World
Long walks at night -- that's what's good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off their beer-maddened husbands.
Me Against the World
when I was a kid one of the questions asked was, would you rather eat a bucket of shit or drink a bucket of piss? I thought that was easy. "that's easy," I said, "I'll take the piss." "maybe we'll make you do both," they told me. I was the new kid in the neighborhood. "oh yeah," I said. "yeah!" they said. there were 4 of them. "yeah," I said, "you and whose army?" "we won't need no army," the biggest one said. I slammed my fist into his stomach. then all 5 of us were down on the ground fighting. they got in each other's way but there were still too many of them. I broke free and started running. "sissy! sissy!" they yelled. "going home to mama?" I kept running. they were right. I ran all the way to my house, up the driveway and onto the porch and into the house where my father was beating my mother. she was screaming. things were broken on the floor. I charged my father and started swinging. I reached up but he was too tall, all I could hit were his legs. then there was a flash of red and purple and green and I was on the floor. "you little prick!" my father said, "you stay out of this!" "don't you hit my boy!" my mother screamed. but I felt good because my father was no longer hitting my mother. to make sure, I got up and charged him again, swinging. there was another flash of colors and I was on the floor again. when I got up again my father was sitting in one chair and my mother was sitting in another chair and they both just sat there looking at me. I walked down the hall and into my bedroom and sat on the bed. I listened to make sure there weren't any more sounds of beating or screaming out there. there weren't. then I didn't know what to do. it wasn't any good outside and it wasn't any good inside. so I just sat there. then I saw a spider making a web in the window. I found a match, walked over, lit it and burned the spider. then I felt better. much better.
Poem in the Manner of Charles Bukowski -- David Lehman
You do what you want, I’ll do what I want, and we’ll see which one of us gets to the twenty-dollar window in time for the fourth race at Del Mar.
On the goddamn radio that’s always playing in my bitch’s kitchen, I heard some East Coast big-shot author say he needs to jerk off before he can write. All is I can say is fuck that shit.
I hate poets who beg you to like them because you feel sorry for them. Do not feel sorry for me. I won on Bitches’ Brew in the fourth and went home and drank a fifth of bourbon and got laid.
After Bukowski -- Mitch Sisskind
summer nights after work bill and I played tom and john in basketball in the park by ford city and then we'd go to the old gripe and groan.
bill and I were okay at basketball while john was terrible but they usually won on account of how tom was great.
in fact in two rivers wisconsin where tom went to high school tom is in their high school sports hall of fame in all three sports in two rivers wisconsin.
well one night bill and I won in basketball but the next night they won again and then we went over to the old gripe and groan
and tom said i really wanted to win tonight on account of you won last night so | i didn't have a drink last night not even a
beer and i didn't fuck my wife last night and not this morning I didn't fuck her neither one.
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air.
O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
Poetry by Marianne Moore
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us—that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat, holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base— ball fan, the statistician—case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the autocrats among us can be “literalists of the imagination”—above insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion— the raw material of poetry in all its rawness, and that which is on the other hand, genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
In Genesis 18 when God told Sarah She would have a baby she laughed Since she was an old lady (90!) and When she denied she had laughed God said, "No, honey, you did laugh," Because he wasn't angry about it;
However in Daniel 5:4 Belshazzar Mockingly laughed and a hand wrote
Mene mene tekel upharsin (?!?!?!) On the wall and Belshazzar's loins Were loosened (meaning what?) Followed by the attack of King Darius Who was sixty-two years of age. (But we don't care how old he was!)
Possibly I am the only four-time contributor to BAP who was also the head coach of a high school football team, as I was for two years in the early '70s. Coaching the team was one of the most important experiences of my life, and also one of the riskiest. If we had not won more games than we lost I would have suffered a deep and permanent "narcissistic blow." It was a kind of atavistic experience without the sensitivities that were just starting to emerge fifty years ago. There was blood, sweat, and tears, and lots of laughs also.
Walter Behrns, who's on the far left in the picture, was my assistant coach but as the athletic director of the school he was also my boss. However, Wally saw himself as a "baseball man" rather than a "football man" so I made all the decisions about our offense and defense, the starting lineups, the practice schedules, and the rest of it. Wally was like a Leopold Bloom for me when we drove around the Northwest Side scouting teams or visited the homes of Chicago policemen to recruit players. Unfortunately, like some of the young men in the picture, Wally Behrns is no longer with us. He was the most gifted funny person I've known. He beat Kenneth Koch by a field goal.
I've tried writing some sonnets about coaching....
Many math teachers also coach football. As a math teacher and head coach of My school's football team I try to combine My love of math with my love of football So kids learn something in the classroom That they can also use on the football field;
Paul Bryant conjectured about how if your
Football ability is 75 percent and you are Playing against a kid with 100 percent of Football ability, what will happen if you Play at 110 percent of your ability and The other kid plays at only 75 percent? This is a good example of how to mix Mathematics and football in the classroom.
On the sideline during a game a coach Must not jollify when things are going well Nor can gloom-pussing be allowed when Inevitable interceptions, injuries, fumbles, And errant bounces of the football occur; In times of adversity a coach can mutter "Fuck" under his breath or "fuck me" but nothing more. Weeb Ewbank, Lombardi, Some of the other greats carried tightly
Rolled-up game programs to gesticulate Like symphony orchestra conductors but
One must have stature to wave a baton like Toscanini or wave a program like Hank Stram Who pioneered weightlifting with the Chiefs.
When we scouted a future opponent We identified that team's best player And in our weekly meetings on Mondays We referred to him as the Big Stud or
Or sometimes a team had two Big Studs One on offense and one on defense Or there might even be no Big Studs In the true meaning of the term if The opposing team was very weak But we still referred to their best player As the Big Stud even though ironically Or with a comic superciliousness That caused our players to smile Through swollen ankles or stiff necks.
Well-founded fear of the freight elevator That once had inexplicably gone rogue
Boomeranging up and down between The ground floor and the twelfth floor Without any cause that the agonized Janitor could hope to understand until
Again inexplicably it suddenly stopped. But for how long would it be stopped?.
Thanked be fortune, the front elevator Was ever predictable in the hands Of the septuagenarian elevator men: Pete, Egnar, Joe, and a night shift man Whose proper name I didn't know; I just thought of him as Also Joe.
So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
from "Don Juan, Canto I"
I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan— We all have seen him, in the pantomime, Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And fill’d their sign posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo’s monarchs stalk, Followers of fame, ‘nine farrow’ of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, Were French, and famous people, as we know: And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, With many of the military set, Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
Nelson was once Britannia’s god of war, And still should be so, but the tide is turn’d; There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar, ’Tis with our hero quietly inurn’d; Because the army ’s grown more popular, At which the naval people are concern’d; Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
Brave men were living before Agamemnon And since, exceeding valorous and sage, A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; But then they shone not on the poet’s page, And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none, But can’t find any in the present age Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan.
Most epic poets plunge ‘in medias res’ (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), And then your hero tells, whene’er you please, What went before—by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease, Beside his mistress in some soft abode, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.
That is the usual method, but not mine— My way is to begin with the beginning; The regularity of my design Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, And therefore I shall open with a line (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan’s father, And also of his mother, if you’d rather.
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, Famous for oranges and women—he Who has not seen it will be much to pity, So says the proverb—and I quite agree; Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, Cadiz perhaps—but that you soon may see; Don Juan’s parents lived beside the river, A noble stream, and call’d the Guadalquivir.
His father’s name was Jose—Don, of course,— A true Hidalgo, free from every stain Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; A better cavalier ne’er mounted horse, Or, being mounted, e’er got down again, Than Jose, who begot our hero, who Begot—but that ’s to come—Well, to renew:
His mother was a learned lady, famed For every branch of every science known In every Christian language ever named, With virtues equall’d by her wit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did.
Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart All Calderon and greater part of Lope, So that if any actor miss’d his part She could have served him for the prompter’s copy; For her Feinagle’s were an useless art, And he himself obliged to shut up shop—he Could never make a memory so fine as That which adorn’d the brain of Donna Inez.
Her favourite science was the mathematical, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken’d to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy—her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won’t stay puzzling.
I have enjoyed reading on this site about Jack's outstanding work in Mark Van Doren's class at Columbia. However, while it may be true that Jack quit the football team after receiving an 'A' in the class, this is not actually why he quit the team. In 'Vanity of Dulouz,' one of his last books -- it may even have been posthumous -- Jack makes it very clear that he left the team out of frustration at the Columbia Coach. The Coach's real name was Lou Little, and I believe in the book Jack refers to him as Lou Libble. Here he is...
As the book describes it, Little (or Libble) had a tremendous fixation on a reverse play called KF-79. He had won a game with it thousands of years ago, when he was so happy he fell off his dinosaur. Now he kept insisting that Kerouac practice this play over and over, which pissed Jack off. Plus, Jack had broken his leg sometime earlier and Lou had moved him down in the depth chart, very unfairly in Jack's opinion. So Jack left the team. In fact, not long afterward he left Columbia altogether.
Jack was a good player in high school in Massachusetts, and I believe he did a postgraduate year at Horace Mann School where he also played. He was probably the best football playing writer ever, certainly the best since U. of Penn All-American T. Truxton Hare in the early years of the 20th century. 'Vanity of Dulouz' is one of the best books ever about football, although only the opening section actually deals with the game. Jack had the ability (like Homer) to magnify a small incident like a football game into something on the scale of the Normandy invasion. 'Dulouz' is really good, and you feel like you're right next to Jack on the field, or on your barstool.
However, the all time best book on football -- in fact, it's in a completely different league than any other football book -- is Don Delillo's End Zone. Which is wonderful, because unless I am mistaken Delilo did not play the game past the high school level and I'm not sure he even played high school ball. In this sense he's a kind of Stephen Crane, who wrote convincingly about combat without having taken part in it. Well, Tolstoy said if you've seen a street fight you can write about a war. If you've seen Mr. Smee, you can write about Captain Hook. If you've seen a dachshund, you can write about a Shar Pei. Trust me!
The Great Man with wife Georgie, daughter Ann, and son William
Vacillation
I
Between extremities Man runs his course; A brand, or flaming breath. Comes to destroy All those antinomies Of day and night; The body calls it death, The heart remorse. But if these be right What is joy?
II
A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with the dew; And half is half and yet is all the scene; And half and half consume what they renew, And he that Attis’ image hangs between That staring fury and the blind lush leaf May know not what he knows, but knows not grief
III
Get all the gold and silver that you can, Satisfy ambition, animate The trivial days and ram them with the sun, And yet upon these maxims meditate: All women dote upon an idle man Although their children need a rich estate; No man has ever lived that had enough Of children’s gratitude or woman’s love.
No longer in Lethean foliage caught Begin the preparation for your death And from the fortieth winter by that thought Test every work of intellect or faith, And everything that your own hands have wrought And call those works extravagance of breath That are not suited for such men as come proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.
IV
My fiftieth year had come and gone, I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
V
Although the summer Sunlight gild Cloudy leafage of the sky, Or wintry moonlight sink the field In storm-scattered intricacy, I cannot look thereon, Responsibility so weighs me down.
Things said or done long years ago, Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
VI
A rivery field spread out below, An odour of the new-mown hay In his nostrils, the great lord of Chou Cried, casting off the mountain snow, ‘Let all things pass away.’
Wheels by milk-white asses drawn Where Babylon or Nineveh Rose; some conquer drew rein And cried to battle-weary men, ‘Let all things pass away.’
From man’s blood-sodden heart are sprung Those branches of the night and day Where the gaudy moon is hung. What’s the meaning of all song? ‘Let all things pass away.’
VII
The Soul. Seek out reality, leave things that seem. The Heart. What, be a singer born and lack a theme? The Soul. Isaiah’s coal, what more can man desire? The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire! The Soul. Look on that fire, salvation walks within. The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin?
VIII
Must we part, Von Hugel, though much alike, for we Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity? The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb, Bathed in miraculous oil, sweet odours from it come, Healing from its lettered slab. Those self-same hands perchance Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once Had scooped out pharaoh’s mummy. I – though heart might find relief Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief What seems most welcome in the tomb – play a pre-destined part. Homer is my example and his unchristened heart. The lion and the honeycomb, what has Scripture said? So get you gone, Von Hugel, though with blessings on your head.
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, Until I labour, I in labour lie. The foe oft-times having the foe in sight, Is tir’d with standing though he never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering, But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear, That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime, Tells me from you, that now it is bed time. Off with that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals, As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals. Off with that wiry Coronet and shew The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow: Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed. In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know, By this these Angels from an evil sprite, Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d, My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie, How blest am I in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee, As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be, To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views, That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem, His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them. Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made For lay-men, are all women thus array’d; Themselves are mystic books, which only we (Whom their imputed grace will dignify) Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know; As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence, There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What needst thou have more covering than a man.
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell (1681)
To His Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Click here for a further analysis of the two poems.
Some time ago -- oh, ten years at least must now have passed -- I had a conversation with Ron Padgett that remains clear in memory. I believe there are three reasons for this clarity. First, it was the only conversation I've ever had with Ron Padgett. Second, I had been preparing for the conversation over many years, hoping that I would someday have a chance to speak with Ron. Third, the conversation was everything I'd hoped for, although it was essentially finished after the first minute or so. This was because the start of the conversation was so powerful, thought provoking, and fulfilling that the rest didn't matter. It was like a baseball game with such a spectacular home run on the first pitch that no one pays attention to the rest of the game -- and, as John Ashbery wrote, "this is only one example."
I said to Ron Padgett, "Reading your own work, and also some of your collaborations with Ted Berrigan in Bean Spasms, I felt that this was as funny as anything else I'd seen. As funny as Mark Twain in "Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses," and much funnier than most professional funny men. Yet many professional funny men are making a really good living from not actually being that funny, or not being funny at all. So my question is, did you ever think of somehow taking a commercial route with your funniness -- maybe into film or television, or by writing jokes for famous comedians, as Woody Allen did?"
The reply from Ron Padgett was instantaneous and emphatic: "Hell no!"
Well, I knew where Ron was coming from, and felt like I was from the same place. Yes, we were brothers in our allegiances and our renunciations. We were both students of Kenneth Koch, who could have been Jerry Lewis but who chose to be himself. Hooray and boo-hoo, as Koch himself liked to say. (Or just hooray, if you prefer.) Let's keep all this in the back of our minds as we consider Nora Ephron -- her life, death, and the memorial service that took place this week. She was a very funny lady.
Sometimes you're tired maybe because you Didn't sleep last night or you drank too much So even if you did sleep it wasn't a real sleep Yet somehow you make it through the day Until around 4 or 5 pm you lie down and sleep Till maybe midnight when you briefly wake up To check the time and then go back to sleep Clear until morning when you at last awaken To the sun shining and the birds chirping And any dog or cat you had in your life
Is there jumping up and down with joy and Some even peeing with wild excitement and
Because they can all talk now they're saying
"We've been waiting for you!" That's how it will be.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later to the greatness of Teddy Wilson "After You've Gone" on the piano in the corner of the bedroom as I enter in the dark
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