My Picture Left in Scotland I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind: I'm sure my language was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet As hath the youngest he, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Oh, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundreds of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years, Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rock face, As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears. On my First Son Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry." For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much. see also https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2024/06/sonnet-73-great-poems-of-the-world-episode-2-with-david-lehman-and-mitch-sisskind-.html https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2024/07/my-life-had-stood-a-loaded-gun-great-poems-of-the-world-episode-5-with-david-lehman-and-mitch-sisski.html https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2024/11/ulysses-and-the-gettysburg-address-great-poems-of-the-world-with-david-lehman-and-mitch-sisskind.html Continue reading

What about the legend of Walter Chrysler Disassembling a Model T in 1908 and putting It back together 50 times? Um, yes and no. First, it was a Locomobile -- and 50 times? That seems unlikely. Nor is it clear whether Chrysler took apart the whole Locomobile Or only the engine. We simply don't know. We do know that both Walter Chrysler And Andrew Carnegie are buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery along with Washington Irving whose short story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" (1820) Featuring the Headless Horseman is An early example of a horror story! Continue reading

Here's Part One of "The Skaters," John Ashbery's 700 line poem that appeared in his book titled Rivers and Mountains (1966.) The complete poem is available at this link: John Ashbery, "The Skaters" The Skaters I These decibels Are a kind of flagellation, an entity of sound Into which being enters, and is apart. Their colors on a warm February day Make for masses of inertia, and hips Prod out of the violet-seeming into a new kind Of demand that stumps the absolute because not new In the sense of the next one in an infinite series But, as it were, pre-existing or pre-seeming in Such a way as to contrast funnily with the unexpectedness And somehow push us all into perdition. Here a scarf flies, there an excited call is heard. The answer is that it is novelty That guides these swift blades o'er the ice, Projects into a finer expression (but at the expense Of energy) the profile I cannot remember. Colors slip away from and chide us. The human mind Cannot retain anything except perhaps the dismal two-note theme Of some sodden "dump" or lament. But the water surface ripples, the whole light changes. We children are ashamed of our bodies But we laugh and, demanded, talk of sex again And all is well. The waves of morning harshness Float away like coal-gas into the sky. But how much survives? How much of any one of us survives? The articles we'd collect-stamps of the colonies With greasy cancellation marks, mauve, magenta and chocolate, Or funny-looking dogs we'd see in the street, or bright remarks. One collects bullets. An Indianapolis, Indiana man collects slingshots of all epochs, and so on. Subtracted from our collections, though, these go on a little while, collecting aimlessly. We still support them. But so little energy they have! And up the swollen sands Staggers the darkness fiend, with the storm fiend close behind him! True, melodious tolling does go on in that awful pandemonium, Certain resonances are not utterly displeasing to the terrified eardrum. Some paroxysms are dinning of tambourine, others suggest piano room or organ loft For the most dissonant night charms us, even after death. This, after all, may be happiness: tuba notes awash on the great flood, ruptures of xylophone, violins, limpets, grace-notes, the musical instrument called serpent, viola da gambas, aeolian harps, clavicles, pinball machines, electric drills, que sais-je encore! The performance has rapidly reached your ear; silent and tear-stained, in the post-mortem shock, you stand listening, awash With memories of hair in particular, part of the welling that is you, The gurgling of harp, cymbal, glockenspiel, triangle, temple block, English horn and metronome! And still no presentiment, no feeling of pain before or after. The passage sustains, does not give. And you have come far indeed. Yet to go from "not interesting" to "old and uninteresting," To be surrounded by friends, though late in life, To hear the wings of the spirit, though far.... Why do I hurriedly... Continue reading

Kubla Khan By Samuel Taylor Coleridge Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Continue reading

Okay, the people of Westhaven were angry that the presidential election would get rigged against R.L. Greene. R.L. Greene himself often said how an election is a right of free speech and interfering with free speech is treason against the constitution. As an example of free speech, R.L. Greene was the only candidate for president who ever said the word fuck during a campaign. He liked to say, “I let the fuck out of the bag.” He also said you can’t put toothpaste back in a tube so the establishment shouldn’t try to put the word fuck back. Okay, Trig Coleman was called Bub. Bub knew he would be arrested if he took up arms against the rigged election. Maybe his friends planned to take up arms but Bub was trepidatious to join them. He was enraged about the infringement on the constitution but he was also hopeless. The fix was in. Nothing he could do would have any positive effect so he shot himself in the head the night before the election. Heidi, Bub’s wife, also shot herself in the head. Okay, Bub was twenty-nine years old when he passed on and Heidi was twenty-three. Their last moments occurred less than one year after their wedding ceremony in the snow-covered yard of the Brethern church. Bub and Heidi loved snowmobiles so they arrived at the church in a snowmobile. They were smiling and waving. All the onlookers were struck by the happiness of the couple. The wedding was open-carry. Bub’s right hand rested on his holstered .45 as he said his I do. Heidi was not packing although in her snowsuit her sexual hotness was obvious and she was wearing a FUCK hat. Months later at the joint funeral of Bub and Heidi the pastor of that same Brethren church mentioned that maybe their happiness on their wedding day had attracted the attention of the devil. The devil is always attracted when things look to be going well in people’s affairs. The devil probably saw how Bub’s snowmobile repair business was starting to take off. And the devil most likely also noticed how Mr. Dykstra at the bank helped Bub and Heidi get set up in their house on Baseline Road. Okay, it was a two-story, four-room house on Baseline Road with a yard and a garage in the back where Bub worked on snowmobiles. The downstairs living room and the dining room didn’t get much sun so the young couple was often in the sun-kissed bedroom upstairs. Next to the bedroom Bub converted the other upstairs room into his man cave. Bub and Heidi agreed to skip a honeymoon. There was nowhere in America to go considering the shape America was in and they had no intention of spending their money in a foreign country. Instead of the honeymoon Bub got an antique S&W .38 Special revolver for Heidi which still worked. Okay, after they fucked on their wedding night Bub presented Heidi with the .38 after which... Continue reading

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. Continue reading

Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 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... Continue reading

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... Continue reading

Ms Moore Ms Millay Sonnet VI by Edna St. Vincent Millay 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. Continue reading

"Give him my best..." Lumpy said to me you have to assume your house Is bugged but I said to him Lumpy it's not bugged Especially not in the rec room. So Spilatro came by And we went into the rec room. I said how's Sam? I hear he's frothing at the mouth and rolling around On his back and stuff. The next time you see him Give him my best, okay? That's all I said because No need to do a whole oil painting for Spilatro. Just give him my best was all and not a word more Because when things have passed a certain point I just say give the guy my best but we did go Into the rec room because what if there's bugs. And Lumpy? Why do we call him Lumpy? His name is Lombardo so we call him Lumpy. Continue reading

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!) Continue reading

A way with words..... We Are Seven ———A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.” Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.” “You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.” “Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. “My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. “And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. “The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. “So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.” “How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” Quick was the little Maid’s reply, “O Master! we are seven.” “But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!” (1798) I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance,... Continue reading

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... Continue reading

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. Continue reading

George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788–1824 So, we'll go no more a roving 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... Continue reading

In the guest bathroom a faux-marble counter Surrounds the sink and a plastic toilet seat Also has the appearance of black marble. Each closet in the apartment has a switch To ignite a bulb as the closet door opens but In the guest bathroom the opposite is true. When the door of the guest bathroom closes A beguiling blue light above the door reflects Off glass-covered leopard skin-print wallpaper. Bathrooms exist as well in the guest bedroom, The child's bedroom, and adjacent the walk-in Closet of the so-called master bedroom where A small safe in the walk-in closet might attract Someone's brief notice on the way to the master bedroom’s bathroom while away in the Long hall a cedar closet becomes shrouded In darkness as the door closes to create An unexpected seclusion space but neither The small safe by the master bedroom Nor the halcyon confine of the cedar closet Beguile like the blue light in the guest bathroom. Continue reading

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... Continue reading

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. from the archive; first posted some sunny day Continue reading

To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne (1633) To His Mistress Going to Bed John Donne 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... Continue reading

Auguries of Innocence William Blake To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr' all its regions A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear A Skylark wounded in the wing A Cherubim does cease to sing The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul The wild deer, wandring here & there Keeps the Human Soul from Care The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belovd by Men He who the Ox to wrath has movd Shall never be by Woman lovd The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spiders enmity He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night The Catterpiller on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly For the Last Judgment draweth nigh He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat Feed them & thou wilt grow fat The Gnat that sings his Summers Song Poison gets from Slanders tongue The poison of the Snake & Newt Is the sweat of Envys Foot The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artists Jealousy The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags A Truth thats told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent It is right it should be so Man was made for Joy & Woe And when this we rightly know Thro the World we safely go Joy & Woe are woven fine A Clothing for the soul divine Under every grief & pine Runs a joy with silken twine The Babe is more than swadling Bands Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made & Born were hands Every Farmer Understands Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity This is caught by Females bright And returnd to its own delight The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath Writes Revenge in realms of Death The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air Does to Rags the Heavens tear The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun Palsied strikes the Summers Sun The poor Mans Farthing is worth more Than... Continue reading

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. Continue reading

So eat a peach already! What the hell! The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot 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... Continue reading

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) Definitely - No Probably - Yes What do You - Think? My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away - And now We roam in Sovreign Woods - And now We hunt the Doe - And every time I speak for Him The Mountains straight reply - And do I smile, such cordial light Opon the Valley glow - It is as a Vesuvian face Had let it’s pleasure through - And when at Night - Our good Day done - I guard My Master’s Head - ’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s Deep Pillow - to have shared - To foe of His - I’m deadly foe - None stir the second time - On whom I lay a Yellow Eye - Or an emphatic Thumb - Though I than He - may longer live He longer must - than I - For I have but the power to kill, Without - the power to die - Continue reading

Robert Frost reflects on how seemingly inconsequential decisions can make "all the difference." So good luck! The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Continue reading

Hamlet can't make up his mind. What's the hell's the matter with that boy? We also refer to Joe Brainard and the Book of Job. This is serious. (from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet) To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Continue reading