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Careful observers may foretell the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower: While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o’er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine; You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old achès throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; He damns the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swilled more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is born aslope: Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the gods; then turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, ’Twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain Erects the nap, and leaves a mingled stain. Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout’s abroach, Stays till ’tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While seams run down her oiled umbrella’s sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o’er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, run them through), Laocoön struck the outside with his spear, And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell What street they sailed from, by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield or St. Pulchre’s shape their course, And in huge confluence joined at Snow Hill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge. Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud, Dead cats, and turnip tops, come tumbling down the flood.

Farewell (sweet Cooke-ham) where I first obtained Grace from that grace where perfect grace remained; And where the muses gave their full consent, I should have power the virtuous to content; Where princely palace willed me to indite, The sacred story of the soul’s delight. Farewell (sweet place) where virtue then did rest, And all delights did harbor in her breast; Never shall my sad eyes again behold Those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold. Yet you (great Lady) Mistress of that place, From whose desires did spring this work of grace; Vouchsafe to think upon those pleasures past, As fleeting worldly joys that could not last, Or, as dim shadows of celestial pleasures, Which are desired above all earthly treasures. Oh how (methought) against you thither came, Each part did seem some new delight to frame! The house received all ornaments to grace it, And would endure no foulness to deface it. And walks put on their summer liveries, And all things else did hold like similes. The trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad, Embraced each other, seeming to be glad, Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies, To shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes; The crystal streams with silver spangles graced, While by the glorious sun they were embraced; The little birds in chirping notes did sing, To entertain both you and that sweet spring. And Philomela with her sundry lays, Both you and that delightful place did praise. Oh how me thought each plant, each flower, each tree Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee! The very hills right humbly did descend, When you to tread on them did intend. And as you set your feet, they still did rise, Glad that they could receive so rich a prize. The gentle winds did take delight to be Among those woods that were so graced by thee, And in sad murmur uttered pleasing sound, That pleasure in that place might more abound. The swelling banks delivered all their pride When such a Phoenix once they had espied. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, Thought themselves honored in supporting thee; The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee, Yet fly away for fear they should offend thee; The little creatures in the burrough by Would come abroad to sport them in your eye, Yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand. Would run away when you did make a stand. Now let me come unto that stately tree, Wherein such goodly prospects you did see; That oak that did in height his fellows pass, As much as lofty trees, low growing grass, Much like a comely cedar straight and tall, Whose beauteous stature far exceeded all. How often did you visit this fair tree, Which seeming joyful in receiving thee, Would like a palm tree spread his arms abroad, Desirous that you there should make abode; Whose fair green leaves much like a comely veil, Defended Phoebus when he would assail; Whose pleasing boughs did yield a cool fresh air, Joying his happiness when you were there. Where being seated, you might plainly see Hills, vales, and woods, as if on bended knee They had appeared, your honor to salute, Or to prefer some strange unlooked-for suit; All interlaced with brooks and crystal springs, A prospect fit to please the eyes of kings. And thirteen shires appeared all in your sight, Europe could not afford much more delight. What was there then but gave you all content, While you the time in meditation spent Of their Creator’s power, which there you saw, In all his creatures held a perfect law; And in their beauties did you plain descry His beauty, wisdom, grace, love, majesty. In these sweet woods how often did you walk, With Christ and his Apostles there to talk; Placing his holy Writ in some fair tree To meditate what you therein did see. With Moses you did mount his holy hill To know his pleasure, and perform his will. With lowly David you did often sing His holy hymns to Heaven’s eternal King. And in sweet music did your soul delight To sound his praises, morning, noon, and night. With blessed Joseph you did often feed Your pined brethren, when they stood in need. And that sweet Lady sprung from Clifford’s race, Of noble Bedford’s blood, fair stem of grace, To honorable Dorset now espoused, In whose fair breast true virtue then was housed, Oh what delight did my weak spirits find In those pure parts of her well framèd mind. And yet it grieves me that I cannot be Near unto her, whose virtues did agree With those fair ornaments of outward beauty, Which did enforce from all both love and duty. Unconstant Fortune, thou art most to blame, Who casts us down into so low a frame Where our great friends we cannot daily see, So great a difference is there in degree. Many are placed in those orbs of state, Partners in honor, so ordained by Fate, Nearer in show, yet farther off in love, In which, the lowest always are above. But whither am I carried in conceit, My wit too weak to conster of the great. Why not? although we are but born of earth, We may behold the heavens, despising death; And loving heaven that is so far above, May in the end vouchsafe us entire love. Therefore sweet memory do thou retain Those pleasures past, which will not turn again: Remember beauteous Dorset’s former sports, So far from being touched by ill reports, Wherein myself did always bear a part, While reverend love presented my true heart. Those recreations let me bear in mind, Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find, Whereof deprived, I evermore must grieve, Hating blind Fortune, careless to relieve, And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these ladies leave, I now must tell the grief you did conceive At their departure, when they went away, How everything retained a sad dismay. Nay long before, when once an inkling came, Methought each thing did unto sorrow frame: The trees that were so glorious in our view, Forsook both flowers and fruit, when once they knew Of your depart, their very leaves did wither, Changing their colors as they grew together. But when they saw this had no power to stay you, They often wept, though, speechless, could not pray you, Letting their tears in your fair bosoms fall, As if they said, Why will ye leave us all? This being vain, they cast their leaves away Hoping that pity would have made you stay: Their frozen tops, like age’s hoary hairs, Shows their disasters, languishing in fears. A swarthy riveled rind all over spread, Their dying bodies half alive, half dead. But your occasions called you so away That nothing there had power to make you stay. Yet did I see a noble grateful mind Requiting each according to their kind, Forgetting not to turn and take your leave Of these sad creatures, powerless to receive Your favor, when with grief you did depart, Placing their former pleasures in your heart, Giving great charge to noble memory There to preserve their love continually. But specially the love of that fair tree, That first and last you did vouchsafe to see, In which it pleased you oft to take the air With noble Dorset, then a virgin fair, Where many a learned book was read and scanned, To this fair tree, taking me by the hand, You did repeat the pleasures which had passed, Seeming to grieve they could no longer last. And with a chaste, yet loving kiss took leave, Of which sweet kiss I did it soon bereave, Scorning a senseless creature should possess So rare a favor, so great happiness. No other kiss it could receive from me, For fear to give back what it took of thee, So I ungrateful creature did deceive it Of that which you in love vouchsafed to leave it. And though it oft had given me much content, Yet this great wrong I never could repent; But of the happiest made it most forlorn, To show that nothing’s free from Fortune’s scorne, While all the rest with this most beauteous tree Made their sad consort sorrow’s harmony. The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow, Crept in the ground, the grass did weep for woe. The winds and waters seemed to chide together Because you went away they knew not whither; And those sweet brooks that ran so fair and clear, With grief and trouble wrinkled did appear. Those pretty birds that wonted were to sing, Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing, But with their tender feet on some bare spray, Warble forth sorrow, and their own dismay. Fair Philomela leaves her mournful ditty, Drowned in deep sleep, yet can procure no pity. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree Looks bare and desolate now for want of thee, Turning green tresses into frosty gray, While in cold grief they wither all away. The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave, While all green things did make the earth their grave. Each brier, each bramble, when you went away Caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay; Delightful Echo wonted to reply To our last words, did now for sorrow die; The house cast off each garment that might grace it, Putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it. All desolation then there did appear, When you were going whom they held so dear. This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give, When I am dead thy name in this may live, Wherein I have performed her noble hest Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, And ever shall, so long as life remains, Tying my life to her by those rich chains.

A face that should content me wondrous well Should not be fair but lovely to behold, With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel; With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words such words as none can tell; Her tress also should be of crisped gold; With wit; and thus might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own. The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place. The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep; Till drown'd in shriller notes of "chimney-sweep." Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half a street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees. The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands; And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

I. For that you never acknowledged me, I acknowledge the spring’s yellow detail, the every drop of rain, the anonymous unacknowledged men and women. The shine as it glitters in our child’s wild eyes, one o’clock at night.       This river, this city, the years of the shadow on the delicate skin of my hand, moving in time. Disinherited, annulled, finally disacknowledged and all of my own asking.        I keep that wild dimension of life and making and the spasm upon my mouth as I say this word of acknowledge to you forever.Ewig.        Two o’clock at night. II. While this my day and my people are a country not yet born it has become an earth I can acknowledge.       I must.        I know what the disacknowledgment does.        Then I do take you, but far under consciousness, knowing that under under flows a river wanting the other :  to go open-handed in Asia, to cleanse the tributaries and the air, to make for making, to stop selling death and its trash, pour plastic down men’s throats, to let this child find, to let men and women find, knowing the seeds in us all.        They do say Find. I cannot acknowledge it entire.        But I will. A beginning, this moment, perhaps, and you. III. Death flowing down past me, past me, death marvelous, filthy, gold, in my spine in my sex upon my broken mouth and the whole beautiful mouth of the child; shedding power over me death if I acknowledge him. Leading me in my own body at last in the dance.

The cities dissolve, and the earth is a cart loaded with dust Only poetry knows how to pair itself to this space. No road to this house, a siege, and his house is graveyard. From a distance, above his house a perplexed moon dangles from threads of dust. I said: this is the way home, he said: No you can’t pass, and aimed his bullet at me. Very well then, friends and their homes in all of Beirut’s are my companions. Road for blood now— Blood about which a boy talked whispered to his friends: nothing remains in the sky now except holes called “stars.” The city’s voice was too tender, even the winds would not tune its strings— The city’s face beamed like a child arranging his dreams for nightfall bidding the morning to sit beside him on his chair. They found people in bags: a person                                                 without a head a person                                                 without hands, or tongue a person                                                 choked to death and the rest had no shapes and no names. —Are you mad? Please don’t write about these things. A page in a book bombs mirror themselves inside of it prophecies and dust-proverbs mirror themselves inside of it cloisters mirror themselves inside of it, a carpet made of the alphabet disentangles thread by thread falls on the face of the city, slipping out of the needles of memory. A murderer in the city’s air, swimming through its wound— its wound is a fall that trembled to its name—to the hemorrhage of its name and all that surrounds us— houses left their walls behind and I am no longer I. Maybe there will come a time in which you’ll accept to live deaf and mute, maybe they’ll allow you to mumble: death and life resurrection and peace unto you. From the wine of the palms to the quiet of the desert . . . et cetera from a morning that smuggles its own intestines and sleeps on the corpses of the rebels . . . et cetera from streets, to trucks from soldiers, armies . . . et cetera from the shadows of men and women . . . et cetera from bombs hidden in the prayers of monotheists and infidels . . . et cetera from iron that oozes iron and bleeds flesh . . . et cetera from fields that long for wheat, and grass and working hands . . . et cetera from forts that wall our bodies and heap darkness upon us . . . et cetera from legends of the dead who pronounce life, who steer our life . . . et cetera from talk that is slaughter           and slaughter         and slitters of throats . . . et cetera from darkness to darkness to darkness I breathe, touch my body, search for myself and for you, and for him, and for the others and I hang my death between my face and this hemorrhage of talk . . . et cetera You will see— say his name say you drew his face reach out your hand toward him or smile or say I was happy once or say I was sad once you will see: there is no country there. Murder has changed the city’s shape—this stone is a child’s head— and this smoke is exhaled from human lungs. Each thing recites its exile . . .                a sea of blood—and what do you expect on these mornings except their arteries set to sail into the darkness, into the tidal wave of slaughter? Stay up with her, don’t let up— she sits death in her embrace and turns over her days tattered sheets of paper. Guard the last pictures of her topography— she is tossing and turning in the sand in an ocean of sparks— on her bodies are the spots of human moans. Seed after seed are cast into our earth— fields feeding on our legends, guard the secret of these bloods. I am talking about a flavor to the seasons and a flash of lightning in the sky. Tower Square—(an engraving whispers its secrets to bombed-out bridges . . . ) Tower Square—(a memory seeks its shape among dust and fire . . . ) Tower Square—(an open desert chosen by winds and vomited  . . . by them . . . ) Tower Square—(It’s magical to see corpses move/their limbs in one alleyway, and their ghosts in another/and to hear their sighs . . . ) Tower Square—(West and East and gallows are set up— martyrs, commands . . . ) Tower Square—(a throng of caravans: myrrh and gum Arabica and musk and spices that launch the festival . . . ) Tower Square—(let go of time . . . in the name of place) —Corpses or destruction, is this the face of Beirut? —and this a bell, or a scream? —A friend? —You? Welcome. Did you travel? Have you returned? What’s new with you? —A neighbor got killed . . . / . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A game / —Your dice are on a streak. —Oh, just a coincidence / . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Layers of darkness and talk dragging more talk.

When with the skin you do acknowledge drought, The dry in the voice, the lightness of feet, the fine Flake of the heat at every level line; When with the hand you learn to touch without Surprise the spine for the leaf, the prickled petal, The stone scorched in the shine, and the wood brittle; Then where the pipe drips and the fronds sprout And the foot-square forest of clover blooms in sand, You will lean and watch, but never touch with your hand. September 1934

Speak of the whistle of Atacama the wind erases like snow the color of that plain i.   The Desert of Atacama soared over infinities of deserts to be there ii.  Like the wind feel it pass whistling through the leaves of the trees iii.  Look at it become transparent faraway   and just accompanied by the wind iv.  But be careful: because if ultimately the Desert of Atacama were not where it should be the whole world would begin to whistle through the leaves of the trees   and when we'd see ourselves in the same never   transparent   whistles in the wind swallowing the color of this pampa

Arid plains do not dream No one has ever managed to see Those chimerical pampas i.   The landscapes are convergent and divergent in the Desert of Atacama ii.  Over the convergent and divergent landscape Chile is convergent and divergent in the Desert of Atacama iii.  That's why what's there never was there and if it were to stay where it is it would see its own life turn around until being the chimerical plains   deserted enlightened   fading away like them iv.  And when the convergent and divergent landscapes of the Desert of Atacama unfold themselves all of Chile will have been the life beyond   because unlike Atacama they are already extending themselves like a dream the deserts of our own chimera over there in these plains of hell

i.  Let's look then at the Desert of Atacama ii. Let's look at our loneliness in the desert So that desolate before these forms the landscape becomes a cross extended over Chile and the loneliness of my form then sees the redemption of the other forms:   my own Redemption in the Desert iii.  Then who would speak of the redemption of my form iv.  Who would tell of the desert's loneliness So that my form begins to touch your form and your form that other form like that until all of Chile is nothing but one form with open arms:   a long form crowned with thorns v.   Then the Cross will be nothing but the opening arms of my form vi.  We will then be the Crown of Thorns in the Desert vii.  Then   nailed form to form   like a Cross extended over Chile   we will have seen forever the Final Solitary Breath of the Desert of Atacama