Poemunity — your poem community

Like primitives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-handed we scraped sand and gravel back into the hole. It fell with a hiss and thud on his side, on his long red fur, the white feathers that grew between his toes, and his long, not to say aquiline, nose. We stood and brushed each other off. There are sorrows much keener than these. Silent the rest of the day, we worked, ate, stared, and slept. It stormed all night; now it clears, and a robin burbles from a dripping bush like the neighbor who means well but always says the wrong thing.

We’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through and—flanking, now, the edges of our schism— it seems your coldness and my idealism alone for all this time have kept us true. Credulous I and hedonistic you: opposed, refracting angles of a prism who challenged sense with childish skepticism— and every known the bulk of mankind knew.

crashes thru air where Lady LSD hangs up all the floors of life for the last time Blue Grace leans on white slime Blue Grace weaves in & out of L ü neburg and ‘My Burial Vault’ undulates from first hour peyote turnon Diderot hand in hand with the Marquis de Sade wraps himself up in a mexican serap é at Constitution Hall, Philadelphia, 1930 Blue Grace turns into the Count of Saint-Germain who lives forever cutting up George Washington dream of pyramid liquefactions from thighs of Versailles Blue Grace intimidates Nevil Chamberlain feels up Fillippo Marinetti and other hysterics of the phallic rose Blue Grace dressed up as automobile sperm My Claw of the future and the almond rose Rich the Vampire wears over the US Army — flags ! american flags ! flying like bats out of ‘ My Burial Vault ’ ! flood museums where Robespierre’s murder is plotted — floated from Texcoco, the Prince of Bogota caught redhanded sniffing forty cans of Berlin ether ! Hydrek ice blue teeth impersonates, psycho-kinetically, the resurrection of Blue Grace as prophetess of the anti-planet system Blue Grace under dark glasses getting out of one hundred white cars at once ! Cars of ectoplasmic tin-types go to the juncture where Blue Grace Glass is raped at the Court of Miracles, Mexico City, 1959 Blue Grace undressed reveals tattoo marks of Hamburg, sea & storm of Neptune-Pluto conjunction Rumors of war strafe the automation monster walking to universal assassination K & K and the russian poets suck Blue Grace’s opulent morsels, back & front The nicotine heaven of Bosch’s painting emanates the thousand beauties of Christopher Maclaine’s tool box of mechanical brass jewels Man, the marvel of masturbation arts, intersects Blue Grace at World’s Finale Orgasm Electro-Physic Apocalypse ! I sing the beauty of bodily touch with my muse, Blue Grace Spring 1963

As if the sky during its emergence —when it bubbled its way up out of the sand, cooled and then sublimed into vapor that blued the dank grey of the atmosphere— left a residue of cobalt behind to remind from where it had sprung into existence, the water rising from this spring appears unearthly, as only things close to earth, born of earth, can: its blue deeper than the heart of a sapphire. Today, when faced with such a spectacle, we have, as usual, only two choices: the paralysis of awe, or the quick nonchalance of acceptance. But what about the Spaniards who came upon this spring before there was a platform lined with inner tubes, before there were wooden walkways elevated to slow their impending rot, before their was a faux beach, its sand stolen from the spring’s center? Did they run in with their clothes on convinced that this was the fountain of youth? Did they laugh believing themselves drunk, mad, asleep—dead, maybe? That afternoon, late summer, we did not swim, chose instead to wander out to the edge of the walkway, not a word between the two of us, only the wind. Unlike us mere mortals, the trees had long since been impressed, preferring, instead, to maintain postures incompatible with the work of sycophants.

for Charles Morice Music first and foremost! In your verse, Choose those meters odd of syllable, Supple in the air, vague, flexible, Free of pounding beat, heavy or terse. Choose the words you use—now right, now wrong— With abandon: when the poet’s vision Couples the Precise with Imprecision, Best the giddy shadows of his song: Eyes veiled, hidden, dark with mystery, Sunshine trembling in the noonday glare, Starlight, in the tepid autumn air, Shimmering in night-blue filigree! For Nuance, not Color absolute, Is your goal; subtle and shaded hue! Nuance! It alone is what lets you Marry dream to dream, and horn to flute! Shun all cruel and ruthless Railleries; Hurtful Quip, lewd Laughter, that appall Heaven, Azure-eyed, to tears; and all Garlic-stench scullery recipes! Take vain Eloquence and wring its neck! Best you keep your Rhyme sober and sound, Lest it wander, reinless and unbound— How far? Who can say?—if not in check! Rhyme! Who will its infamies revile? What deaf child, what Black of little wit Forged with worthless bauble, fashioned it False and hollow-sounding to the file? Music first and foremost, and forever! Let your verse be what goes soaring, sighing, Set free, fleeing from the soul gone flying Off to other skies and loves, wherever. Let your verse be aimless chance, delighting In good-omened fortune, sprinkled over Dawn’s wind, bristling scents of mint, thyme, clover . . . All the rest is nothing more than writing.

Poetry, I tell my students, is idiosyncratic. Poetry is where we are ourselves (though Sterling Brown said “Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”), digging in the clam flats for the shell that snaps, emptying the proverbial pocketbook. Poetry is what you find in the dirt in the corner, overhear on the bus, God in the details, the only way to get from here to there. Poetry (and now my voice is rising) is not all love, love, love, and I’m sorry the dog died. Poetry (here I hear myself loudest) is the human voice, and are we not of interest to each other?

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

—for Fleda It seems so different   art that moves me now From the sort of art I longed for long ago Soaring   Vatic   Agon I waited yesterday on the unsure shoulder Of a drenched back road    From my car I could behold Our highway agent Gordon Fill a rut with a spade  climb up on his grader And smooth things smooth as the top of a kitchen table There were frost heaves by the score And culverts clotted shut by April floods So it was brilliant    what Gordon did with mud On Wallace Hill      Pure mire Out there   The road goes narrow as a needle On which   you might wonder   could dance how many angels I don't care   I didn't No earthly need to summon spirits   daemons No sign of them at all    Nor would I dream one I might have once but wouldn't Nor gyre nor golem    Nor great Leviathan Nor djinn     Nor fiend    Nor signifying wind Nor Elementargeist That lingering in that lane might make me conjure I had to get somewhere and fetch my daughter To bring her home     Sweet Christ She might be standing in that mix of sleet And ugly rain    which called for Gordon's art I'm trying to be a grownup Better late than never    I suppose Or am I only jaded      I don't know It was as though I'd shown up Just to see him wield his spade and blade out there It kept me from surmising some furor divinis Why should I bother Now that I moved on    thanks be to Gordon Who signaled with his thumb for me to pass him He pulled the grader over Yes give me something useful here I said Impromptu        In my car it sounded odd To say it now sounds different I hope that Gordon watched me yesterday As I signaled back    I'd never have made my way Without a skillful agent I hope he saw me wave

I would figure out all the right answers first, then gently mark a few of them wrong. If a quiz had ten problems, I'd cancel out one. When it had twenty, I'd bite my tongue then leave at least two questions blank: _____ _____. A B was good, but an A was too good. They'd kick your ass, call your big sister slow, then stare over your desk, as if you'd snaked out of a different hole. Knowing taught me—quickly—to spell community more honestly:l-o-n-e-l-y. During Arts and Crafts, when Miss Larson allowed the scissors out, I'd sneak a pair, then cut my hair to stop me from growing too long.

not self of violence against will  not  be  gainsaid will  brook  no  argument won't  suffer  the  fools gladly would   I   climb   a mountain         of       salt       with       you before  dawn                                      lodestar             my  freight the  violent silence the  most  beautiful                       word is trespass