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As I come down the hill from Toro Poutini’s house My feet are sore, being bare, on the sharp stones And that is a suitable penance. The dust of the pa road Is cool, though, and I can see The axe of the moon shift down behind the trees Very slowly. The red light from the windows Of the church has a ghostly look, and in This place ghosts are real. The bees are humming loudly In moonlight in their old hive above the church door Where I go in to kneel, and come out to make my way Uphill past a startled horse who plunges in the paddock Above the nunnery. Now there are one or two Of the tribe back in the big house—What would you have me do, King Jesus? Your games with me have turned me into a boulder.

To the Metropolitan Police Force, London: the asylum gates are locked and chained, but undone by wandering thoughts and the close study of maps. So from San Francisco, patron city of tramps, I scribble this note, having overshot Gloucester by several million strides, having walked on water. City of sad foghorns and clapboard ziggurats, of snakes-and-ladders streets and cadged cigarettes, city of pelicans, fish bones and flaking paint, of underfoot cable-car wires strained to breaking point    ... I eat little — a beard of grass, a pinch of oats — let the salt-tide scour and purge me inside and out, but my mind still phosphoresces with lightning strikes and I straddle each earthquake, one foot either side of the fault line, rocking the world’s seesaw. At dusk, the Golden Gate Bridge is heaven’s seashore: I watch boats heading home with the day’s catch or ferrying souls to glittering Alcatraz, or I face west and let the Pacific slip in bloodshot glory over the planet’s lip, sense the waterfall at the end of the journey. I am, ever your countryman, Ivor Gurney.

In Memory of Charles Baudelaire Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs; Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, Et quand Octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres, Son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres, Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats. Les Fleurs du Mal. I Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat And full of bitter summer, but more sweet To thee than gleanings of a northern shore Trod by no tropic feet? II For always thee the fervid languid glories Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave That knows not where is that Leucadian grave Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, Blind gods that cannot spare. III Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, Seeing as men sow men reap. IV O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, That were athirst for sleep and no more life And no more love, for peace and no more strife! Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song, Is it well now where love can do no wrong, Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips? Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips? V It is enough; the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend, For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, No triumph and no labour and no lust, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. O quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light. VI Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited, Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious breasts, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep? VII Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, Hast thou found sown, what gathered in the gloom? What of despair, of rapture, of derision, What of life is there, what of ill or good? Are the fruits grey like dust or bright like blood? Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, The faint fields quicken any terrene root, In low lands where the sun and moon are mute And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers At all, or any fruit? VIII Alas, but though my flying song flies after, O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, Some dim derision of mysterious laughter From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veiled head, Some little sound of unregarded tears Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs — These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, Sees only such things rise. IX Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, Far too far off for thought or any prayer. What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and blind Are still the eluded eyes. X Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll I lay my hand on, and not death estranges My spirit from communion of thy song — These memories and these melodies that throng Veiled porches of a Muse funereal — These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold, Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners rolled. XI I among these, I also, in such station As when the pyre was charred, and piled the sods, And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation, I stand, and to the gods and to the dead Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, And what of honey and spice my seedlands bear, And what I may of fruits in this chilled air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb A curl of severed hair. XII But by no hand nor any treason stricken, Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, Thou liest, and on this dust no tears could quicken There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; But bending us-ward with memorial urns The most high Muses that fulfil all ages Weep, and our God's heart yearns. XIII For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often Among us darkling here the lord of light Makes manifest his music and his might In hearts that open and in lips that soften With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. Thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine, And nourished them indeed with bitter bread; Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, The fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed Who feeds our hearts with fame. XIV Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, God of all suns and songs, he too bends down To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, And hallows with strange tears and alien sighs Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, And over thine irrevocable head Sheds light from the under skies. XV And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, And stains with tears her changing bosom chill: That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, That thing transformed which was the Cytherean, With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine Long since, and face no more called Erycine; A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell Did she, a sad and second prey, compel Into the footless places once more trod, And shadows hot from hell. XVI And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, No choral salutation lure to light A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. There is no help for these things; none to mend And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, Will make death clear or make life durable. Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine And with wild notes about this dust of thine At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell And wreathe an unseen shrine. XVII Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. Out of the mystic and the mournful garden Where all day through thine hands in barren braid Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants grey, Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, Shall death not bring us all as thee one day Among the days departed? XVIII For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, With sadder than the Niobean womb, And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; There lies not any troublous thing before, Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore.

Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies! get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to it’s true that fresh air is good for the body but what about the soul that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images and when you grow old as grow old you must they won’t hate you they won’t criticize you they won’t know they’ll be in some glamorous country they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey they may even be grateful to you for their first sexual experience which only cost you a quarter and didn’t upset the peaceful home they will know where candy bars come from and gratuitous bags of popcorn as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg near the Williamsburg Bridge oh mothers you will have made the little tykes so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies they won’t know the difference and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy and they’ll have been truly entertained either way instead of hanging around the yard or up in their room hating you prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet except keeping them from the darker joys it’s unforgivable the latter so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice and the family breaks up and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set seeing movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young

They stack bright pyramids of goods and gather Mop-helves in sidewalk barrels. They keen, they boogie. Paints, fruits, clean bolts of cottons and synthetics, Clarity and plumage of October skies. Way of the costermonger's wooden barrow And also the secular marble cinquefoil and lancet Of the great store. They persist. The jobber tells The teller in the bank and she retells Whatever it is to the shopper and the shopper Mentions it to the retailer by the way. They mutter and stumble, derelict. They write These theys I write. Scant storefront pushbroom Jesus Of Haitian hardware—they travel in shadows, they flog Sephardic softgoods. They strain. Mid-hustle they faint And shrivel. Or snoring on grates they rise to thrive. Bonemen and pumpkins of All Saints. Kol Nidre, Blunt shovel of atonement, a blade of song From the terra-cotta temple: Lord, forgive us Our promises, we chant. Or we churn our wino Syllables and stares on the Avenue. We, they— Jack. Mrs. Whisenant from the bakery. Sam Lee. This is the way, its pavement crackwork burnished With plantain. In strollers they bawl and claw. They flourish. Furniture, Florist, Pets. My mongrel tongue Of nudnik 3 and criminentlies, 4 the tarnished flute And brogue of quidnuncs 5 in the bars, in Casey's Black amber air of spent Hiram Walker, attuned. Sweet ash of White Owl. 6 Ten High. They touch. Eyes blurred Stricken with passion as in a Persian lyric They flower and stroke. They couple. From the Korean, Staples and greens. From the Christian Lebanese, Home electronics. Why is that Friday "Good"? Why "Day of Atonement" for release from vows? Because we tried us, to be at one, because We say as one we traffic, we dice, we stare. Some they remember that won't remember them— Their headlights found me stoned, like a bundled sack Lying in the Avenue, late. They didn't speak My language. For them, a small adventure. They hefted Me over the curb and bore me to an entry Out of the way. Illuminated footwear On both sides. How I stank. Dead drunk. They left me Breathing in my bower between the Halloween Brogans and pumps on crystal pedestals. But I was dead to the world. The midnight city In autumn. Day of attainment, tall saints Who saved me. My taints, day of anointment. Oil Of rose and almond in the haircutting parlor, Motor oil swirling rainbows in gutter water. Ritually unattainted, the congregation File from the place of worship and resume The rumbling drum and hautbois 7 of conversation, Speech of the granary, of the cloven lanes Of traffic, of salvaged silver. Not shriven and yet Not rent, they stride the Avenue, banter, barter. Capering, on fire, they cleave to the riven hub.

They found a man in the shrub that shields our lane — one fat white hand not tucked in the pit — and cordoned off a patch. We had nothing to explain it but The Post. And now the ground’s restrewn with tins and crisp bags; sleet jiggles the ivy; the blackbirds bob from floor to bole as each dull dusk settles in. And coming back at night we get on too, quickening to the safety lights, through shadows of  gates that thrust across the grit.

Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth, The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth For to rest in his worldly paradise And find the sweet bitter under this guise. What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth Whereby with himself on love he plaineth That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice. Thus is it in such extremity brought, In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame. Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game, But few glad, and many diverse thought With sore repentance of his hardiness. Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.

Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city drags itself awake on subway straps; and I, an alarm, awake as a rumor of war, lie stretching into dawn, unasked and unheeded.

the unthinkable prospect of a world in which I am left to my own devices which are few and as soon as the batteries die useless first order of business I draw a map in the sand mark where I stand as the capital of civilization   within me the detailed blueprints of the pyramids and the concept of zero beyond me the finite frontier the many miles of undeveloped shoreline with spectacular views of a sea filled with intricately depicted monsters   I have a lot to do before I introduce the new world to art and astronomy and industry medicine and technology ethics politics democracy by a show of hands we shall elect which tree to burn in the first fire

Away above a harborful of caulkless houses among the charley noble chimneypots of a rooftop rigged with clotheslines a woman pastes up sails upon the wind hanging out her morning sheets with wooden pins O lovely mammal her nearly naked breasts throw taut shadows when she stretches up to hang at last the last of her so white washed sins but it is wetly amorous and winds itself about her clinging to her skin So caught with arms upraised she tosses back her head in voiceless laughter and in choiceless gesture then shakes out gold hair while in the reachless seascape spaces between the blown white shrouds stand out the bright steamers to kingdom come