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Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver? For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet.

(JUTLAND) 1916 Not in the thick of the fight, Not in the press of the odds, Do the heroes come to their height, Or we know the demi-gods. That stands over till peace. We can only perceive Men returned from the seas, Very grateful for leave. They grant us sudden days Snatched from their business of war; But we are too close to appraise What manner of men they are. And, whether their names go down With age-kept victories, Or whether they battle and drown Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes. They are too near to be great, But our children shall understand When and how our fate Was changed, and by whose hand. Our children shall measure their worth. We are content to be blind . . . But we know that we walk on a new-born earth With the saviours of mankind.

Every seaworthy vessel a woman whose mate, eloquent of how she handled under the worst of weathers, hailed his goddess of wet fire, handmaid and dockside whore. Over the courtyard’s dry dock, linens snapped. Brisk was the wind that claimed divine right to salvage whatever tore loose, brisk at the docks the trade in foreign plumage, and the milliner, arms full of wings, who tripped in a puddle that brimmed with sky. Past the known world, past the map that decorated a room with scalloped waters where ships the size of fingernail parings were never snagged by the dragon-sharp islands, a keel of leaf scraped across a pane. A branch scratched endearments on the air it then brushed clean as sand. Had the woman rereading a letter looked to the window casting her light, she could have seen almost to land’s end, the salt sea broken into semaphore flashing its glassy code for tears back to shore, seen almost to the cage on deck, the pigeons gray as the mind, some to bear messages home the first days out, the rest to fatten in the hold.

for Amiri Baraka Old Ark, how funky it was, all those animals, two of every kind, and all that waste, the human shit somebody had to clean up. Somebody, some love you hugged before fear, the fear of an in-sani-nation, the No Blues, ruined your bowels. Go devil. Public programs like Race. Dems a Repub of Dumpster Molesters, Congressional whole-part bidders on your ugliest clown. Left wing, right, the missing moderates of flightless fight. Private like the Runs. God evil. Somebody had to clean that shit up. Somebody, some love who raised you, wise. Feathered razors for eyebrows, alto, tenor. Wasn’t no branch. Some say a tree, not for rest either. For change. When was we a wild life, long-eared and short. Prey, some prayed for the flood. And were struck by floating, corporate quintets of Rocks and Roths, assets bond Prestige. First Organizer ever called a Nigga, Noah, but not the last Occupier of Ararat ... got thick on Genesis and electric cello, cell-phone-shaped UFOs fueled by the damp, murdered clay of divinity-based Racial Mountain Dirt. Somebody had to clean that shit up. Some native body, beside the smooth water, like a brook Gwen say, “I had to kick their law into their teeth in order to save them.” Chaser if you straight. Ark Old Ark New Ark Now Only                                  Only Sidney P                           Simple JessB would                                would ____ Spencer T              ____ Dizzy G to turn                               to accent the dinner                         the p’s cheek.                                not the “ ... nuts.” Change the record, Record Changer. Name Change the changing same. Something only you could Art Messenger & dig in any chord. High water, like the woods of secrecy, always a trail a ways a coming. God evil. Move the “d.” Go devil. The Mosque watchers know. Also de wind, de wind and de Word, spoken and written, hidden in love with the intestines of  Testament. Eyes like a woman’s fist, her hard facts — not the crying, domestic consonants “of non being.” Soprano, piano, or the cultural cowardice of class, in any chord of standardized “sheeit” music, lowcoup risks slit. Though flawed, too, by penetrable flesh, some blue kind. Unlike a pretty shield, loaded free. Wasn’t just Winter or lonely. Those. Wasn’t just Sundays the living did not return. Crouch if you a bum or one of  Mumbo Jumbo’s reckless, poisonous reeds. A neck crow man ser vant n a jes’ grew suit. Us am, an unfit second Constitution. Us am, an ambulance full of ... broke-down, as round as we bald. Obeying hawkish eagles. Why the young Brothers so big, what they eatin’, why they blow up like that, gotta wear big white tees, gotta wear white- skin sheets, like maggots, like lard, the domestic oil of death and klan sweat, who blew them up, doctored, who pickin’ them off like dark cotton, make them make themselves a fashion of profitable, soft muscular bales, somebody got to clean this shit up. All us, us animals, on one floating stage we knew was a toilet, the third oldest in the nation, unreserved. Wasn’t no bank or branch. Yes we Vatican, despite Alighieri’s medium rare, rate of interest. It was confirmation. Some say black fire wood. Some love that changed our screaming Atlantic bottoms when all we could be was thin olive sticks with battered whore-ti-cultural beaks, and eastern screech. Flushed, too, every time the Yew Norker or one of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s traitorous X Jedi Clampett hillbillies fresh prince’d us    ... The real religion, our “individual expressiveness” wasn’t dehuman-u-factured by a Greek HAARP in a Roman uni-dot-gov-versity. Where we Away our Steel, “flood” means “flow.” Where we Tenure our Ammo, “podium” means “drum.” Flood, flow. Podium, drum. Flood, drum. Podium, flow. Drum, podium. Flood, flow. Used to be a whole lot of chalk around the Ark, then anger, then angels, their wings made of fried white dust, fallen from when the board of knowledge was public and named after a stranger or rich crook, an anti-in immigrant-can’tameter stretched across the teepee-skin, chairs of class where we clapped the erasers, fifty snows old, like we were the first Abraham, where we clapped the Race Erasers and drove away from K  James V and K Leo PB in shiny Lincolns, sprinkling holy sheeple from the sky, their powdery absolute Rule. Just add oil-water. Belongs to humanity. Just add sugar-rubber. Belongs to civilization. Gold. Days. Nights. Ounces. A forty. Mules move. A forty. Move. Move. Move mule. Whatchamacall “how we here,” and get no response ... how we ... where we fear, how we hear how we sound and how sometimes time is some even our own sound fears us, and remembers the first us, confronting Columbus with thunderbolts,  when “was-we” not good- citizen sober, “was-we”voting and drowning,  and rotting like “we-was” the armed guts of our young? Now a daze, tribe-be-known, the devil the best historian we got. Anyhow.

My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps You’d care to join us?

Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons quelque chose, qui ne nous déplaît pas. ["In the hard times of our best friends we find something that doesn't displease us."] As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature, I believe 'em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: "In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While Nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equal rais'd above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low? I love my friend as well as you But would not have him stop my view. Then let him have the higher post: I ask but for an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won; Rather than thus be overtopt, Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies rack'd with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan! How glad the case is not your own! What poet would not grieve to see His brethren write as well as he? But rather than they should excel, He'd wish his rivals all in hell. Her end when emulation misses, She turns to envy, stings and hisses: The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side. Vain human kind! fantastic race! Thy various follies who can trace? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all on me a usurpation. I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mine; When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six; It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" Why must I be outdone by Gay In my own hum'rous biting way? Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. St. John, as well as Pultney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortify'd my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first, But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem: Proceed we therefore to our poem. The time is not remote, when I Must by the course of nature die; When I foresee my special friends Will try to find their private ends: Tho' it is hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: "See, how the Dean begins to break! Poor gentleman, he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind: Forgets the place where last he din'd; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith, he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found. "For poetry he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;— But there's no talking to some men!" And then their tenderness appears, By adding largely to my years: "He's older than he would be reckon'd And well remembers Charles the Second. "He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring." Then hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us." In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes: Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily "How d'ye's" come of course, And servants answer, "Worse and worse!") Would please 'em better, than to tell, That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Then he who prophecy'd the best Approves his foresight to the rest: "You know I always fear'd the worst, And often told you so at first." He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his prediction prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain, How many a message would he send? What hearty prayers that I should mend? Inquire what regimen I kept, What gave me ease, and how I slept? And more lament when I was dead, Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. My good companions, never fear; For though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd at last. Behold the fatal day arrive! "How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive." Now the departing prayer is read; "He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead." Before the passing-bell begun, The news thro' half the town has run. "O, may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir?"— "I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."— "To public use! a perfect whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all—but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood?" Now Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd: Some paragraph in ev'ry paper To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame: "We must confess his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years; For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead. Kind Lady Suffolk in the spleen Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promis'd them, I own; but when? I only was the Princess then; But now, as consort of a king, You know, 'tis quite a different thing." Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: "Why, is he dead without his shoes?" Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news: O, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will! Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!" Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters: Revive the libels born to die; Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry—but we all must die!" Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt? When we are lash'd,they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend. No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: And he's engag'd to-morrow night: My Lady Club would take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart) But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come: he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place." Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past; a different scene! No further mention of the Dean; Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, Than if he never did exist. Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! Departed:—and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; He died a year ago."—"The same." He searcheth all his shop in vain. "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane; I sent them with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past; The town hath got a better taste; I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick and span I have enough. Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen. Then here's a letter finely penn'd Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr. Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got 'em yet: Your honour please to buy a set? "Here's Woolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down; You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour who can read Are taught to use them for their creed. The rev'rend author's good intention Hath been rewarded with a pension. He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Jesus was a grand imposter; That all his miracles were cheats, Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he hath not got a mitre!" Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without, One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, My character impartial draws: "The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at Court. As for his works in verse and prose I own myself no judge of those; Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: But this I know, all people bought 'em. As with a moral view design'd To cure the vices of mankind: His vein, ironically grave, Expos'd the fool, and lash'd the knave. To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own. "He never thought an honour done him, Because a duke was proud to own him, Would rather slip aside and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; Despis'd the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatt'rers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown. "With princes kept a due decorum, But never stood in awe before 'em. He follow'd David's lesson just: 'In princes never put thy trust'; And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in pow'r. The Irish senate if you nam'd, With what impatience he declaim'd! Fair Liberty was all his cry, For her he stood prepar'd to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft expos'd his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found To sell him for six hundred pound. "Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen He might have rose like other men: But pow'r was never in his thought, And wealth he valu'd not a groat: Ingratitude he often found, And pity'd those who meant the wound: But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human kind: Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He labour'd many a fruitless hour To reconcile his friends in pow'r; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursu'd each other's ruin. But, finding vain was all his care, He left the Court in mere despair. "And, oh! how short are human schemes! Here ended all our golden dreams. What St. John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent, Was all destroy'd by one event. Too soon that precious life was ended, On which alone our weal depended. When up a dangerous faction starts, With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; By solemn League and Cov'nant bound, To ruin, slaughter, and confound; To turn religion to a fable, And make the government a Babel; Pervert the law, disgrace the gown, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; To sacrifice old England's glory, And make her infamous in story: When such a tempest shook the land, How could unguarded Virtue stand? "With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: His friends in exile, or the tower, Himself within the frown of power, Pursu'd by base envenom'd pens, Far to the land of slaves and fens; A servile race in folly nurs'd, Who truckle most when treated worst. "By innocence and resolution, He bore continual persecution, While numbers to preferment rose, Whose merits were, to be his foes; When ev'n his own familiar friends, Intent upon their private ends, Like renegadoes now he feels, Against him lifting up their heels. "The Dean did by his pen defeat An infamous destructive cheat; Taught fools their int'rest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow. Envy hath own'd it was his doing, To save that helpless land from ruin; While they who at the steerage stood, And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. "To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench, Whose fury blood could never quench, As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian, Who long all justice had discarded, Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded, Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent; But Heav'n his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends. Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd, Prevail to bring him in convict. "In exile, with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. "His friendships there, to few confin'd, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed: Where titles gave no right or power And peerage is a wither'd flower; He would have held it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain; Biennial squires to market brought; Who sell their souls and votes for nought; The nation stripp'd, go joyful back, To rob the church, their tenants rack, Go snacks with thieves and rapparees, And keep the peace to pick up fees; In ev'ry job to have a share, A jail or barrack to repair; And turn the tax for public roads, Commodious to their own abodes. "Perhaps I may allow, the Dean Had too much satire in his vein; And seem'd determin'd not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name; No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant. His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe. He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True genuine dulness mov'd his pity, Unless it offer'd to be witty. Those who their ignorance confess'd He ne'er offended with a jest; But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace, learn'd by rote. "He knew a hundred pleasant stories With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying day; And friends would let him have his way. "He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; And show'd by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better."

Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning of Our house, July 10th. 1666. Copied Out of a Loose Paper. In silent night when rest I took, For sorrow near I did not look, I wakened was with thund’ring noise And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice. That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,” Let no man know is my Desire. I, starting up, the light did spy, And to my God my heart did cry To straighten me in my Distress And not to leave me succourless. Then, coming out, behold a space The flame consume my dwelling place. And when I could no longer look, I blest His name that gave and took, That laid my goods now in the dust. Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just. It was his own, it was not mine, Far be it that I should repine; He might of all justly bereft But yet sufficient for us left. When by the ruins oft I past My sorrowing eyes aside did cast And here and there the places spy Where oft I sate and long did lie. Here stood that trunk, and there that chest, There lay that store I counted best. My pleasant things in ashes lie And them behold no more shall I. Under thy roof no guest shall sit, Nor at thy Table eat a bit. No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told Nor things recounted done of old. No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee, Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be. In silence ever shalt thou lie, Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity. Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide, And did thy wealth on earth abide? Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust? The arm of flesh didst make thy trust? Raise up thy thoughts above the sky That dunghill mists away may fly. Thou hast a house on high erect Frameed by that mighty Architect, With glory richly furnished, Stands permanent though this be fled. It‘s purchased and paid for too By Him who hath enough to do. A price so vast as is unknown, Yet by His gift is made thine own; There‘s wealth enough, I need no more, Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store. The world no longer let me love, My hope and treasure lies above.

Dormant are pinnacles and streams of the mountains, Chasms and bluffs and crawlers fed by the dark earth; Dormant are wild animals and that tribe of bees And monsters out of the sea’s dark syntax; Dormant are clans of birds with wings that envelop.

Paolo It was not Virgil you read (though I asked you to), but the Peruvian, part Indian, part cousin of Lorca whose words were spiky points, wafts of privet, week-old cod. When you breathed them at me nothing in the outer world ceased its turbulent grim direction. You breathed on my unhooked eyes and uncovered me. Above the roof a windfucker smacked the air, and wind kept eating the island rocks. Francesca We ate along the riverside at sundown. The clear green juice dripped from my mouth. We didn’t fuck missionary on clean sheets. I lost my head between your legs. My nose spreading like honey. A whiff of narcissus swept across us. I ate the flowers whole, tried to outfox Satan with my tongue. I felt as if I shimmied up your legs to find this point on the Jersey cliffs. The sun was God’s eye. I plugged my ears so I wouldn’t hear your crappy verse, then tore into your pants like a scared cat. The Chrysler Building was a pin. I tasted you five hundred feet as the Hudson pulled me under.

In this poem all artifice is stripped away but you are held under water. In this poem you enter a mirrored dressing room lit so that you look more beautiful than you have ever looked. I recognize you with surprise. In this poem you are by yourself.