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In memory of my parents People whose lives have been shaped by history—and it is always tragic— do not want to talk about it, would rather dance, give parties on thrift-shop china. You feel wonderful in their homes, two leaky rooms, nests they stowed inside their hearts on the road into exile. They know how to fix potato peelings and apple cores so you smack your lips. The words start over again hold no terror for them. Obediently they rise and go with only a rucksack or tote bag. If they weep, it’s when you’re not looking. To tame their nightmares, they choose the most dazzling occupations, swallow the flames in the sunset sky, jump through burning hoops in their elegant tiger suits. Cover your eyes: there’s one walking on a thread thirty feet above us— shivering points of light leap across her body, and she works without a net.

I dig my hands into the absolute. The surface breaks into shingled, grassed clusters; lifts. If I press, pick-in with fingers, pluck, I can unfold the loam. It is tender. It is a tender maneuver, hands making and unmaking promises. Diggers, forgetters. . . . A series of successive single instances . . . Frames of reference moving . . . The speed of light, down here, upthrown, in my hands: bacteria, milky roots, pilgrimages of spores, deranged and rippling mosses. What heat is this in me that would thaw time, making bits of instance overlap shovel by shovelful—my present a wind blowing through this culture slogged and clutched-firm with decisions, overridings, opportunities taken? . . . If I look carefully, there in my hand, if I break it apart without crumbling: husks, mossy beginnings and endings, ruffled airy loambits, and the greasy silks of clay crushing the pinerot in . . . Erasure. Tell me something and then take it back. Bring this pellucid moment—here on this page now as on this patch of soil, my property—bring it up to the top and out of sequence. Make it dumb again—won’t you?—what would it take? Leach the humidities out, the things that will insist on making meaning. Parch it. It isn’t hard: just take this shovelful and spread it out, deranged, a vertigo of single clots in full sun and you can, easy, decivilize it, un- hinge it from its plot. Upthrown like this, I think you can eventually abstract it. Do you wish to? Disentangled, it grows very very clear. Even the mud, the sticky lemon-colored clay hardens and then yields, crumbs. I can’t say what it is then, but the golden-headed hallucination, mating, forgetting, speckling, inter- locking, will begin to be gone from it and then its glamorous veil of echoes and muddy nostalgias will be gone. If I touch the slender new rootings they show me how large I am, look at these fingers—what a pilot—I touch, I press their slowest electricity. . . . What speed is it at? What speed am I at here, on my knees, as the sun traverses now and just begins to touch my back. What speed where my fingers, under the dark oaks, are suddenly touched, lit up—so white as they move, the ray for a moment on them alone in the small wood. White hands in the black-green glade, opening the muddy cartoon of the present, taking the tiny roots of the moss apart, hired hands, curiosity’s small army, so white in these greens— make your revolution in the invisible temple, make your temple in the invisible revolution—I can’t see the errands you run, hands gleaming for this instant longer like tinfoil at the bottom here of the tall whispering oaks . . . Listen, Boccioni the futurist says a galloping horse has not four legs (it has twenty)—and “at C there is no sequence because there is no time”—and since at lightspeed, etc. (everything is simultaneous): my hands serrated with desires, shoved into these excavated fates —mauve, maroons, gutters of flecking golds— my hands are living in myriad manifestations of light. . . . “All forms of imitation are to be despised.” “All subjects previously used must be discarded.” “At last we shall rush rapidly past objectiveness” . . . Oh enslavement, will you take these hands and hold them in for a time longer? Tops of the oaks, do you see my tiny golden hands pushed, up to the wrists, into the present? Star I can’t see in daylight, young, light and airy star— I put the seed in. The beam moves on.

I have not walked on common ground, Nor drunk of earthly streams; A shining figure, mailed and crowned, Moves softly through my dreams. He makes the air so keen and strange, The stars so fiercely bright; The rocks of time, the tides of change, Are nothing in his sight. Death lays no shadow on his smile; Life is a race fore-run; Look in his face a little while, And life and death are one.

A monstrosity in the alley. A many-bodied movement grouped for terror, their flights’ brief shadows on the kitchen curtains, on the street’s reliquaries of loose squares and hustle. Some minds are groomed for defiance. The youngest calls out his territory with muscular vowels where street light spills peculiar, his hand a chorus of heat and recoil. “Could have been a doctor” say those who knew and did not know him, though he never wanted to know what gargles endlessly in a body — wet hives, planets unspooled from their throbbing shapes. There are many ways to look at this. He got what he wished against. He got wings on his shoes for a sacrifice. The postulate that stars turn a blind eye to the cobalt corners of rooms is incorrect. Light only helps or ruins sight. Daylight does cruel things to a boy’s face.

Deep St. Mary’s bell had sounded, And the twelve notes gently rounded Endless chimneys that surrounded My abode in Trinity. (Letter G, Old Court, South Attics), I shut up my mathematics, That confounded hydrostatics— Sink it in the deepest sea! In the grate the flickering embers Served to show how dull November’s Fogs had stamped my torpid members, Like a plucked and skinny goose. And as I prepared for bed, I Asked myself with voice unsteady, If of all the stuff I read, I Ever made the slightest use. Late to bed and early rising, Ever luxury despising, Ever training, never “sizing,” I have suffered with the rest. Yellow cheek and forehead ruddy, Memory confused and muddy, These are the effects of study Of a subject so unblest. Look beyond, and see the wrangler, Now become a College dangler, Court some spiritual angler, Nibbling at his golden bait. Hear him silence restive Reason, Her advice is out of season, While her lord is plotting treason Gainst himself, and Church or State. See him next with place and pension, And the very best intention Of upholding that Convention Under which his fortunes rose. Every scruple is rejected, With his cherished schemes connected, “Higher Powers may be neglected— His result no further goes.” Much he lauds the education Which has raised to lofty station, Men, whose powers of calculation Calculation’s self defied. How the learned fool would wonder Were he now to see his blunder, When he put his reason under The control of worldly Pride. Thus I muttered, very seedy, Husky was my throat, and reedy; And no wonder, for indeed I Now had caught a dreadful cold. Thickest fog had settled slowly Round the candle, burning lowly, Round the fire, where melancholy Traced retreating hills of gold. Still those papers lay before me— Problems made express to bore me, When a silent change came o’er me, In my hard uneasy chair. Fire and fog, and candle faded, Spectral forms the room invaded, Little creatures, that paraded On the problems lying there. Fathers there, of every college, Led the glorious ranks of knowledge, Men, whose virtues all acknowledge Levied the proctorial fines; There the modest Moderators, Set apart as arbitrators ’Twixt contending calculators, Scrutinised the trembling lines. All the costly apparatus, That is meant to elevate us To the intellectual status Necessary for degrees— College tutors—private coaches— Line the Senate-house approaches. If our Alma Mater dote, she’s Taken care of well by these. Much I doubted if the vision Were the simple repetition Of the statements of Commission, Strangely jumbled, oddly placed. When an awful form ascended, And with cruel words defended Those abuses that offended My unsanctioned private taste. Angular in form and feature, Unlike any earthly creature, She had properties to meet your Eye whatever you might view. Hair of pens and skin of paper; Breath, not breath but chemic vapour; Dress,—such dress as College Draper Fashions with precision due. Eyes of glass, with optic axes Twisting rays of light as flax is Twisted, while the Parallax is Made to show the real size. Primary and secondary Focal lines in planes contrary, Sum up all that’s known to vary In those dull, unmeaning eyes. Such the eyes, through which all Nature Seems reduced to meaner stature. If you had them you would hate your Symbolising sense of sight. Seeing planets in their courses Thick beset with arrowy “forces,” While the common eye no more sees Than their mild and quiet light. “Son,” she said (what could be queerer Than thus tête-a -tête to hear her Talk, in tones approaching nearer To a saw’s than aught beside? For the voice the spectre spoke in Might be known by many a token To proceed from metal, broken When acoustic tricks were tried. Little pleased to hear the Siren “Own” me thus with voice of iron, I had thoughts of just retiring From a mother such a fright). “No,” she said, “the time is pressing, So before I give my blessing, I’ll excuse you from confessing What you thought of me to-night. “Powers!” she cried, with hoarse devotion, “Give my son the clearest notion How to compass sure promotion, And take care of Number One. Let his college course be pleasant, Let him ever, as at present, Seem to have read what he hasn’t, And to do what can’t be done. Of the Philosophic Spirit Richly may my son inherit; As for Poetry, inter it With the myths of other days. Cut the thing entirely, lest yon College Don should put the question, Why not stick to what you’re best on? Mathematics always pays.” As the Hag was thus proceeding To prescribe my course of reading, And as I was faintly pleading, Hardly knowing what to say, Suddenly, my head inclining I beheld a light form shining; And the withered beldam, whining, Saw the same and slunk away. Then the vision, growing brighter, Seemed to make my garret lighter; As when noisome fogs of night are Scattered by the rising sun. Nearer still it grew and nearer, Till my straining eyes caught clearer Glimpses of a being dearer, Dearer still than Number One. In that well-remembered Vision I was led to the decision Still to hold in calm derision Pedantry, however draped; Since that artificial spectre Proved a paltry sub-collector, And had nothing to connect her With the being whom she aped. I could never finish telling You of her that has her dwelling Where those springs of truth are welling, Whence all streams of beauty run. She has taught me that creation Bears the test of calculation, But that Man forgets his station If he stops when that is done. Is our algebra the measure Of that unexhausted treasure That affords the purest pleasure, Ever found when it is sought? Let us rather, realising The conclusions thence arising Nature more than symbols prizing, Learn to worship as we ought. Worship? Yes, what worship better Than when free’d from every fetter That the uninforming letter Rivets on the tortured mind, Man, with silent admiration Sees the glories of Creation, And, in holy contemplation, Leaves the learned crowd behind!

Carpaccio, San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice You are amazed to find trees in Venice — To turn a corner into a campo Where two or three rustling acacias Spread their halo of leaves Over two or three red-slatted benches. It’s as if you had slipped through a curtained doorway Into a hall full of dull gold scenes By Carpaccio — a miraculous light — Though the rio’s still shrouded in a mist Compounded of water vapour and smog So it’s not that the sun has come out, it’s Something to do with the leaves and painting In the realm of echoes where footsteps Reverberate endlessly between two walls And dawn is the chink of a stonemason At his reparations, disembodied Voices irresistible as bird calls. Yes, you’re amazed to find trees in Venice Shedding their gold leaf onto the pavement Outside a secondhand bookstore. It’s like Carpaccio’s little white dog Wagging his tail at the feet of Saint Augustine Who is staring out of the window Looking for the voice of Saint Jerome.

They pass before me one by one riding on animals "What are you waiting for," they want to know Z—, young as he is (& mad into the bargain) tells me "Some day you'll drop everything & become a rishi, you know." I know The forest is there, I've lived in it More certainly than this town? Irrelevant— What am I waiting for? A change in customs that will take 1000 years to come about? Who's to make the change but me? "Returning again and again," Amida says Why's that dream so necessary? walking out of whatever house alone Nothing but the clothes on my back, money or no Down the road to the next place the highway leading to the mountains From which I absolutely must come back What business have I to do that? I know the world and I love it too much and it Is not the one I'd find outside this door.

The brain, like the earth, lies in layers. Floaters dart and punch. I see the field. My face stays numb.Keep your eye on the target. Click the button when a light appears. Last night I read “So little evidence is left of what had vanished

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept: All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen; At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen: For they this queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura’s hearse: Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce: Where Homer’s spright did tremble all for grief, And cursed the access of that celestial thief!

I A boy was covered in pigeons. He put birdseed in his hair and crotch so the ghostbird would descend and devour him. I saw the brown bird with the yellow breast smoking Lucky Strikes. Thought she might be the Holy Spirit. There are no birds only what this typewriter flushes out. The cliffs are made from stone doves. And the boys had beautiful lips. II The Outside suggests a tunnel to ride what he says through a tunnel. Geography, animal life, the eventual human being. Anatomy on the page is sexier, my ghost. The page of real thigh, my mister, opens at the top to be eaten like the sun you can recognize eats her rays. Greasy misery covers my hands. It bothers me to touch a carcass. Dead branches. Bothers me. III God's big eye is a pink cubicle. God's big eye stretches around me, a great balled gown. I look for him in the roots of the roofless space. Mons pubis corresponds to the real bird. The lung. The wing. IV I demand the air beat. The birds scared up into motion and I expect revelation. I have my lusty knife. Left cigarettes on your grave and chant. J is for Jerusalem. Returns the poet to an invisible homeland. Resurrects the liver. Saying goodbye to a ghost is a hoax. The birds are still in flight. Unhook the birds. V Sick orange sky I hate I shall see it opened, the sunny aftertomb and a real poem at the gate. The erratic footprints of birds upon the sand or lacerations. No limbs at our disposal, only the desire of limbs to reflesh. The ghost gestures. I am filling your borders with letters. This is the new word—get up and live.