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They dub thee idler, smiling sneeringly, And why? because, forsooth, so many moons, Here dwelling voiceless by the voiceful sea, Thou hast not set thy thoughts to paltry tunes In song or sonnet. Them these golden noons Oppress not with their beauty; they could prate, Even while a prophet read the solemn runes On which is hanging some imperial fate. How know they, these good gossips, what to thee The ocean and its wanderers may have brought? How know they, in their busy vacancy, With what far aim thy spirit may be fraught? Or that thou dost not bow thee silently Before some great unutterable thought?

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car, And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

To tell the truth, those brick Housing Authority buildings For whose loveliness no soul had planned, Like random dominoes stood, worn out and facing each other, Creating the enclosure that was our home. Long basement corridors connected one house to another And had a special smell, from old bicycles and baby carriages In the storage rooms. The elevators Were used by kissing teenagers. The playground—iron swingchains, fences, iron monkey bars, Iron seesaw handles, doubtless now rusted— Left a strong iron smell on my hands and in the autumn air And rang with cries. To me it is even precious Where they chased the local Mongoloid, yelling “Stupid Joey! Stupid Joey!” Now I’ve said everything nice I can about this.

I that have been a lover, and could show it, Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb, Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become A better lover, and much better poet. Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it To those true numerous graces, whereof some But charm the senses, others overcome Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it: For in your verse all Cupid’s armory, His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow, His very eyes are yours to overthrow. But then his mother’s sweets you so apply, Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take For Venus’ ceston every line you make.

While summer roses all their glory yield To crown the votary of love and joy, Misfortune’s victim hails, with many a sigh, Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field, Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high, Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head. So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid, Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain; But brain-sick visions cheat her totured mind, And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain, Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed, Thou flimsy, showy, melancholy weed.

“The English Garden.” — Mason The cold transparent ham is on my fork— It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle— Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work, Mocking a Vauxhall shower!—Married and Single Crush—rush;—Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle. Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle To study the Sublime, &c.—(vide Burke) All Noses are upturn’d!—Whish-ish!—On high The rocket rushes—trails—just steals in sight— Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light— And Darkness reigns—Then balls flare up and die— Wheels whiz—smack crackers—serpents twist—and then Back to the cold transparent ham again!

on the 9th of June 1290 Upon a day, came Sorrow in to me, Saying, ‘I’ve come to stay with thee a while’; And I perceived that she had ushered Bile And Pain into my house for company. Wherefore I said, ‘Go forth – away with thee!’ But like a Greek she answered, full of guile, And went on arguing in an easy style. Then, looking, I saw Love come silently, Habited in black raiment, smooth and new, Having a black hat set upon his hair; And certainly the tears he shed were true. So that I asked, ‘What ails thee, trifler?’ Answering, he said: ‘A grief to be gone through; For our own lady’s dying, brother dear.’

for Helen Vendler O for a muse of fire, a sack of dough, Or both! O promissory notes of woe! One time in Santa Fe N.M. Ol’ Winfield Townley Scott and I ... But whoa. One can exert oneself,ff, Or architect a heaven like Rimbaud, Or if that seems, how shall I say,de trop, One can at least write sonnets, a propos Of nothing save the do-re-mi-fa-sol Of poetry itself. Is not the row Of perfect rhymes, the terminal bon mot, Obeisance enough to the Great O? “Observe,” said Chairman Mao to Premier Chou, “On voyage à Parnasse pour prendre les eaux. On voyage comme poisson, incog.”

As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket’s worth Spied by the death-bed’s flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar’s tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom. For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer’s trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind.

You jerk you didn't call me up I haven't seen you in so long You probably have a fucking tan & besides that instead of making love tonight You're drinking your parents to the airport I'm through with you bourgeois boys All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts Only money can get—even Catullus was rich but Nowadays you guys settle for a couch By a soporific color cable t.v. set Instead of any arc of love, no wonder The G.I. Joe team blows it every other time Wake up! It's the middle of the night You can either make love or die at the hands of the Cobra Commander _________________ To make love, turn to page 121. To die, turn to page 172.