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(from Henry V , spoken by King Henry) This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

(from Troilus and Cressida , spoken by Ulysses) Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves And drave great Mars to faction.

(from Hamlet , spoken by Hamlet) To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.

(from Macbeth , spoken by Macbeth) Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

I Whoever despises the clitoris despises the penis Whoever despises the penis despises the cunt Whoever despises the cunt despises the life of the child. Resurrection music,        silence,        and surf. II No longer speaking Listening with the whole body And with every drop of blood Overtaken by silence But this same silence is become speech With the speed of darkness. III Stillness during war, the lake. The unmoving spruces. Glints over the water. Faces, voices.        You are far away. A tree that trembles. I am the tree that trembles and trembles. IV After the lifting of the mist after the lift of the heavy rains the sky stands clear and the cries of the city risen in day I remember the buildings are space walled, to let space be used for living I mind this room is space this drinking glass is space whose boundary of glass lets me give you drink and space to drink your hand, my hand being space containing skies and constellations your face carries the reaches of air I know I am space my words are air. V Between        between the man : act        exact woman : in curve        senses in their maze frail orbits, green tries,           games of stars shape of the body speaking its evidence VI I look across at the real vulnerable        involved        naked devoted to the present of all I care for the world of its history leading to this moment. VII Life the announcer. I assure you there are many ways to have a child. I bastard mother promise you there are many ways to be born. They all come forth in their own grace. VIII Ends of the earth join tonight with blazing stars upon their meeting. These sons,        these sons fall burning into Asia. IX Time comes into it. Say it.        Say it. The universe is made of stories, not of atoms. X Lying blazing beside me you rear beautifully and up— your thinking face— erotic body reaching in all its colors and lights— your erotic face colored and lit— not colored body-and-face but now entire, colors       lights       the world thinking and reaching. XI The river flows past the city. Water goes down to tomorrow making its children        I hear their unborn voices I am working out the vocabulary of my silence. XII Big-boned man young and of my dream Struggles to get the live bird out of his throat. I am he am I?        Dreaming? I am the bird am I?        I am the throat? A bird with a curved beak. It could slit anything, the throat-bird. Drawn up slowly.        The curved blades, not large. Bird emerges        wet        being born Begins to sing. XIII My night awake staring at the broad rough jewel the copper roof across the way thinking of the poet yet unborn in this dark who will be the throat of these hours. No.        Of those hours. Who will speak these days, if not I, if not you?

I shall not sprinkle with dust A creature so clearly lunar; You must die—but of course you must— And better later than sooner. But if it should be in a year That year itself must perish; How dingy a thing is fear, And sorrow, how dull to cherish! And if it should be in a day That day would be dark by evening, But the morning might still be gay And the moon have golden leavening. And beauty’s a moonlight grist That comes to the mills of dying; The silver grain may be missed But there’s no great good in crying. Though luminous things are mould They survive in a glance that crossed them, And it’s not very kind to scold The empty air that has lost them. The limpid blossom of youth Turns into a poison berry; Having perceived this truth I shall not weep but be merry. Therefore die when you please; It’s not very wise to worry; I shall not shiver and freeze; I shall not even be sorry. Beautiful things are wild; They are gone, and you go after; Therefore I mean, my child, To charm your going with laughter. Love and pity are strong, But wisdom is happily greater; You will die, I suppose, before long, Oh, worser sooner than later!

for John Wieners I cut out the “Heart with Snowflake” Myself but it is not mine, Forget This bloody coat bloody shirt, I Think it is the writing that makes Me sick, The scores and scores of Incidental music, this nosebleed all Spring all wet, I’m positively angry with the Impertinence of it! I’m Sewing up the kinks in this film, I’m Trying to! I’m trying to burn a light Between, There’s a light and I cable my voice on it but it rips when I trace Anything! WORKS ON PAPER, THE SHIP OF DEATH “Oh build it!” Sings the Heart, “My coat would be so bloodied I could wiggle out of my coat!”

Ampersand to start the poem, keep you going, there’s a Next Anne Cunningham Now intubated in white bed mountain range — Event brought you here and event will blow you onward. this is the refrain from Anne harm refrain from all harm events blowing forward gentle your train refrain from all damn harm Camp out in the mountains Under fluorescent hiss and beep. Nina (pet) put to sleep, ancient incontinent; Now you mourn blood Into your gastric tract. Noble body, gather your Guts, seal the passage: Have to die sometime but curving intricate Amerspand-tract says you’ll Meet us for breakfast. this is the refrain from Anne harm refrain from all harm events blowing forward gentle your train refrain from all damn harm

Some fish for words from shore while others, lacking in such contemplative tact, like to go wading in up to their chins through a torrent of bone-freezing diamond, knife raised, to freeze-frame incarnadine and then bid it as with hermetic wand flow on again, ferociously, transparently, name writ in river.

I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it — Came out with a fortune last fall, — Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn’t all. No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?) It’s the cussedest land that I know, From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it’s a fine land to shun; Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it For no land on earth — and I’m one. You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it’s been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end. I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim; I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o’ the world piled on top. The summer — no sweeter was ever; The sunshiny woods all athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness; The wilds where the caribou call; The freshness, the freedom, the farness — O God! how I’m stuck on it all. The winter! the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant; The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I’ve bade ’em good-by — but I can’t. There’s a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and aimless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardships that nobody reckons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back — and I will. They’re making my money diminish; I’m sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish I’ll pike to the Yukon again. I’ll fight — and you bet it’s no sham-fight; It’s hell! — but I’ve been there before; And it’s better than this by a damsite — So me for the Yukon once more. There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.