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soon, industry and agriculture converged and the combustion engine sowed the dirtclod truck farms green with onion tops and chicory mowed the hay, fed the swine and mutton through belts and chutes cleared the blue oak and the chaparral chipping the wood for mulch back-filled the marshes replacing buckbean with dent corn removed the unsavory foliage of quag made the land into a production made it produce, pistoned and oiled and forged against its own nature and—with enterprise—built silos stockyards, warehouses, processing plants abattoirs, walk-in refrigerators, canneries, mills & centers of distribution it meant something—in spite of machinery— to say the country, to say apple season though what it meant was a kind of nose-thumbing and a kind of sweetness as when one says how quaint knowing that a refined listener understands the doubleness and the leveling of the land, enduing it in sameness, cured malaria as the standing water in low glades disappeared, as the muskegs drained typhoid and yellow fever decreased even milksickness abated thanks to the rise of the feeding pen cattle no longer grazing on white snakeroot vanquished:    the germs that bedeviled the rural areas the rural areas also vanquished:    made monochromatic and mechanized, made suburban now, the illnesses we contract are chronic illnesses:    dyspepsia, arthritis heart disease, kidney disease, high blood pressure, asthma chronic pain, allergies, anxiety, emphysema diabetes, cirrhosis, lyme disease, aids chronic fatigue syndrome, malnutrition, morbid obesity hypertension, cancers of the various kinds:    bladder bone eye lymph mouth ovary thyroid liver colon bileduct lung breast throat & sundry areas of the brain we are no better in accounting for death, and no worse:       we still die we carry our uninhabited mortal frames back to the land cover them in sod, we take the land to the brink of our dying:    it stands watch, dutifully, artfully enriched with sewer sludge and urea to green against eternity of green hocus-pocus:    here is a pig in a farrowing crate eating its own feces human in its ability to litter inside a cage to nest, to grow gravid and to throw its young I know I should be mindful of dangerous analogy: the pig is only the pig and we aren't merely the wide-open field flattened to a space resembling nothing you want me to tell you the marvels of invention?    that we persevere that the time of flourishing is at hand?    I should like to think it meanwhile, where have I put the notebook on which I was scribbling it began like: "the smell of droppings and that narrow country road . . ."

You that are dear, O you above the rest! Forgive him his evasive moods and cold; The absence that belied him oft of old, The war upon sad speech, the desperate jest, And pity’s wildest gush but half-confessed, Forgive him! Let your gentle memories hold Some written word once tender and once bold, Or service done shamefacedly at best, Whereby to judge him. All his days he spent, Like one who with an angel wrestled well, O’ermastering Love with show of light disdain; And whatso’er your spirits underwent, He, wounded for you, worked no miracle To make his heart’s allegiance wholly plain.

The names of things—sparks! I ran on them like a component: Henries, microhenries, Blue Beavers, wee wee ductors: Biographer of small lives, Of a plug and his girl named Jack, Of Utopian colonies which worked— Steel, germanium, brass, aluminum, Replaceables. Outside, afloat, my words Swung an arm charting the woman Who was the river bottom. We tried, beyond work, at work, To keep what we loved. Near Christmas I remember the office Women trimming their desperately Glittering holy day trees. And, Just as I left, the company Talent show, the oils and sentiment Thick on still lifes and seacoasts, The brush strokes tortured as a child’s First script. Someone Had studied driftwood; another man, The spray of a wave, the mania Of waters above torpedoes.

Whereas the porch screen sags from the weight of flowers (impatiens) that grew against it, then piles of wet leaves, then drifted snow; and Whereas, now rolled like absence in its drooping length, a dim gold wave, sundown’s last, cast across a sea of clouds and the floating year, almost reaches the legs of the low-slung chair; and Whereas between bent trees flies and bees twirl above apples and peaches fallen on blue gravel; and Whereas yesterday’s thunder shook blossoms off laurel the day after they appeared; and Whereas in the dust, the fine and perfect dust of cat-paw prints scattered across the gleaming car hood, something softer than blossoms falls away, something your lips left on mine; and Whereas it’s anyone’s guess as to how long it’s been since a humid day sank so low, so far from the present that missing sensations or the sensation of something missing have left impressions in the air, the kind a head leaves on a pillow; and Whereas the last of ancient, unconvincing notions evaporate from the damp pages of thick, old books that describe how, for instance, Time and Love once lay together here; how in a slurred flash of light she turned and waded back into the sea, and how the slack part of any day was and is all in the way he, half asleep, felt her hand slip out of his; and Whereas, the blue heron stands on the shore; while the sleek heron turns, broad to narrow, half hidden among the reeds; turning with the stealth, the sweep of twilight’s narrowing minute, of stillness taking aim; turning until it almost disappears into the arrowhead instant the day disappears, until, staring out of the reeds, the aforementioned heron is more felt than seen; and Whereas, you, with due forethought and deliberation, bite into an apple’s heart and wish it were your own

There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a Traveller then upon the moor; I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ: My old remembrances went from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joys in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low; To me that morning did it happen so; And fears and fancies thick upon me came; Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me— Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood; As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense: Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age: His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call, And moveth all together, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book: And now a stranger's privilege I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I thus bespake, "What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you." Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest— Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome! And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The old Man still stood talking by my side; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. —Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. "Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old Man's shape, and speech—all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and, when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

We, the Research Assistants and Teaching Assistants of the University of California, wish to register our protest against the new loyalty oath for the following reasons. 1) The testing of a University faculty by oath is a stupid and insulting procedure. If this oath is to have the effect of eliminating Communists from the faculty, we might as logically eliminate murderers from the faculty by forcing every faculty member to sign an oath saying that he has never committed murder. 2) That such an oath is more dangerous to the liberties of the community than any number of active Communists should be obvious to any student of history. Liberty and democracy are more often overthrown by fear than by stealth. Only countries such as Russia or Spain have institutions so weak and unhealthy that they must be protected by terror. 3) Oaths and other forms of blackmail are destructive to the free working of man's intellect. Since the early Middle Ages universities have zealously guarded their intellectual freedom and have made use of its power to help create the world we know today. The oath that Galileo was forced by the Inquisition to swear is but a distant cousin to the oath we are asked to swear today, but both represent the struggle of the blind and powerful against the minds of free men. We, who will inherit the branches of learning that one thousand years of free universities have helped to generate, are not Communists and dislike the oath for the same reason we dislike Communism. Both breed stupidity and indignity; both threaten our personal and intellectual freedom. [ c. 1949 ]

Last night in a dream you came to me. We were young again and you were smiling, happy in the way a sparrow in spring hops from branch to branch. I took you in my arms and swung you about, so carefree was my youth. What can I say? That time wears away, draws its lines on every feature? That we wake to dark skies whose only answer is rain, cold as the years that stretch behind us, blurring this window far from you.

It’s not solely the dance of the juggler but his spirit: with its turkey wings, perfect thighs, sensuous hips, large round flat eye. This eye smiles like lips. Watch this eye— it’s not a donkey eye. It’s not solely the dancer who moves like a circus animal as though to children’s music—no, it’s the girl in the swing’s rhythm, the ticking of the clock at night, the strut of the cock, the flight of the holy family to the remains. The nipple that feeds the infant is an eye looking into his future. It’s not even the village square with its musicians and happy faces that makes the difference—no, because if it were, weddings with violins, harps, flutes would have settled the question: no, it is the rising and lifting, the failing and catching of that unknown sense of self before it crashes, that matters.

My friend came and spent a weekend here. In China he used to be an interpreter and guide foreign mountaineers. He told me he had once accompanied a group of Japanese to a snow mountain in the Uighur Region. They climbed for a whole day but did not make the summit. A storm was gathering, so they turned back. On their way down, a young woman (the only one on the team) fell off a cliff and disappeared in the ice below. She was injured but not fatally. “Help, help me!” she yelled at the men two hundred feet above her. None of them went down, though they were all well trained. They listened and turned on a recorder. “Help, help! I’ll pay you ten million yen!” Her screams were kept on a cassette tape for her family and insurance company. “Those Japs are beasts,” my friend said. “If she were a Chinese I would’ve gone down to help her.” His story saddened me. After he left, the voice still lingered in my home— “Help, I’ll pay you ten million yen!” I don’t know if he could be so gallant to a Chinese woman as he claimed. I’ve begun to walk my dog every day.

for my love, Charles (1938-2000) Say: 言 I love you, I love you, I love you, no matter your race, your sex, your color. Say: the world is round and the arctic is cold. Say: I shall kiss the rondure of your soul’s living marl. Say: he is beautiful, serenely beautiful, yet, only ephemerally so. Say: Her Majesty combs her long black hair for hours. Say: O rainbows, in his eyes, rainbows. Say: O frills and fronds, I know you Mr. Snail Consciousness, O foot plodding the underside of leaves. Say: I am nothing without you, nothing, Ms. Lookeast, Ms. Lookeast, without you, I am utterly empty. Say: the small throat of sorrow. Say: China and France, China and France. Say: Beauty and loss, the dross of centuries. Say: Nothing in their feudal antechamber shall relinquish us of our beauty— Say: Mimosa—this is not a marriage song (epithalamion). Say: when I was a young girl in Hong Kong a prince came on a horse, I believe it was piebald. O dead prince     dead dead prince     who paid for my ardor. Say: O foot     O ague     O warbling oratorio . . . Say: Darling, use “love” only as a transitive verb for the first forty years of your life. Say: I have felt this before, it’s soft, human. Say: my love is a fragile concertina. Say: you always love them in the beginning, then, you take them to slaughter. O her coarse whispers     O her soft bangs. By their withers, they are emblazoned doppelgangers. Say: beauty and terror, beauty and terror. Say: the house is filled with perfume, dancing sonatinas and pungent flowers. Say: houses filled with combs     combs     combs and the mistress’ wan ankles. Say: embrace the An Lu Shan ascendancy and the fantastical diaspora of tears. Say: down blue margins my inky love runs. Tearfully, tearfully, the pearl concubine runs. There is a tear in his left eye—sadness or debris? Say: reverence to her, reverence to her. Say: I am a very small boy, a very small boy. I am a teeny weeny little boy who yearns to be punished. Say: I can’t live without you Head Mistress, Head Mistress, I am a little lamb, a consenting little lamb. I am a sheep without his fold. Say: God does not exist and hell is other people— And Mabel, can’t we get out of this hotel? Say: Gregor Samsa—someone in Tuscaloosa thinks you’re magnifico, she will kiss your battered cheek, embrace your broken skull. Is the apple half eaten or half whole? Suddenly, he moves within me, how do I know that he is not death, in death there is certain / / caesura. Say: there is poetry in his body, poetry in his body, yes, say: this dead love, this dead love, this dead, dead love, this lovely death, this white percale, white of hell, of heavenly shale. Centerfolia . . . say: kiss her sweet lips. Say: what rhymes with “flower”: “bower,” “shower,” “power”? I am that yellow girl, that famished yellow girl from the first world. Say: I don’t give a shit about nothing ’xcept my cat, your cock and poetry. Say: a refuge between sleeping and dying. Say: to Maui     to Maui     to Maui creeps in his petty pompadour. Day to day, her milk of human kindness ran dry: I shall die of   jejune jujune la lune la lune. Say: a beleaguered soldier, a fine arse had he. Say: I have seen the small men of my generation rabid, discrete, hysterical, lilliput, naked. Say: Friday is okay; we’ll have fish. Say: Friday is not okay; he shall die of the measles near the bay. Say: Friday, just another savage day until Saturday, the true Sabbath, when they shall finally stay.   Say: Sojourner Truth. Say: I am dismayed by your cloying promiscuousness and fawning attitude. Say:amaduofu, amaduofu. Say: he put cumin and tarragon in his stew. Say: he’s the last wave of French Algerian Jews. He’s a cousin of Helene Cixous, twice removed. Say: he recites the lost autobiography of Camus. Say: I am a professor from the University of Stupidity. I cashed my welfare check and felt good. I saw your mama crossing the bridge of magpies up on the faded hillock with the Lame Ox— Your father was conspicuously absent. Admit that you loved your mother, that you killed your father to marry your mother. Suddenly, my terrible childhood made sense. Say: beauty and truth, beauty and truth, all ye need to know on earth all ye need to know. Say: I was boogying down, boogying down Victoria Peak Way and a slip-of-a-boy climbed off his ox: he importuned me for a kiss, a tiny one on his cankered lip. Say: O celebrator     O celebrant of a blessed life, say: false     fleeting     hopes. Say: despair, despair, despair. Say: Chinawoman, I am a contradiction in terms: I embody frugality and ecstasy. Friday Wong died on a Tuesday. O how he loved his lambs. He was lost in their sheepfold. Say: another mai tai before your death. Another measure     another murmur     before your last breath. Another boyfriend, Italianesque. Say: Save. Exit. Say: I am the sentence which shall at last elude her. Oh, the hell of heaven’s girth, a low mound from here . . . Say: Oh, a mother’s vision of the emerald hills draws down her brows. Say: A brush of jade, a jasper plow furrow. Say: ####00000xxxxx!!!! Contemplate     thangs     cerebral     spiritual     open     stuff     reality by definition     lack     any     spatial     extension we occupy     no space     and     are     not     measurable we do not move     undulate     are not in     perpetual motion where     for example     is thinking     in the head?     in my vulva? whereas     in my female lack of penis?     Physical thangs     spatial extensions     mathematically     measurable preternaturally     possible     lack bestial     vegetable     consciousness lack     happiness     lackluster     lack chutzpah lack     love Say: A scentless camellia bush bloodied the afternoon. Fuck this line, can you really believe this? When did I become the master of suburban bliss? With whose tongue were we born? The language of the masters is the language of the aggressors. We’ve studied their cadence carefully— enrolled in a class to improve our accent. Meanwhile, they hover over, waiting for us to stumble . . . to drop an article, mispronounce an R. Say: softly, softly, the silent gunboats glide. O onerous sibilants, O onomatopoetic glibness. Say: How could we write poetry in a time like this? A discipline that makes much ado about so little? Willfully laconic, deceptively disguised as a love poem. Say: Your engorging dict- atorial flesh grazed mine. Would you have loved me more if I were black? Would I have loved you more if you were white? And you, relentless Sinophile, holding my long hair, my frayed dreams. My turn to objectify you. I, the lunatic, the lover, the poet, the face of an orphan static with flies, the scourge of the old world, which reminds us—it ain’t all randy dandy in the new kingdom Say     rebuke     descry Hills and canyons, robbed by sun, leave us nothing.