Poemunity — your poem community

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

When I boarded the plane, everyone looked like Uncle Tom ruddy, some were empurpled gray hair or auburn in terrier thatches pale blue of eye a smidgen of resignation: the tribe. I thought We are driving to the interior I thought holy god the airline upholstery was Yeats, Kavanagh and Heaney handwriting. I thought holy shit, this is the maw. The maw.

Here, I am blowing this little stream of blue vapor into your parted lips. Here, I am placing my hands on your chest in an X while my red nails distract the crowd of impostor lifeguards closing in. Here is the place to raise the tent, I can feel it in my bones. The snake has perfected his skin, he is ready to be lifted and passed. How did I do it? The process was messy, I’d rather not share it, but look, look at us now. Lemon drops and cherry bombs. It’s the eye of the tiger, went the song I used to sing in the basement alone.

Spooky summer on the horizon I’m gazing at from my window into the streets That’s where it’s going to be where everyone is walking around, looking around out in the open suspecting each other’s heart to open fire all over the streets like streets you read about every day who are the network we travel through on the way to the center which is energy filling life and bursting with joy all over the screen I can’t sit still any longer! I want to go where I’m not feeling so bad Get off this little island before the bridges break (my heart is a sore thing too) No I want to sit in the middle watching movies then go to bed in my head Someone is banging on it with a heavy stick like the enemy who is he going to be turns into a face you can’t recognize then vanishes behind a window behind a gun Like the lonely hero stalking the main street cries out Where are you? I just want to know all the angles of death possible under the American sky! I can hardly see for all the buildings polluting the sky until it changes into a barrage of bottles then clears up for a second while you breathe and you realize you’e still as alive as ever and want to be but would like to be somewhere else perhaps Africa Start all over again as the race gets darker and darker and the world goes on the way I always thought it would For the winner is someone we recognize out of our collective past which is turning over again in the grave It is so important when one dies you replace her and never waste a minute

I would not have gotten in this boat with you. I would not except where else was there at the dock’s end to go? The water was cold. I would not have let you row the boat. I could see what kind of man you were. I would not but who was there to choose between you and me? I would not have let you throw away the oars. I knew what would happen next, except what else was there to do, struggle in a boat with a leak over cold water?

Platanal, 1974, by Myrna Báez Considering Myrna Báez’s painting Platanal, E. Carmen Ramos explains, “When Puerto Rico was a Spanish colony, artists like Francisco Oller depicted the plantain as both a key accoutrement to the jibaro (rural peasant) and a metaphor for the island’s independent cultural identity.” Plantain trees gather at the edge of the orchard, clamor for light in the foreground. They seem to grow as one, as if they’d fill the field and the mountains behind them, leaves large and frayed. We stood there, once, or someplace like it, so here we are again, it seems, years later, branches leaning over the road, you in your long skirt, looking out as if to recall something you meant to do.My country, I hear you say still. But if that’s dusk in the hills, you know what’s coming to the field. You’ll stand among them till there’s nothing left to see. I’ll wait beside you, though I don’t know what we’re waiting for.

Revolutionaries [Alois Lindner, Erich Mühsam, Guido Kopp], 1929 by August Sander Twelve years on, the beard that Lenin wore Still sharpens revolutionary chins To dagger-points held ready for the war In which the outgunned proletarians Will triumph thanks to these, their generals, Whose rounded shoulders and round glasses say That sedentary intellectuals Raised in the bosom of the bourgeoisie Can also learn to work — if not with hands, Then with the liberated consciousness That shrinks from nothing since it understands What’s coming has to come. The monuments To which the future genuflects will bear These faces, so intelligently stern, Under whose revolutionary stare Everything that is burnable must burn.

RUN AWAY from this sub- scriber for the second time are TWO NEGROES, viz. SMART, an outlandish dark fellow with his country marks on his temples and bearing the remarkable brand of my name on his left breast, last seen wearing an old ragged negro cloth shirt and breeches made of fearnought; also DIDO, a likely young wench of a yellow cast, born in cherrytime in this parish, wearing a mixed coloured coat with a bundle of clothes, mostly blue, under her one good arm. Both speak tolerable plain English and may insist on being called Cuffee and Khasa respect- ively. Whoever shall deliver the said goods to the gaoler in Baton Rouge, or to the Sugar House in the parish, shall receive all reasonable charges plus a genteel reward besides what the law allows. In the mean time all persons are strictly forbid harbouring them, on pain of being prosecuted to the utmost rigour of the law. Ten guineas will be paid to anyone who can give intelligence of their being harboured, employed, or enter- tained by a white person upon his sentence; five on conviction of a black. All Masters of vessels are warned against carrying them out of state, as they may claim to be free. If any of the above Negroes return of their own accord, they may still be for- given by ELIZABETH YOUNG.

515 Madison Avenue door to heaven? portal stopped realities and eternal licentiousness or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables swinging from the myth of ascending I would join or declining the challenge of racial attractions they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends) while everywhere love is breathing draftily like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland where is the summit where all aims are clear the pin-point light upon a fear of lust as agony’s needlework grows up around the unicorn and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work when I see Gianni I know he’s thinking of John Ericson playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment “where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs” no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it” perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods you were there always and you know all about these things as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light I have always wanted to be near it though the day is long (and I don’t mean Madison Avenue) lying in a hammock on St. Mark’s Place sorting my poems in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island they are coming and we holy ones must go is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically belong to the enormous bliss of American death

Oh! dost thou flatter falsely, Hope? The day hath scarcely passed that saw thy birth, Yet thy white wings are plumed to all their scope, And hour by hour thine eyes have gathered light, And grown so large and bright, That my whole future life unfolds what seems, Beneath their gentle beams, A path that leads athwart some guiltless earth, To which a star is dropping from the night! Not many moons ago, But when these leafless beds were all aglow With summer’s dearest treasures, I Was reading in this lonely garden-nook; A July noon was cloudless in the sky, And soon I put my shallow studies by; Then sick at heart, and angered by the book, Which, in good sooth, was but the long-drawn sigh Of some one who had quarreled with his kind, Vexed at the very proofs which I had sought, And all annoyed while all alert to find A plausible likeness of my own dark thought, I cast me down beneath yon oak’s wide boughs, And, shielding with both hands my throbbing brows, Watched lazily the shadows of my brain. The feeble tide of peevishness went down, And left a flat dull waste of dreary pain Which seemed to clog the blood in every vein; The world, of course, put on its darkest frown— In all its realms I saw no mortal crown Which did not wound or crush some restless head; And hope, and will, and motive, all were dead. So, passive as a stone, I felt too low To claim a kindred with the humblest flower; Even that would bare its bosom to a shower, While I henceforth would take no pains to live, Nor place myself where I might feel or give A single impulse whence a wish could grow. There was a tulip scarce a gossamer’s throw Beyond that platanus. A little child, Most dear to me, looked through the fence and smiled A hint that I should pluck it for her sake. Ah, me! I trust I was not well awake— The voice was very sweet, Yet a faint languor kept me in my seat. I saw a pouted lip, a toss, and heard Some low expostulating tones, but stirred Not even a leaf’s length, till the pretty fay, Wondering, and half abashed at the wild feat, Climbed the low pales, and laughed my gloom away. And here again, but led by other powers, A morning and a golden afternoon, These happy stars, and yonder setting moon, Have seen me speed, unreckoned and untasked, A round of precious hours. Oh! here, where in that summer noon I basked, And strove, with logic frailer than the flowers, To justify a life of sensuous rest, A question dear as home or heaven was asked, And without language answered. I was blest! Blest with those nameless boons too sweet to trust Unto the telltale confidence of song. Love to his own glad self is sometimes coy, And even thus much doth seem to do him wrong; While in the fears which chasten mortal joy, Is one that shuts the lips, lest speech too free, With the cold touch of hard reality, Should turn its priceless jewels into dust. Since that long kiss which closed the morning’s talk, I have not strayed beyond this garden walk. As yet a vague delight is all I know, A sense of joy so wild ’t is almost pain, And like a trouble drives me to and fro, And will not pause to count its own sweet gain. I am so happy! that is all my thought! To-morrow I will turn it round and round, And seek to know its limits and its ground. To-morrow I will task my heart to learn The duties which shall spring from such a seed, And where it must be sown, and how be wrought. But oh! this reckless bliss is bliss indeed! And for one day I choose to seal the urn Wherein is shrined Love’s missal and his creed. Meantime I give my fancy all it craves; Like him who found the West when first he caught The light that glittered from the world he sought, And furled his sails till Dawn should show the land; While in glad dreams he saw the ambient waves Go rippling brightly up a golden strand. Hath there not been a softer breath at play In the long woodland aisles than often sweeps At this rough season through their solemn deeps— A gentle Ariel sent by gentle May, Who knew it was the morn On which a hope was born, To greet the flower ere it was fully blown, And nurse it as some lily of her own? And wherefore, save to grace a happy day, Did the whole West at blushing sunset glow With clouds that, floating up in bridal snow, Passed with the festal eve, rose-crowned, away! And now, if I may trust my straining sight, The heavens appear with added stars to-night, And deeper depths, and more celestial height, Than hath been reached except in dreams or death. Hush, sweetest South! I love thy delicate breath; But hush! methought I felt an angel’s kiss! Oh! all that lives is happy in my bliss. That lonely fir, which always seems As though it locked dark secrets in itself, Hideth a gentle elf, Whose wand shall send me soon a frolic troop Of rainbow visions, and of moonlit dreams. Can joy be weary, that my eyelids droop? To-night I shall not seek my curtained nest, But even here find rest. Who whispered then? And what are they that peep Betwixt the foliage in the tree-top there? Come, Fairy Shadows! for the morn is near, When to your sombre pine ye all must creep; Come, ye wild pilots of the darkness, ere My spirit sinks into the gulf of Sleep; Even now it circles round and round the deep— Appear! Appear!