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Is worth any number of old ladies. A grandmother hung from a cliff like a tense moment in an action movie and the Ode, speaking itself with its hand on one heart, steadfastly refused to save her, in fact it did that thing where it ground each finger out with a motorcycle boot and then ate its cigarette for emphasis, whooping; some old-ass bitch was in pussy church when the Öde, now spelling itself with an umlaut, swung its urn at the back of her head, really clocking her; till the violets in her church hat grew from the floor and won a third-place prize for consciousness; the Ode is pushing nanas off bridges, detonating them with dynamite, tying them to railroad tracks with squeaky young rope, pouring big glugs into them out of the skull-and-crossbones bottle, the Ode is checking its pocketwatch, which points always to death-to-old-ladies o’clock, it is shrieking ugh you’re like one hundred and your breath smells exactly like horse medicine ho , the Ode is blasting holes in them, is laying them out in the potpourri aisle, is stabbing them with those icicles they always said were dangerous, the Ode means ill to all of them, the Ode is worth any number    ... and the worst is I believe it. The worst is I will become one, without having written anything like the Ode on a Grecian Urn, and sit in long rows along with my kind, till there the Ode comes striding toward me, my necessary death at the ready, my pulse like black grapes at its fingertips, saying, “Fear not, it will be fast, the forgetting of great poems will fly through you in bullets”; beauty is truth, and truth    ... but already I am losing it, all I know is that the world is falling away, and you won’t believe what it is wearing, the ridiculous pantsuit of me, a old lady, crumpled hopelessly at the crotch, a flower valiant in its little butthole — all the vital syllables are being erased — its space-age fabric now seen for what it is: an embarrassment, my name is turning into Edna, Myrtle, Dorcas, my descendants find my peppermints disgusting, the urn is approaching to scatter me over a landscape that is heaven on earth, and in the feet of the poem I am running — in mad pursuit, and struggle to escape — chased as if I am worth one million, Pearl, Opal, Ruby, Coral, until I am caught by the feeble arm, and because it is true I am telling the Ode: you stood in me like a spine, put poppies behind my eyes, just the fact of you, that he took one raw spring to set you down instead of going out to tip heifers, tweak noses, or sexually harass huge curvy vases, you were for me too, though they would trade me in all my Beulahs, have lined me up to enter that land in my turn, you let me memorize your most satiny parts and repeat them in hospital waiting rooms, first to myself, and then almost out loud, mine, mine, the world’s, all mine, something to say in the face of tall sickness as I quietly try to unwrap hard candies, as I tug down tissues from my sleeve, because it is true I am telling you, Ode, that I had a throat and you boiled in it, and the Ode is murmuring almost gently, “But do you like my ending? Some people don’t like my ending,” I don’t, I never did, I thought it was so overwrought, though now that I’m here myself why not if it has to be this way then better put a bright red cough on all that white

A-bomb is how it begins with a big bang on page one, a calculator of sorts whose centrifuge begets bedouin, bamboozle, breakdance, and berserk, one of my mother's favorite words, hard knock clerk of clich é s that she is, at the moment going ape

‘They toil not, neither do they spin.’ One morn before me were three figures seen, With bowèd necks, and joinèd hands, side-faced; And one behind the other stepp’d serene, In placid sandals, and in white robes graced; They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other side; They came again; as when the urn once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower: O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness? A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, turn’d Each one the face a moment whiles to me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d And ached for wings, because I knew the three; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatiguèd eye; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek,— I knew to be my demon Poesy. They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings: O folly! What is Love? and where is it? And for that poor Ambition! it springs From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit; For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,— At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep’d in honey’d indolence; O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense! And once more came they by:—alas! wherefore? My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams; My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams: The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May; The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay; O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce! Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night, And for the day faint visions there is store; Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright, Into the clouds, and never more return!

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred applause. Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The genii of the stream; Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam. The hapless nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat’s averse to fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch’d, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watery god, Some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard; A Favourite has no friend! From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.

A B H O R R E N C E S 4 July, 1986 America is inconceivable without drugs and always has been. One of the first acts was to dump the tea. The drug that furnished the mansions of Virginia was tobacco, a drug now in much disrepute. Sassafras, a cure-all, is what they came for and they dealt it by the bale altho it was only a diaphoretic to make you perspire— people were so simple in those days. The Civil War saw the isolation of morphine making amputation a pleasure and making the block of wood between the teeth, which was no drug, obsolete. Morphinism was soon widespread among doctors and patients. At this date interns, the reports tell us, are among the premier drug ab/users of said moralistic nation. “Rock” stars (who notoriously “have” doctors) consume drugs by the metric ton even as they urge teenagers to Say No. The undercurrent of American history has been the running aches and pains of the worn path to the door of the apothecary to fetch cannabis and cocaine elixirs by the gallon. It has been all prone all seeking Florida, Ponce de León was just the beginning of a statistical curve whose only satisfaction would be total vertigo. His eager search for youth has become our frantic tilt with death and boredom, in fact we are farming death in Florida with far greater profit than we are farming food in Iowa—elixirs are as multiform as the life-style frauds we implore, a cultural patchwork fit for a fool in the only country in the world with a shop called the Drug Store.

I As once, if not with light regard I read aright that gifted bard (Him whose school above the rest His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest), One, only one unrivaled fair Might hope the magic girdle wear, At solemn tourney hung on high, The wish of each love-darting eye; Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, As if, in air unseen, some hov'ring hand, Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame, With whispered spell had burst the starting band, It left unblessed her loathed dishonoured side; Happier, hopeless fair, if never Her baffled hand with vain endeavour Had touched that fatal zone to her denied! Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, To whom, prepared and bathed in Heav'n, The cest of amplest power is giv'n, To few the godlike gift assigns, To gird their blessed, prophetic loins, And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame! II The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day, When He, who called with thought to birth Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dressed with springs, and forests tall, And poured the main engirting all, Long by the loved enthusiast wooed, Himself in some diviner mood, Retiring, sate with her alone, And placed her on his sapphire throne; The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, Seraphic wires were heard to sound; Now sublimest triumph swelling, Now on love and mercy dwelling; And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breathed her magic notes aloud: And thou, thou rich-haired youth of morn, And all thy subject life was born! The dang'rous Passions kept aloof, Far from the sainted growing woof; But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, List'ning the deep applauding thunder; And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed, By whose the tarsel's eyes were made; All the shad'wy tribes of Mind, In braided dance their murmurs joined; And all the bright uncounted powers Who feed on Heav'n's ambrosial flowers. Where is the bard, whose soul can now Its high presuming hopes avow? Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, This hallowed work for him designed? III High on some cliff, to Heav'n up-piled, Of rude access, of prospect wild, Where, tangled round the jealous steep, Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, And holy Genii guard the rock, Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, While on its rich ambitious head, An Eden, like his own, lies spread: I view that oak the fancied glades among, By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew, Nigh sphered in Heav'n its native strains could hear: On which that ancient trump he reached was hung; Thither oft, his glory greeting, From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; In vain— such bliss to one alone Of all the sons of soul was known, And Heav'n and Fancy, kindred powers, Have now o'erturn'd th'inspiring bowers, Or curtained close such scene from every future view.

Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee ling'ring, with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth, Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think far off how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land. There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill, 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There each trim lass that skims the milky store To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes, Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain: Nor thou, though learned, his homelier thoughts neglect; Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign. And fill with double force her heart-commanding strain. Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father to his list'ning son Strange lays, whose pow'r had charmed a Spenser's ear. At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possessed, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their bonny swarms, And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. 'Tis thine to sing how, framing hideous spells, In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer, Lodged in the wintry cave with [          ] Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells: How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross, With their own visions oft astonished droop, When o'er the wat'ry strath or quaggy moss They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop. Or if in sports, or on the festive green, Their [      ] glance some fated youth descry, Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seen And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey, Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare. [Stanza 5 and the first eight lines of stanza 6 are missing] What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wand'rers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light! For watchful, lurking mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! Whom late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then! To that sad spot [            ]: On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drowned banks, forbidding all return. Or, if he meditate his wished escape To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime, the wat'ry surge shall round him rise, Poured sudden forth from ev'ry swelling source. What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain, at to-fall of the day, His bairns shall linger at th' unclosing gate. Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep, With drooping willows dressed, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perhaps, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and watry hand, Shall fondly seem to press her shudd'ring cheek, And with his blue swoll'n face before her stand, And, shiv'ring cold, these piteous accents speak: 'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew, While I lie welt'ring on the osiered shore, Drown'd by the kaelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!' Unbounded is thy range; with varied style Thy Muse may, like those feath'ry tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallowed ground! Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid; Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest. No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sov'reign pow'r, In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold. But, O! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides! Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temp'rance, at the needful time, They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed, Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live, Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, [      ] and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled in elder time th' historic page. There Shakespeare's self, with ev'ry garland crowned, In musing hour, his Wayward Sisters found, And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. From them he sung, when mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds and colours bold The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy pow'rful verse. In scenes like these, which, daring to depart From sober truth, are still to nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employed her Tasso's art! How have I trembled when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured; When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast up-heaved the vanished sword! How have I sat, where piped the pensive wind, To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung, Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung! Hence at each sound imagination glows; Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows; Melting it flows, pure, num'rous, strong, and clear, And fills th' impassioned heart, and lulls th' harmonious ear. All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail, Ye [       ] friths and lakes which, far away, Are by smooth Annan filled or past'ral Tay, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom, Or, o'er your stretching heaths by Fancy led: Then will I dress once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [      ] shade; Or crop from Tiviot's dale each [       ] And mourn on Yarrow's banks [       ] Meantime, ye pow'rs, that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains attend, Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir, To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring: While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic, while 'tis May.