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Someone is in the kitchen washing the dishes. Someone is in the living room watching the news. Someone in a bedroom is holding a used stamp with tweezers and adding it to his collection. Someone is scolding a dog, barking now for decades, a different dog for each of the decades. Someone is reading the paper and listening to a baseball game on the radio at the same time — At the base of the altar, you drop some coins into a wooden box and the lights reveal the vast, worn painting in front of you. The holy subject is illuminated for a few minutes before it is dim again. There are churches all over Italy where you can do this. The smell of incense, stone — Someone is taking the ashes out of the small cave of the fireplace, though this might have been a hundred years ago, when the house was new and we didn’t live in it. Someone is writing a letter on thin blue paper. Someone is putting down the needle onto a spinning record, just so. On the couch, someone is sleeping. Upstairs, someone is looking into the bathroom mirror — While we were waiting for her surgery to finish, I walked around the hospital and came across a waiting room that had an enormous aquarium. The black fish with red stripes, the yellow fish with blue stripes, the triangle fish, the cylinder fish, the little orange schools and the cellophane glints of their quick turns in the box of water, among arrangements of coral, the city of bones — Someone is walking down the creaking staircase in the dark, a hand sliding on the rail. Someone is on the telephone, which means nobody else can use it for another hour. Someone in his room is doing homework, me or someone almost like me, twenty, fifty years ago. Someone is reading in her room. Someone is talking to the gray wall. Someone is talking to the gray wall. In summer, on a hot afternoon, someone peels at a corner of wallpaper and sees more wallpaper beneath — I used to think that to write poems, to make art, meant trying to transcend the prosaic elements of the self, to arrive at some essential plane, where poems were supposed to succeed. I was wrong.

1. Of the gardens of Adonis, Lydia, I love Most of all those fugitive roses That on the day they are born, That very day, must also die. Eternal, for them, the light of day: They're born when the sun is already high And die before Apollo's course Across the visible sky is run. We too, of our lives, must make one day: We never know, my Lydia, nor want To know of nights before or after The little while that we may last. 2. To be great, be whole: nothing that's you Should you exaggerate or exclude. In each thing, be all. Give all you are In the least you ever do. The whole moon, because it rides so high, Is reflected in each pool.

Guarda mi disse, le feroce Erine Let us come upon him first as if in a dream, anonymous triple presence, memory made substance and tally of heart’s rot: then in the waking Now be demonstrable, seem sole aspect of being’s essence, coffin to the living touch, self’s Iscariot. Then he will loath the year’s recurrent long caress without hope of divorce, envying idiocy’s apathy or the stress of definite remorse. He will lapse into a halflife lest the taut force of the mind’s eagerness recall those fiends or new apparitions endorse his excessive distress. He will shrink, his manhood leave him, slough selfaware the last skin of the flayed: despair. He will nurse his terror carefully, uncertain even of death’s solace, impotent to outpace dispersion of the soul, disruption of the brain.

The ploughland has gone to bent and the pasture to heather; gin the goodwife stint, she’ll keep the house together. Gin the goodwife stint and the bairns hunger the Duke can get his rent one year longer. The Duke can get his rent and we can get our ticket twa pund emigrant on a C.P.R. packet.

Nothing substance utters or time stills and restrains joins design and supple measure deftly as thought’s intricate polyphonic score dovetails with the tread sensuous things keep in our consciousness. Celebrate man’s craft and the word spoken in shapeless night, the sharp tool paring away waste and the forms cut out of mystery! When taut string’s note passes ears’ reach or red rays or violet fade, strong over unseen forces the word ranks and enumerates... mimes clouds condensed and hewn hills and bristling forests, steadfast corn in its season and the seasons in their due array, life of man’s own body and death... The sound thins into melody, discourse narrowing, craft failing, design petering out. Ears heavy to breeze of speech and thud of the ictus.

See! Their verses are laid as mosaic gold to gold gold to lapis lazuli white marble to porphyry stone shouldering stone, the dice polished alike, there is no cement seen and no gap between stones as the frieze strides to the impending apse: the rays of many glories forced to its focus forming a glory neither of stone nor metal, neither of words nor verses, but of the light shining upon no substance; a glory not made for which all else was made.

I A Tower of Brass, one would have said, And Locks, and Bolts, and Iron Bars, Might have preserv’d one innocent Maiden-head. The jealous Father thought he well might spare All further jealous Care. And, as he walk’d, t’himself alone he smiled, To think how Venus’ Arts he had beguil’d; And when he slept, his Rest was deep: But Venus laugh’d, to see and hear him sleep: She taught the am’rous Jove A magical Receipt in Love, Which arm’d him stronger, and which help’d him more, Than all his Thunder did, and his Almightyship before. II She taught him Love’s Elixir, by which Art His Godhead into Gold he did convert; No Guards did then his Passage stay, He pass’d with Ease, Gold was the Word; Subtle as Light’ning, bright, and quick, and fierce, Gold thro’ Doors and Walls did pierce; And as that works sometimes upon the Sword, Melted the Maidenhead away, Ev’n in the secret Scabbard where it lay. The prudent Macedonian King, To blow up Towns a Golden Mine did spring; He broke thro’ Gates with this Petarr, ’Tis the great Art of Peace, the Engine ’tis of War; And Fleets and Armies follow it afar; The Ensign ’tis at Land: and ’tis the Seaman’s Star.

All their songs are of one hour Before dawn, when the birds begin. I sing another. In helpless midday, at the hour Even sparrows have no heart to shrill Comes news . . . Suddenly, the unimaginable Needs imagination and finds none. Violet ocean only nothing. Smoke of thyme and of cedar, Ornate birds, nothing. Even a god who came here, Hearing a sweet voice, Would find only old fires now, Brittle in the blackened trees. She was mast and sail. She was A stillness pregnant with motion, Adorable to me as, all my life, I have hidden a cruel, secret ocean In sinews and in sleep and cowardice. She forgave me. Once, she wept for me. Our child died then, and she is with him.

A dinosaur egg opens in a lab And out steps my paternal grandfather, Sam, Already taller than a man, And on his way to becoming a stomping mile-high predator, so I ran. I never knew my mother’s father, who may have been a suicide. He was buried in a pauper’s grave my mother tried To find, without success. Jews grab The thing they love unless it’s ham, And hold it tightly to them lest it die— Or like my mother try To find the ham they couldn’t hold. A hot ham does get cold. Grampa, monster of malevolence, I’m told was actually a rare old-fashioned gentleman of courtly benevolence. At night the thing to do was drive to Pevely Dairy And park and watch the fountain shooting up and changing colors. The child sat in the back, finishing his ice-cream soda, Sucking the straw in the empty glass as a noisy coda. Sometimes on Sunday they drove to the Green Parrot. There was the sideways-staring parrot to stare at. The chickens running around were delicious fried, but nothing was sanitary. B.O. was the scourge of the age—and polio—and bathroom odors. If you didn’t wash your hands, It contributed—as did your glands! His father always had gas for their cars from his royal rationing cards. The little boy went to see the king at one of the king’s coal yards. The two of them took a trip and toured the dad’s wartime coal mine. It was fun. It was fine. The smell of rain about to fall, A sudden coolness in the air, Sweetness wider than the Mississippi at its muddy brownest. I didn’t steal his crayon, Mrs. Marshall, honest! It’s captain midnight ...brought to you by ovaltine ! I travel backwards in a time machine And step inside a boy who’s three feet tall. How dare he have such curly hair! A boy and his dog go rafting down the Mississippi River. They have a message to deliver To the gold-toothed king. Sire, we have a message that we bring. Little boy, approach the throne. Ow! I hit my funny bone. The British consul was paid extra because it was a hardship post. The weather was Antarctica/equatorial extreme. Surely summer was in error. Winter was terror. White snowflakes the size of dinosaur eggs Versus humidity that walked across your face on housefly legs. I loved both the most. Radio made women dream Of freedom from oppression and the daily nonsense. Hairy tarantulas in boatloads of bananas made the lazy heat immense In the heart. Blizzards didn’t stop my father’s big blue coal trucks so why bother. Why bother, father? Billie Holiday was inside. I thought I had gone to heaven and died.

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. "O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. My own Oenone, Beautiful-brow'd Oenone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphroditè, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. "O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' "O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. "Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' Here she ceas'd And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphroditè beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. "Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois! "O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone OEnone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Pele{:i}an banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire."