Poemunity — your poem community

When liberty is headlong girl And runs her roads and wends her ways Liberty will shriek and whirl Her showery torch to see it blaze. When liberty is wedded wife And keeps the barn and counts the byre Liberty amends her life. She drowns her torch for fear of fire.

The one who pulled the trigger with his toe, spread-eagled on his girlfriend’s parents’ bed, and split his face in halves above his nose, so that one eye looked east, the other west; sometimes that sad boy’s bifurcation seems to replicate the math of love and grief — that zero sum of holding on and letting go by which we split the differences with those with whom we occupy the present moment. Sometimes I see that poor corpse as a token of doubt’s sure twin and double-mindedness, of certainty, the countervailing guess, the swithering, the dither, righteousness, like Libra’s starry arms outstretched in love or supplication or, at last, surrender to the scales forever tipped in the cold sky.

The landscape (the landscape!) again: Gloucester, the shore one of me is (duplicates), and from which (from offshore, I, Maximus) am removed, observe. In this night I moved on the territory with combinations (new mixtures) of old and known personages: the leader, my father, in an old guise, here selling books and manuscripts. My thought was, as I looked in the window of his shop, there should be materials here for Maximus, when, then, I saw he was the young musician has been there (been before me) before. It turned out it wasn’t a shop, it was a loft (wharf- house) in which, as he walked me around, a year ago came back (I had been there before, with my wife and son, I didn’t remember, he presented me insinuations via himself and his girl) both of whom I had known for years. But never in Gloucester. I had moved them in, to my country. His previous appearance had been in my parents’ bedroom where I found him intimate with my former wife: this boy was now the Librarian of Gloucester, Massachusetts! Black space, old fish-house. Motions of ghosts. I, dogging his steps. He (not my father, by name himself with his face twisted at birth) possessed of knowledge pretentious giving me what in the instant I knew better of. But the somber place, the flooring crude like a wharf’s and a barn’s space I was struck by the fact I was in Gloucester, and that my daughter was there—that I would see her! She was over the Cut. I hadn’t even connected her with my being there, that she was here. That she was there (in the Promised Land—the Cut! But there was this business, of poets, that all my Jews were in the fish-house too, that the Librarian had made a party I was to read. They were. There were many of them, slumped around. It was not for me. I was outside. It was the Fort. The Fort was in East Gloucester—old Gorton’s Wharf, where the Library was. It was a region of coal houses, bins. In one a gang was beating someone to death, in a corner of the labyrinth of fences. I could see their arms and shoulders whacking down. But not the victim. I got out of there. But cops tailed me along the Fort beach toward the Tavern The places still half-dark, mud, coal dust. There is no light east of the Bridge Only on the headland toward the harbor from Cressy’s have I seen it (once when my daughter ran out on a spit of sand isn’t even there.) Where is Bristow? when does I-A get me home? I am caught in Gloucester. (What’s buried behind Lufkin’s Diner? Who is Frank Moore?

Paulatim lachrymas rerum experentia tersit. Petrarch Father’s books lying on the living-room floor Must be divided into threes: art history, Classical letters and, left from my days here, Unsteady stacks of quasi-educational lore That show yellowing Geographic scientists Perennially lost in rain forest mists. An instant choice will cull some from the rest So they may become mine—a banausic test. Prewar light glimmers in the apartment: A shadowplay that summons an adolescence Of slammed doors and risible nothings Hurled at retreating parental backs —The most telling blows always sotto voce— As I stormed and wept and read in silence. Now, standing again in silence, I stare At a word trove given two sons to share. Some are dated in the first blank page:1 January 1938

in order to upgrade the community ’ s appreciation of poetry during the international year of cultural enrichment stage 2, members of the state’s library progress committee decided to establish a small library of t-shirts on which would be printed quality verse in vivid, bold colours and lettering. the poems would be selected on the basis of one of three qualities: is the poem poignant, perspicacious, or pithy. given the respectably researched fact that the wearing of words on t-shirts expresses a deep psychic desire for an intimate union of word and flesh, (and bear in mind the way “ logo ” nudges towards “ logos ” ) it is not surprising that this library of t-shirts has been a great success. no one seems to mind borrowing pre-worn clothing. of course the library ’ s washing and ironing staff maintain the t-shirts in excellent condition. even after ten borrowings the shirts look brand new. and considering the phenomenal success of andrew lloyd webber’s “cats” it is no shock revelation that t.s. eliot ’ s “ hollow men ” has proved to be the library ’ s most popular t-shirt so far. in fact there are now eight copies of this shirt on loan, most in metallic or fluoro colours. a couple of the more entrepreneurial of the library’s progress committee members are leading the push for diversification of the library’s poetry program, into neck to knee anti-uv swimwear, with maybe slessor, shelly and stevie smith prints for starters; and into underpants, with their multiple attractions. while the committee feels both these garments could increase poetry’s appeal, they are worried about the practicability of adding these garments to the t-shirt poetry collection. would many members want to borrow preworn underpants, however compelling the poems’ cadences and metaphors; while the wear and tear on the swimming costume fabric via chlorine and salt water would perhaps be too great. however they are interested in marketing and selling these articles from a stall in the library’s foyer. the only committee member unenthusiastic regarding this proposal is an optometrist who has raised the issue of eye damage if the typeface of the lines of verse on the underpants were too small. a solution in the form of large print haikus is being considered.

The naked man in the caravan has peace of mind. He whose covering belongs to others is uncovered. He who has luck will have the winds blow him his firewood. He whose trousers are made of dry grass should not warm himself at the fire. He howled before going mad. He led the lion by the ear. Like the sparrow, he wanted to imitate the pigeon’s walk but lost his own. Walk with sandals till you get good shoes. Where the turban moves, there moves the territory. Men meet but mountains don’t. Always taking out without giving back, even the mountains will be broken down. Penny piled on penny will make a heap. Only the unlucky coin is left in the purse. As long as a human being lives he will learn. Learn to shave by shaving orphans. He who is to be hanged can insult the Pasha. In the house of a man who has been hanged don’t talk of rope. The small donkey is the one that everybody rides. Fish eat fish and he who has no might dies. My belly before my children.

Lichen glows in the moonlight so fierce only cloud blocking the moon brings relief. Then passed by, recharged it leaps up off rocks and suffocates—there is no route through rocks without having to confront its beseeching—it lights the way, not the moon, and outdoes epithets like phosphorescent, fluorescent, or florescent: it smirks and smiles and lifts the corner of its lips in hideous or blissful collusion, and birds pipe an eternal dawn, never knowing when to sleep or wake. They might be tricked into thinking their time’s up, in the spectrum of lichen, its extra-gravital persuasion, its crackling movement remembered as still, indifferent, barely living under the sun, or on a dark night; climbing up you’d escape, but like all great molecular weights it leaves traces you carry with you into the realms of comfort and faith.

The story keeps on coming back, a man my father knew, that grazier across the river up north a mile or two, a story that my father spun to last me all my life of how a man should not behave when burying a wife. All through the funeral he’d wept . . . the priest there going on about St Peter and the gates through which his wife had gone. His sobbing at the grave, Dad found, was harder still to bear. Then men in suits, the women in the best they had to wear knew deeper down it couldn’t pass, no matter who had died. Extravagance like this was always better kept inside. At last the man who sent his beasts to die on Tuesday gave one final, high unseemly cry and leapt into the grave. ‘Mate,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t go. Don’t go!’ And scrabbled at the wood. A friend reached in to fish him out as any Christian would. The women in their hats stood back. Two men jumped in the trench and skidding on the polished lid contrived at last to wrench him out and lead him to his car. The clergyman intoned ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ They heard the broken moans coming from a side window. He hammered at the wheel. ‘Mate,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t leave me mate.’ Not knowing what to feel, the mourners now were drifting off towards their dusty cars. My father always finished here as if he’d gone too far. But I could hear the slamming doors, the hearse without much chrome and dual decisions made to miss the wake and head straight home. ‘Mate, oh mate!’ the man had cried, releasing all their fears. The sound of boots on coffin wood survives them down the years.

Art begins with a lie The separation is you plus me plus what we make Look into lightbulb, blink, sun’s in your eye I want a rare sky vantage point free from misconception Art begins with a lie Nothing to lose, spontaneous rise of reflection, paint the picture of a lightbulb, or eye the sun How to fuel the world, then die Distance yourself from artfulness How? Art begins with a lie The audience wants to cry when the actors are real & passionate Look into footlight, then feed back to eye You fluctuate in an artful body You try to imitate the world’s glory Art begins with a lie That’s the story, sharp speck in the eye.

Go, soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows What’s good, and doth no good. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others’ action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate. And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust. And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favor how it falters. And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness. And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention. And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it’s fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell manhood shakes off pity; Tell virtue least preferreth. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.