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For Síle I give thee the sun as guarantee and the Egyptian faience beads and the little silver oar that was gifted once to an English harbor master. I give thee the silk dress with its triple-ruffled sleeves and the cloaks with big hoods that fall full though some are pulled in at a central button. I give thee the little colored goats that go down on their knees as penitents. I give thee the death mask and the plaster hand of Seán Ó Riada, for he is among the best loved of the musicians.

I have one good memory—a total Eclipse of the sun—when out of brilliance Dusk came swiftly and on the whole At seven years it felt good on a summer afternoon To be outrun by a horse from another century— The next morning I washed up On land like a pod of seals Struck with a longing for dark at noon— If the cessation of feeling is temporary It resembles sleep—if permanent, it resembles A little ice age—and the end of some Crewelwork by a mother who put honey Into my hands so the bees would love me.

Did you know that Kenneth Koch's wife Janice used to be an airplane pilot? Once she had to make an emergency landing on a highway. When Kenward Elmslie was a kid he wanted to be a tap dancer. Did you know that Kenward's grandfather was Joseph Pulitzer? Kenward once told me that Jane Russell is a dyke. Andy Warhol wanted to be a tap dancer when he was a kid too. D. D. Ryan wanted to be a ballerina. Did you know that Pat Padgett was Ted Berrigan's girlfriend for years before she married Ron? Ron Padgett and I were in the same 1st grade class together in school in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Ron's father, Wayne, was a notorious bootlegger in Tulsa until Oklahoma went wet. A few years ago Ron's father got divorced and married a beautiful Las Vegas showgirl younger than Ron's wife Pat. Did you know that Bill Berkson was once bat boy for the Yankees? Ted Berrigan married his wife Sandy after having only known her for five days. Did you know that the first poems John Ashbery ever had published were published in Poetry magazine under the name of Joel Symington? Did you know that Bill Berkson was on the "1oo Best Dressed Men" list of 1967? Rudy Burckhardt once dated Miss Vermont of 1938. Donald Droll is in some way related to Daniel Boone. Frank O'Hara once told me that what he really wanted to be was a concert pianist. Did you know that Harry Mathews started out to be a com- poser? He studied at the Juilliard School of Music. Edwin Denby was born in China. Anne Waldman's father wrote a book called Rapid Reading Made Simple. Tom Veitch's father writes Christmas card verse. When I was a kid I wanted to be a fashion designer, a minister, and an artist. Peter Schjeldahl's father is very famous in the plastic area. He discovered the new lightweight plastic used in Bufferin bottles. Soon he hopes to open a contraceptive factory in Red China. Did you know that Bill Berkson was once on I Remember Mama? D. D. Ryan went to see The Boys in the Band with Jackie Kennedy just a week before she married Onassis. John Ashbery was a quiz kid. Kenneth Koch once won the Glasscock Award. Did you know that Ron Padgett has blebs on his lung which may explode at any moment? They have exploded twice already. Tina Louise once sang "I'm in the Mood for Love" to Bill Berkson over London broils at P. J. Clarke's. Did you know that Ted Berrigan did his thesis at Tulsa University on George Bernard Shaw? Did you know that the Katz Tumor is named after Ada Katz who discovered it? Edwin Denby once performed in Berlin's "Wintergarten" billed as "Der Amerikanische Grotesktaenzer Dumby." Yvonne Burckhardt was the backstroke swimming cham- pion of Connecticut for one week. When I lived in Boston I used to panhandle on the street where all of the art galleries were, and I got my cigarette butts from the urns in front of the Museum of Fine Arts. Did you know that Ted Berrigan's first book of poems,A Lily for My Love, was published by the Lenox Bar in Providence, Rd. Island? Greta Garbo once called Bill Berkson her ice cream man. I once went to a "come as your favorite person" party as Marilyn Monroe. Did you know that John Ashbery once worked in a cherry canning factory?

I know a little language of my cat, though Dante says that animals have no need of speech and Nature abhors the superfluous.   My cat is fluent.   He converses when he wants with me.   To speak is natural.   And whales and wolves I’ve heard in choral soundings of the sea and air know harmony and have an eloquence that stirs my mind and heart—they touch the soul.   Here Dante’s religion that would set Man apart damns the effluence of our life from us to build therein its powerhouse. It’s in his animal communication Man is true, immediate, and in immediacy, Man is all animal. His senses quicken in the thick of the symphony, old circuits of animal rapture and alarm, attentions and arousals in which an identity rearrives. He hears particular voices among the concert, the slightest rustle in the undertones, rehearsing a nervous aptitude yet to prove his. He sees the flick of significant red within the rushing mass of ruddy wilderness and catches the glow of a green shirt to delite him in a glowing field of green —it speaks to him— and in the arc of the spectrum color speaks to color. The rainbow articulates a promise he remembers he but imitates in noises that he makes, this speech in every sense the world surrounding him. He picks up on the fugitive tang of mace amidst the savory mass, and taste in evolution is an everlasting key. There is a pun of scents in what makes sense. Myrrh it may have been, the odor of the announcement that filld the house. He wakes from deepest sleep upon a distant signal and waits as if crouching, springs to life.

The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is in her eighties and she underestimates the value of everything, for which I am grateful. Lightly used snow suits, size 2T, are $6 and snow boots are $3. There is a little girl, maybe seven, fiddling with a tea set. Her mother inspects drapes for stains. Sometimes the very old and lonely are looking for an opening. She glances up from her pricing and says something about the tea set and a baby doll long ago. I am careful not to make eye contact, but the mother with drapes has such softness in her shoulders and her face and she knows how to say the perfect kind thing—“What a wonderful mother you had.” “Yes, she was.” Why do children sometimes notice us and sometimes not? From the bin of dolls: “What happened to your mother?” “She died.” The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is crying a little. She seems surprised to be crying. “It’s been eighty years and I still miss her.” When my daughter was born I couldn’t stop thinking about how we were going to die. If we were drowning, would it be better to hold her to me even as she fought away or should I let her float off to wonder why her mother didn’t help her? What if it’s fire and I have one bullet left? I made sure my husband knew if there were death squads and he had to choose, I’d never love him again if he didn’t choose her. If I’m lucky, her crying face is the last thing I’ll see. The mother with drapes is squeezing her daughter’s shoulder, trying to send a silent message, but children are children. “Why did she die?” “She was going to have a baby and—And she died.” “But she was a wonderful mother.” I’m holding a stack of four wooden jigsaw puzzles of farm animals, dinosaurs, jungle animals, and pets. Each for a quarter. “It’s silly how much I still miss her.” She takes out a tissue and wipes her eyes and then her nose. When my grandmother threw her sister, Susie, a 90 th birthday party, one hundred people came, including 5 of the 6 brothers and sisters. At dusk only a few of us were left, nursing beers with our feet kicked up on the bottom rungs of various walkers. Susie said then to my grandmother, “Can you think of all the people watching us in heaven now? And our mother must be in the front row.” Grandma took her sister’s hand. “Our mother—Estelle.” “Yes—her name was Estelle. I forgot that.” They looked so happy then, saying her name back and forth to each other. Estelle. Estelle.

Spotlight a SCENE ONE: Open-air court in the ancient city of Athens. The accused arrive and proceed among curses and cries of Death! Death! SCENE TWO: A jail in the same city, beneath the Acropolis, walls half-eaten by dampness. On the ground, a miserly straw mat and in the corner, an earthenware jar of water. On the outside wall, a shadow: the guard. SCENE THREE: Constantinople. In the harem of the Holy Place, in candlelight, the Queen throws a pouch of gold coins to the Head Eunuch who bows and looks at her significantly. By the open door, his men at the ready. SCENE FOUR: Drawing room of a large Monastery. Oblong table, the abbot at its head. Sweaty monks come and go bringing news: a crowd spills into the streets, setting fires, destroying everything. SCENE FIVE: Nauplio. Greek and Bavarian officers outside the King’s quarters converse in low tones. A messenger takes the dispatch and heads toward the steps that lead on high to Palamidi. SCENE SIX: In front of an old and empty lot in contemporary Athens, a crowd, motley with priests and bishops, gathers to cast a stone, “the stone of anathema.” SCENE SEVEN: Low buildings of EAT/ESA. In the courtyard, drunken soldiers. Braying and lewd posturing. The officer leaving some cell says something to the military doctor. Behind them thuds and cries are heard.

It was biting cold, and the falling snow, Which filled a poor little match girl’s heart with woe, Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street, Crying, “Who’ll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!” When she left home she had slippers on; But, alas! poor child, now they were gone. For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street, Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet. So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast; And the child’s heart felt cold and downcast, For nobody had bought any matches that day, Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay. Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold; So in a corner between two houses she made bold To take shelter from the violent storm. Poor little waif! wishing to herself she’d never been born. And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread, And to go home without pennies she was in dread. The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair; While the passers-by for her had no care, As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace, While the cold wind blew in the match girl’s face. As night wore on her hands were numb with cold, And no longer her strength could her uphold, When an idea into her little head came: She’d strike a match and warm her hands at the flame. And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly, And it helped to fill her heart with glee; And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand; But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand! Her body was found half-covered with snow, And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe; And many present let fall a burning tear Because she was found dead on the last night of the year, In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold— But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold. But I hope the match girl’s in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear, A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.

Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds and whey; Along came a spider, Who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.

1. Betrayed by his five mechanic agents, falling Captive to consciousness, he summons light To all its duties, and assumes the world Like a common penance. Rust on the green tongue burns Like history’s corrosive on his living tree. But all the monsters of his sleep’s dark sea Are tame familiars in the morning sun. 2. He sees the nation browse across burnt miles Of toast, toward the time-clock. Deafened, hears A Gettysburg of breakfast food explode Against the surd tympanum of the air. The roads outside to No-and-Any Where Trigger all space-time to a zero Now. The punctual goddess blossoms on his brow— Pragmatic emblem of the daylit need. 3. Now with his thought the rank and maundy world (That lost between quanta and mechanic wave All pulp and passion sprawls around the globe). He stiffens, as a hand informs a glove, And drags each lank potential into form. Thus the hieratic arrow of his glance Creates St. Sebastian Avenue Street Place— All of sublunary circumstance Crowds on the casual platform of his gaze. 4. Like money sealed in a pneumatic tube He whirls beneath the city’s stony floor To where the cold coordinates of work Advance their cross-hairs on the target hour. There surplus value’s mathematic flower (All X squared Y squared like a tesseract Or ghostly dirigible) grows unseen Across the lean dimension of in fact. 5. Grows all unseen as Jason Quint pursues The windy hazard of the Absolute Through icy tundras, farther than the Horn, Vaster than Asia in their wuthering snows. The sweat of progress and humanity Colors no litmus in those latitudes; In a rustle of banknotes and casualty lists The Bomb is shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. 6. The quitting whistle lofts a flag of truce, And all hope’s flutes and harpsichords compound The lonely leisure. The Great Nocturnal Drift Sets to its Deep. He walks the park. Profound Unease returns to Quint. The sleepy lathes Of hummingbirds machine the emerald Of garden silence which his feet confuse. The statues hoist, on labyrinthine paths, The mineral grandeur of a public smile. 7. And the world goes blank, and heavy as a stone Rolls into night. It is the human hour. Imperfect. Lovers, food and politics Command the air, and Jason Quint alone, Clothed in abstraction, like a bush that burns In the blind frequencies where none may pass, Stalks through that only country of the poor— The lamplit hour the quitting whistle mourns. 8. Imperfect. The stability of dextrous stars Offers him comfort, but their light is cold. A storm of sentiment, sudden as a cloud Of migrant birds, sings in his head. Now stirs The terrible friend, companion of his dreams, With his emotional algebra of need and loss— The hateful witness to his mortal part And confirmation of his loneliness.

The crowded street his playground is, a patch of blue his sky; A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by: Poor little orphan boy of five, the city smoke and grime Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time; And he is just as your boy is, a child who loves to play, Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away. And he would like the open fields, for often in his dreams The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams, Where he may sail a splendid boat, sometimes he flies a kite, Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might; But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor. Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at “make-pretend,” The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send Their little boys and girls to play, a barrel is his boat, But, oh, the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat; And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams. Poor little orphan boy of five, except that he is pale, With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail, Just like that little boy of yours, with same desire to play, Fond of the open fields and skies, he’s built the self-same way; But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams, His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.