Poemunity — your poem community

for Billie Holiday Lady could pour you a song, Coffee and a little cream. Stir it the whole night long Into a brown-sugar dream. Lady could wrap you a note Up in a velvet night — Sometimes Manhattan satin, Always Harlem delight. Lady Day could sing it Like nobody ever has At the Shim Sham Club, Hot Cha Cha, Joints that swung on jazz. Her bittersweet songs told Heartbreak, Meet your sister Pain, But Lady melted yesterdays Into beautiful rain.

Her hair was curls of Pleasure and Delight, Which on her brow did cast a glistening light. As lace her bashful eyelids downward hung: A modest countenance o'er her face was flung: Blushes, as coral beads, she strung to wear About her neck, and pendants for each ear: Her gown was by Proportion cut and made, With veins embroidered, with complexion laid, Rich jewels of pure honor she did wear, By noble actions brightened everywhere: Thus dressed, to Fame's great court straightways she went, To dance a brawl with Youth, Love, Mirth, Content.

Not my hands but green across you now. Green tons hold you down, and ten bass curve teasing in your hair. Summer slime will pile deep on your breast. Four months of ice will keep you firm. I hope each spring to find you tangled in those pads pulled not quite loose by the spillway pour, stars in dead reflection off your teeth. Lie there lily still. The spillway’s closed. Two feet down most lakes are common gray. This lake is dark from the black blue Mission range climbing sky like music dying Indians once wailed. On ocean beaches, mystery fish are offered to the moon. Your jaws go blue. Your hands start waving every wind. Wave to the ocean where we crushed a mile of foam. We still love there in thundering foam and love. Whales fall in love with gulls and tide reclaims the Dolly skeletons gone with a blast of aching horns to China. Landlocked in Montana here the end is limited by light, the final note will trail off at the farthest point we see, already faded, lover, where you bloat. All girls should be nicer. Arrows rain above us in the Indian wind. My future should be full of windy gems, my past will stop this roaring in my dreams. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. But the arrows sing: no way to float her up. The dead sink from dead weight. The Mission range turns this water black late afternoons. One boy slapped the other. Hard. The slapped boy talked until his dignity dissolved, screamed a single ‘stop’ and went down sobbing in the company pond. I swam for him all night. My only suit got wet and factory hands went home. No one cared the coward disappeared. Morning then: cold music I had never heard. Loners like work best on second shift. No one liked our product and the factory closed. Off south, the bison multiply so fast a slaughter’s mandatory every spring and every spring the creeks get fat and Kicking Horse fills up. My hope is vague. The far blur of your bones in May may be nourished by the snow. The spillway’s open and you spill out into weather, lover down the bright canal and mother, irrigating crops dead Indians forgot to plant. I’m sailing west with arrows to dissolving foam where waves strand naked Dollys. Their eyes are white as oriental mountains and their tongues are teasing oil from whales.

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

for liberty, your day filled in splendor, july fourth, new york harbor, nineteen eighty-six, midnight sky, fireworks splashing, heaven exploding into radiant bouquets, wall street a backdrop of centennial adulation, computerized capital angling cameras celebrating the international symbol of freedom stretched across micro-chips, awacs surveillance, wall-to-wall people, sailing ships, gliding armies ferried in pursuit of happiness, constitution adoration, packaged television channels for liberty, immigrant illusions celebrated in the name of democratic principles, god bless america, land of the star spangled banner that we love, but the symbol suffered one hundred years of decay climbing up to the spined crown, the fractured torch hand, the ruptured intestines, palms blistered and calloused, feet embroidered in rust, centennial decay, the lady's eyes, cataract filled, exposed to sun and snow, a salty wind, discolored verses staining her robe, she needed re-molding, re-designing, the decomposed body now melted down for souvenirs, lungs and limbs jailed in scaffolding of ugly cubicles incarcerating the body as she prepared to receive her twentieth-century transplant paid for by pitching pennies, hometown chicken barbecues, marathons on america's main streets. she heard the speeches: the president's the french and american partners, the nation believed in her, rooted for the queen, and lady liberty decided to reflect on lincoln's emancipatory resoluteness on washington's patriotism, on jefferson's lucidity, on william jennings bryan's socialism, on woodrow wilson's league of nations, on roosevelt's new deal, on kennedy's ecumenical postures, and on martin luther king's non-violence. lady liberty decided to reflect on lillian wald's settlements, on helen keller's sixth sense, on susan b. anthony's suffrage movement, on mother cabrini's giving soul, on harriet tubman's stubborn pursuit of freedom. just before she was touched, just before she was dismantled, lady liberty spoke, she spoke for the principles, for the preamble, for the bill of rights, and thirty-nine peaceful presidential transitions, and, just before she was touched, lady liberty wanted to convey her own resolutions, her own bi-centennial goals, so that in twenty eighty-six, she would be smiling and she would be proud. and then, just before she was touched, and then, while she was being re-constructed, and then, while she was being celebrated, she spoke. if you touch me, touch ALL of my people who need attention and societal repair, give the tired and the poor the same attention, AMERICA, touch us ALL with liberty, touch us ALL with liberty. hunger abounds, our soil is plentiful, our technology advanced enough to feed the world, to feed humanity's hunger . . . but let's celebrate not our wealth, not our sophisticated defense, not our scientific advancements, not our intellectual adventures. let us concentrate on our weaknesses, on our societal needs, for we will never be free if indeed freedom is subjugated to trampling upon people's needs. this is a warning, my beloved america. so touch me, and in touching me touch all our people. do not single me out, touch all our people, touch all our people, all our people our people people. and then i shall truly enjoy my day, filled in splendor, july fourth, new york harbor, nineteen eighty-six, midnight sky, fireworks splashing, heaven exploding into radiant bouquets, celebrating in the name of equality, in the pursuit of happiness, god bless america, land of star spangled banner that we love.

Never mind thick night! Darkness move quick! Madness engulf me like Jacob's coat; colors tighten like sickness 'round me throat. Wha it is do already can't tek back but it still got me a wash me hand til they sour and callus, de visions plaguing de dark a me mind like locust. Me conscience no business dem days when me could grin up and skin teet 1 inna company of great men who smile up smile up wid me an looking fava 2 inna secret eyes an backdoor smiles. I know say woman like me plain wicked an conniving: stinkin' wid ambition, smilin' close against you skin, seeking confession wid de devil. Now so, me lay up inna bed wid death a-write me love letter. Got me a crave colors to soothe me spirit; red never could please me, purple grind like a grater on me cheek, orange sting like a ledda on me hot skin, and white—mek me breast feel weight down wid milk, got me head swirling like inna hurricane. I chew down me bitter nails til I taste de poison 1 be insincere; 2 special treatment

Part I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; The yellow-leaved waterlily The green-sheathed daffodilly Tremble in the water chilly Round about Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens shiver. The sunbeam showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, Lady of Shalott.' The little isle is all inrail'd With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd With roses: by the marge unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott. Part II No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. She lives with little joy or fear. Over the water, running near, The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting tower'd Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot: And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. Part III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flam'd upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down from Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over green Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. Part IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, The Lady of Shalott. A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, Though the squally east-wind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott. With a steady stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She look'd down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day: She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boathead wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her deathsong, The Lady of Shalott. A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot: For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, Dead into tower'd Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the planked wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. 'The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not,—this is I, The Lady of Shalott.'

Part I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." Part II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. Part III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. Part IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven sent it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back again, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest’s shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar’s groans to our slogan replied; Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine! O that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o’er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar’s plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o’er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind’s summer sighs. Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain’s child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Gray birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glist’ning streamers waved and danced, The wanderer’s eye could barely view The summer heaven’s delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. Onward, amid the copse ’gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild duck’s brood to swim. Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; And farther as the hunter strayed, Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice A far projecting precipice. The broom’s tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mountains, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o’er His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.