X J Kennedy

Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch, These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye, One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly— A clang resounds as though a smith had struck Fire from a forge. His first blow, out of luck, Rattles in circles. Hitching up his face, He swings, and weight once more inhabits space, Tumbles as gently as a new-laid egg. Extended iron arms surround their peg Like one come home to greet a long-lost brother. Shouts from one outpost. Mutters from the other. Now changing sides, each withered pitcher moves As his considered dignity behooves Down the worn path of earth where August flies And sheaves of air in warm distortions rise, To stand ground, fling, kick dust with all the force Of shoes still hammered to a living horse.

Toe after toe, a snowing flesh, a gold of lemon, root and rind, she sifts in sunlight down the stairs with nothing on. Nor on her mind. We spy beneath the banister a constant thresh of thigh on thigh; her lips imprint the swinging air that parts to let her parts go by. One-woman waterfall, she wears her slow descent like a long cape and pausing on the final stair, collects her motions into shape.

To look at this fictitious steed You’d think some mixed-up farmer Had crossed an eagle with a horse. It carries knights in armor Through cloud fields at terrific speed. I wish the Hippogriff Would take me for a ride. Of course It’s not real. But oh, if . . .!

Ginsberg, Ginsberg, burning bright, Taunter of the ultra right, What blink of the Buddha’s eye Chose the day for you to die? Queer pied piper, howling wild, Mantra-minded flower child, Queen of Maytime, misrule’s lord Bawling,Drop out! All aboard! Finger-cymbaled, chanting Om, Foe of fascist, bane of bomb, Proper poets’ thorn-in-side, Turner of a whole time’s tide, Who can fill your sloppy shoes? What a catch for Death. We lose Glee and sweetness, freaky light, Ginsberg, Ginsberg, burning bright.