505 History and politics poems

for John Nichols and Arturo Madrid On the road to Taos, in the town of Alcalde, the bronze statue of Juan de Oñate, the conquistador, kept vigil from his horse. Late one night a chainsaw sliced off his right foot, stuttering through the ball of his ankle, as Oñate's spirit scratched and howled like a dog trapped within the bronze body. Four centuries ago, after his cannon fire burst to burn hundreds of bodies and blacken the adobe walls of the Acoma Pueblo, Oñate wheeled on his startled horse and spoke the decree: all Acoma males above the age of twenty-five would be punished by amputation of the right foot. Spanish knives sawed through ankles; Spanish hands tossed feet into piles like fish at the marketplace. There was prayer and wailing in a language Oñate did not speak. Now, at the airport in El Paso, across from Juárez, another bronze statue of Oñate rises on a horse frozen in fury. The city fathers smash champagne bottles across the horse's legs to christen the statue, and Oñate's spirit remembers the chainsaw carving through the ball of his ankle. The Acoma Pueblo still stands. Thousands of brown feet walk across the border, the desert of Chihuaha, the shallow places of the Río Grande, the bridges from Juárez to El Paso. Oñate keeps watch, high on horseback above the Río Grande, the law of the conquistador rolled in his hand, helpless as a man with an amputated foot, spirit scratching and howling like a dog within the bronze body.

O little-know facts—how Robinson attracts them! Pilgrims rocked ashore here, before Plymouth Rock. The word scrimshaw is of unknown origin. The stock name of the archaic two-lane main road? Route 6A. Really it’s Old King’s Highway. Some facts are useless: the paper bag was invented in Dennis. Some facts are not: Wellfleet’s town clock sings out ship’s time. 19 th century Americans observed only three holidays. The Fourth of July was one. O witty aperçus—how Robinson accrues them! Good food is self-made, like a good millionaire. Don’t just do something. Stand there. It’s got to be the weekend somewhere. Robinson is crisp & perspicuous. His wife stands next to him on the sand. Democracy could be a lot more sexy if . . . this one fades in the rockets’ red glare. Ann blushes, runs a hand through his hair. Robinson looks up, concussed. Fireworks percuss.

'O words are lightly spoken,' Said Pearse to Connolly, 'Maybe a breath of politic words Has withered our Rose Tree; Or maybe but a wind that blows Across the bitter sea.' 'It needs to be but watered,' James Connolly replied, 'To make the green come out again And spread on every side, And shake the blossom from the bud To be the garden's pride.' 'But where can we draw water,' Said Pearse to Connolly, 'When all the wells are parched away? O plain as plain can be There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right Rose Tree.'

The eye is drawn to that single yellow star that no wise man will follow. The hunched men in caps, the grimacing woman her eyes screwed up, cheeks hollow. We look and look again until we burn a hole in the paper. We strive to learn from their resignation but it is beyond us. We let them burn.

When Britain first, at heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain— "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." The nations, not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall; While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down, Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe and thy renown. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves."

They brought me ambrotypes Of the old pioneers to enlarge. And sometimes one sat for me i Some one who was in being When giant hands from the womb of the world Tore the republic. What was it in their eyes? i For I could never fathom That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids, And the serene sorrow of their eyes. It was like a pool of water, Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest, Where the leaves fall, As you hear the crow of a cock From a far-off farm house, seen near the hills Where the third generation lives, and the strong men And the strong women are gone and forgotten. And these grand-children and great grand-children Of the pioneers! Truly did my camera record their faces, too, With so much of the old strength gone, And the old faith gone, And the old mastery of life gone, And the old courage gone, Which labors and loves and suffers and sings Under the sun!

In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne, I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep were; In habite as an hermite unholy of werkes Wente I wyde in this world wondres to here; Bote in a Mayes morwnynge on Malverne hulles Me bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thoughte. I was wery, forwandred, and wente me to reste Undur a brod banke bi a bourne side; And as I lay and leonede and lokede on the watres, I slumbrede in a slepynge, hit swyed so murie. Thenne gon I meeten a mervelous sweven, That I was in a wildernesse, wuste I never where; And as I beheold into the est an heigh to the sonne, I sauh a tour on a toft, tryelyche i-maket; A deop dale bineothe, a dungun ther-inne, With deop dich and derk and dredful of sighte. A feir feld full of folk fond I ther bitwene, Of alle maner of men, the mene and the riche, Worchinge and wandringe as the world asketh. Summe putten hem to the plough, pleiden ful seldene, In settynge and in sowynge swonken ful harde, And wonnen that theos wasturs with glotonye distruen. And summe putten hem to pruide, apparaylden hem ther-after, In cuntenaunce of clothinge comen disgisid. To preyeres and to penaunce putten hem monye, For love of ur Lord liveden ful streite, In hope for to have hevene-riche blisse; As ancres and hermytes that holdeth hem in heore celles, Coveyte not in cuntré to cairen aboute, For non likerous lyflode heore licam to plese. And summe chosen chaffare to cheeven the bettre, As hit semeth to ure sighte that suche men thryveth; And summe, murthhes to maken as munstrals cunne, And gete gold with here gle, giltles, I trowe. Bote japers and jangelers, Judas children, Founden hem fantasyes and fooles hem maaden, And habbeth wit at heore wille to worchen yif hem luste. That Poul precheth of hem, I dar not preoven heere; Qui loquitur turpiloquium he is Luciferes hyne. Bidders and beggers faste aboute eoden, Til heor bagges and heore balies weren bretful i-crommet; Feyneden hem for heore foode, foughten atte ale; In glotonye, God wot, gon heo to bedde, And ryseth up with ribaudye this roberdes knaves; Sleep and sleughthe suweth hem evere. Pilgrimes and palmers plihten hem togederes For to seche Seint Jame and seintes at Roome; Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse tales, And hedden leve to lyen al heore lyf aftir. Ermytes on an hep with hokide staves, Wenten to Walsyngham and here wenchis after; Grete lobres and longe that loth weore to swynke Clotheden hem in copes to beo knowen for bretheren; And summe schopen hem to hermytes heore ese to have. I fond there freres, all the foure ordres, Prechinge the peple for profyt of heore wombes, Glosynge the Gospel as hem good liketh, For covetyse of copes construeth hit ille; For monye of this maistres mowen clothen hem at lyking, For moneye and heore marchaundie meeten togedere; Seththe Charité hath be chapmon, and cheef to schriven lordes, Mony ferlyes han bifalle in a fewe yeres. But Holychirche and heo holde bet togedere, The moste mischeef on molde is mountyng up faste. Ther prechede a pardoner, as he a prest were, And brought forth a bulle with bisschopes seles, And seide that himself mighte asoylen hem alle Of falsnesse and fastinge and of vouwes i-broken. The lewede men levide him wel and likede his speche, And comen up knelynge to kissen his bulle; He bonchede hem with his brevet and blered heore eiyen, And raughte with his ragemon ringes and broches. Thus ye yiveth oure gold glotonis to helpen! And leveth hit to losels that lecherie haunten. Weore the bisschop i-blesset and worth bothe his eres, His sel shulde not be sent to deceyve the peple. It is not al bi the bisschop that the boye precheth, Bote the parisch prest and the pardoner parte the selver That the pore peple of the parisch schulde have yif that heo ne weore, Persones and parisch prestes playneth to heore bisschops, That heore parisch hath ben pore seththe the pestilence tyme, To have a lycence and leve at Londun to dwelle, To singe ther for simonye, for selver is swete. Ther hovide an hundret in houves of selke, Serjauns hit semide to serven atte barre; Pleden for pens and poundes the lawe, Not for love of ur Lord unloseth heore lippes ones, Thou mightest beter meten the myst on Malverne hulles Then geten a mom of heore mouth til moneye weore schewed! I saugh ther bisschops bolde and bachilers of divyne Bicoome clerkes of acounte the king for to serven. Erchedekenes and denis, that dignité haven To preche the peple and pore men to feede, Beon lopen to Londun, bi leve of heore bisschopes, To ben clerkes of the Kynges Benche the cuntré to schende Barouns and burgeis and bonde-men also I saugh in that semblé, as ye schul heren aftur, Bakers, bochers, and breusters monye, Wollene-websteris, and weveris of lynen, Taillours, tanneris, and tokkeris bothe, Masons, minours, and mony other craftes, Dykers, and delvers, that don heore dedes ille, And driveth forth the longe day with "Deu vous save, Dam Emme!" Cookes and heore knaves cryen "Hote pies, hote! "Goode gees and grys! Go we dyne, go we!" Taverners to hem tolde the same tale, With wyn of Oseye and win of Gaskoyne, Of the Ryn and of the Rochel, the rost to defye, Al this I saugh slepynge and seve sithes more.

"Mad—bad—and dangerous  to know"  bore  George  Gordon to the pageant of his bleeding heart in Philhellenic pirated by radicals reaching further and further to  Cephalonia  devoted  to his  fortune  and  the  shaft  that  paid the brigade a remedy of  bleeding  heroism  on  hearing the news  the  Carbonari dreaming The Two Foscari to beat the row and lasting eulogy  "she walks in beauty" at  the crack of   bark  the  bloody  news  spoke for  many writing   on a rock  "Byron  is  dead" and   agreed  to act  as  the  agent  on  VIRONOS   he became a name  not  an  island  and subjugated  to  "Byron is dead"  "so, we'll go no more a-roving" immense and lasting.

Krushchev is coming on the right day! the cool graced light is pushed off the enormous glass piers by hard wind and everything is tossing, hurrying on up this country has everything but politesse, a Puerto Rican cab driver says and five different girls I see look like Piedie Gimbel with her blonde hair tossing too, as she looked when I pushed her little daughter on the swing on the lawn it was also windy last night we went to a movie and came out, Ionesco is greater than Beckett, Vincent said, that's what I think, blueberry blintzes and Khrushcev was probably being carped at in Washington, no politesse Vincent tells me about his mother's trip to Sweden Hans tells us about his father's life in Sweden, it sounds like Grace Hartigan's painting Sweden so I go home to bed and names drift through my head Purgatorio Merchado, Gerhard Schwartz and Gaspar Gonzales, all unknown figures of the early morning as I go to work where does the evil of the year go when September takes New York and turns it into ozone stalagmites deposits of light so I get back up make coffee, and read François Villon, his life, so dark New York seems blinding and my tie is blowing up the street I wish it would blow off though it is cold and somewhat warms my neck as the train bears Krushchev on to Pennsylvania Station and the light seems to be eternal and joy seems to be inexorable I am foolish enough always to find it in wind

How is it satisfied I asked       clapping my hands violently and waving in fear that I would miss the parade I might have lost my sight without noticing Gone on imagining I saw the same linked-up rooms I moved through Or some cool gray space where a silence could be made I wanted a little animal to climb inside it cleanly I was asking to be left alone but in answer the sun shone brighter