505 History and politics poems

Who knows but that Meriwether Lewis’s lost diaries might turn up yet packed in a can in some cramped ex-midden dug up a thousand years from now, that elegant, exfoliate style continue on up the Missouri, into sadness and disrepute, the suicide in a hotel in Tennessee no more important now than the bundle of grasses my friend made out in the woods yesterday and gave to me after a meeting in which she confessed she’s afraid of everything that’s coming. The past I don’t mind, she said, and laughed as if that was something.

November 22, 1963 First, a black mark in the sky, a speck that grows into a plane widening, dramatically circling before it touches a gray strip of land designed for its landing. Then the players descend the wheeled stair to the stage for the cameras, our collective eye: first her, then him, as is custom, and their entourage trailing behind, those who believe the world is young and the future spreads out like geography. It's the beginning of all that, and what a show it is, the bouquet of roses we see given to her on the scratchy screen, the film pouring its light, edges burned. And who knows what's truth, what's myth, or if they arrive as hawks or doves, brave with risk in a bright and swirling land where the dust seems to crown from its own gray dust. Here's the raw footage. Here's the film clicking in the projector, and, as all things seen through it are black and white, isn't it important to note her roses are red and not yellow, and that neither of them squints in the bright Texas sun? If you can stand what the light inside the darkness does to your eyes, watch them pause there for a moment: our champion, our grace, in that high noon that holds all the freshness of the morning.

"Kinetics Researcher from Vienna [Max Thun-Hohenstetin], 1930," by August Sander Nakedness ought to be undatable, Proof that the latest phenotype is made On the same plan as his original Who sauntered through the Garden, unafraid. Even without the cotton pouch he wears As a concession to the prudery Of viewers not evolved enough to share His unembarrassed objectivity, The willed detachment on his face would show, Better than any clothes, the difference Between the antique innocence that knows No shame, and cultivated shamelessness.

Bewailing in my chamber thus allone, Despeired of all joye and remedye, For-tirit of my thoght, and wo begone, Unto the wyndow gan I walk in hye, To se the warld and folk that went forby; As for the tyme, though I of mirthis fude Myght have no more, to luke it did me gude. Now was there maid fast by the touris wall A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set Ane herbere grene:—with wandis long and small Railit about; and so with treis set Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet, That lyf was none walking there forby, That myght within scarse ony wight aspye; So thik the bewis and the leves grene Beschadit all the aleyes that there were. And myddis every herbere myght be sene The scharpe grene suete jenepere, Growing so faire with branchis here and there, That, as it semyt to a lyf without, The bewis spred the herbere all about; And on the smalle grene twistis sat The lytill suete nyghtingale, and song So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat Off lufis use, now soft, now lowd among, That all the gardyng and the wallis rong Ryght of thaire song and of the copill next Off thaire suete armony, and lo the text: "Worschippe, ye that loveris bene, this May, For of your blisse the kalendis are begonne, And sing with us, 'Away, winter, away! Cum, somer, cum, the suete sesoun and sonne!' Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne, And amorously lift up your hedis all, Thank lufe that list you to his merci call." Quhen thai this song had song a lytill thrawe, Thai stent a quhile, and therewith unaffraid, As I beheld and kest myn eyne a-lawe, From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid, And freschly in thaire birdis kynd arraid Thaire fetheris new, and fret thame in the sonne, And thankit lufe, that had thaire makis wonne. This was the plane ditee of thaire note, And there-with-all unto my self I thoght, "Quhat lyf is this that makis birdis dote? Quhat may this be, how cummyth it of ought? Quhat nedith it to be so dere ybought? It is nothing, trowe I, bot feynit chere, And that men list to counterfeten chere." Eft wald I think; "O Lord, quhat may this be? That Lufe is of so noble myght and kynde, Lufing his folk, and suich prosperitee Is it of him, as we in bukis fynd? May he oure hertes setten and unbynd? Hath he upon oure hertis suich maistrye? Or all this is bot feynyt fantasye! "For gif he be of so grete excellence, That he of every wight hath cure and charge, Quhat have I gilt to him or doon offense, That I am thrall, and birdis gone at large, Sen him to serve he myght set my corage? And gif he be noght so, than may I seyne, 'Quhat makis folk to jangill of him in veyne?' "Can I noght elles fynd, bot gif that he Be lord, and as a god may lyve and regne, To bynd and louse, and maken thrallis free, Than wold I pray his blisfull grace benigne, To hable me unto his service digne; And evermore for to be one of tho Him trewly for to serve in wele and wo." And there-with kest I doun myn eye ageyne, Quhare as I sawe, walking under the toure, Full secretly, new cummyn hir to pleyne, The fairest or the freschest yonge floure That ever I sawe, me thoght, before that houre, For quhich sodayn abate, anon astert The blude of all my body to my hert. And though I stude abaisit tho a lyte, No wonder was; for-quhy my wittis all Were so overcom with plesance and delyte, Onely throu latting of myn eyen fall, That sudaynly my hert became hir thrall For ever, of free will; for of manace There was no takyn in hir suete face. And in my hede I drewe ryght hastily, And eft-sones I lent it forth ageyne, And sawe hir walk, that verray womanly, With no wight mo, bot onely wommen tueyne. Than gan I studye in my-self, and seyne, "A! suete, ar ye a warldly creature, Or hevinly thing in likenesse of nature? "Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse, And cummyn are to louse me out of band? Or ar ye verray Nature the goddesse, That have depaynted with your hevinly hand This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand? Quhat sall I think, allace! quhat reverence Sall I minister to your excellence? "Gif ye a goddesse be, and that ye like To do me payne, I may it noght astert; Gif ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike, Quhy lest God mak you so, my derrest hert, To do a sely prisoner thus smert, That lufis yow all, and wote of noght bot wo? And therefor, merci, suete! sen it is so." Quhen I a lytill thrawe had maid my moon, Bewailling myn infortune and my chance, Unknawing how or quhat was best to doon, So ferre I fallen was in lufis dance, That sodeynly my wit, my contenance, My hert, my will, my nature, and my mynd, Was changit clene ryght in an-othir kynd. Off hir array the form gif I sall write Toward, hir goldin haire and rich atyre In fret-wise couchit were with perllis quhite And grete balas lemyng as the fyre, With mony ane emeraut and faire saphire; And on hir hede a chaplet fresch of hewe, Off plumys partit rede, and quhite, and blewe; Full of quaking spangis bryght as gold, Forgit of schap like to the amorettis, So new, so fresch, so plesant to behold, The plumys eke like to the floure-jonettis, And othir of schap like to the round crokettis, And, above all this, there was, wele I wote, Beautee eneuch to mak a world to dote. About hir nek, quhite as the fyre amaille, A gudely cheyne of smale orfeverye, Quhareby there hang a ruby, without faille, Lyke to ane herte schapin verily, That, as a sperk of lowe, so wantonly Semyt birnyng upon hir quhyte throte; Now gif there was gud partye, God it wote! And forto walk that fresche Mayes morowe, An huke sche had upon hir tissew quhite, That gudeliare had noght bene sene toforowe, As I suppose; and girt sche was a lyte. Thus halflyng louse for haste, to suich delyte It was to see hir youth in gudelihede, That for rudenes to speke thereof I drede. In hir was youth, beautee, with humble aport, Bountee, richesse, and wommanly facture, (God better wote than my pen can report) Wisedome, largesse, estate, and connyng sure. In every poynt so guydit hir mesure, In word, in dede, in schap, in contenance, That nature myght no more hir childe avance. Throw quhich anon I knew and understude Wele, that sche was a warldly creature; On quhom to rest myn eye, so mich gude It did my wofull hert, I yow assure, That it was to me joye without mesure; And, at the last, my luke unto the hevin I threwe furthwith, and said thir versis sevin: "O Venus clere! of goddis stellifyit! To quhom I yelde homage and sacrifise, Fro this day forth your grace be magnifyit, That me ressavit have in suich a wise, To lyve under your law and do servise; Now help me furth, and for your merci lede My herte to rest, that dëis nere for drede."

Though it’s all too clear how unimpressed you are by a cri de cœur and wafting away unhugged is from your perspective de rigueur of schemes to rendezvous with you I’m still a restless entrepreneur The thought of you converts my favorite main dishes into hors d’oeuvres My addiction to the tingling you induce is a fait accompli Each drifting day is another page in the secret book whose d é nouement never arrives, while your fleeting glances lock me into this unfinishable roman à clef The idea that any one remembered moment at a party or picnic was my sole forever lost chance to touch you must be a cul de sac When my projects for a prudent career try to stand up your voice remembered administers the coup de grâce and my mélange of bright ideas becomes a mere potpourri How I would love to believe this dance is a folie à deux The way you stride across Memorial Drive is a tour de force but glimpses across traffic make a paper-thin raison d’être Your recent exit is implicit in many a mise en scène It’s as if you heard me approaching for a tête à tête and you slipped into the elevator with your tall boots and sangfroid Always you get to reculer and I never seem to mieux sauter— Still I will keep an eye out for you on every rez-de-chaussée.

She expects nothing but to witness our lives and find kindness and why shouldn’t she but for the boiling water my partner spills on my arm and the FUCK'S SAKE that escapes my mouth now the snout of the spitting mammal in me. If there’s a craft to the failing of simple expectations, I have mastered it and majestically—but when there’s something that must be said, it must be said, Lispector says of a woman entering an empty room and finding a version of herself so dark it makes her pause and really see it, how she’s no better than the cockroach in her closet and so she eats it.

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.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

To Herbert Cahoon 1. Black, under the candlesticks, moving in harness To a slow music, we hang the sepulchre And hear the herald angels sing, “He is not here.” It is mid-November. The first snows Have fallen silently over the town. I eat Black pudding at the altar while a dove Descends from the flaming tower. Later, Dr. Rashdall, behind whose scholarship A generation’s knowledge burns, will unmask Newman. But now it is mid-November. I eat black pudding and the dove descends. 2. In a hollow tree by the bridge, an owl awaits. The moon is full and white. The stars are out. Tall elms surround the statue of a nymph Where old Etonians, festive in Norfolk jackets, Commemorate D. G. Rossetti with a plaque. I relish the scene, remembering old Watts-Dunton Boasting, “Dogs have never bitten me!” that day We talked about Rossetti. Later, attacks of gout, That horrible baby that looked like Gosse, a wheelchair Wobbling on toward Trinity, webs covering my eyes. But tonight the moon is full, and white. Thus 1904 begins. 3. Of the far end of Marseilles and the islands: A dwarf climbing where the waves are luminous With phosphorescent lights, where foam bursts into flower, And the slow rise and fall of the ocean Rocks the world. Moving like a crab over the sand, He murmurs, “We can never praise the beauty of The world enough, my friend.” Later, death by starvation; Until the end, swinging on a trapeze for an hour Every day, longing to be tall.  He left Some wonderful paintings. I walk beside him now At the far end of Marseilles, toward the islands. 4. Now, now, if ever, love opening your eyes, The great blind windows lifted toward the sun, the doors Thrown open wide.  I said to my heart, Do I wake or sleep?—Soon, soon, these closings start Where mornings held the garden captive; and early dusk, Laden with mist and smoke, drift upward from the grass. The wind dies. The scraping leaves are still. I said to my heart, Ravaged by darkness, “Now, Soon, and Later have become Each other—doors all closed, the windows blocked and barred for good— All and sink down together to the bottom of the sea. Do I wake or sleep? It is late tonight as it will ever be.”

They said, my saints, my slogan-sayers sang, Be good, my child, in spite of all alarm. They stood, my fathers, tall in a row and said, Be good, be brave, you shall not come to harm. I heard them in my sleep and muttering dream, And murmuring cried, How shall I wake to this? They said, my poets, singers of my song, We cannot tell, since all we tell you is But history, we speak but of the dead. And of the dead they said such history (Their beards were blazing with the truth of it) As made of much of me a mystery.