767 Humor poems

Invaders invariably call themselves: a) berserkers b) marauders c) frankincense d) liberators Our enemies hate us because: a) we’re sadists b) we’re hypocrites c) we shafted them d) we value freedom Our friends hate us because: a) we’re bullies b) we hate them c) we’re hypocrites d) we value freedom Pushed to the ground and kicked by a gang of soldiers, about to be shot, you can save your life by brandishing: a) an uzi b) a crucifix c) the Constitution d) a poem A poem can: a) start a war b) stanch a wound c) titillate the masses d) shame a nation Poets are: a) clowns b) parasites c) legislators d) terrorists A nation’s standing in the world is determined by: a) its buying power b) its military might c) its cultural heritage d) God A country is rich because of: a) its enlightened population b) its political system c) its big stick d) its geography A country is poor because of: a) its ignorant population b) its political system c) its small stick d) its geography A man’s dignity is determined by: a) his appearance (skin color, height, etc) b) his willingness to use violence c) his command of English d) his blue passport Those willing to die for their beliefs are: a) idealists b) terrorists c) suckers d) insane Those willing to die for nothing are: a) principled b) patriotic c) insane d) cowards Terrorists: a) abuse language b) hit and run c) shock and awe d) rely on ingenuity Smart weapons: a) render hopeless and dormant kinetic objects b) kill softly c) save lives d) slaughter by science Pain is: a) payback for evil-doers b) a common misfortune c) compelling drama d) suck it up! Humiliation is: a) the ultimate thrill for bored perverts b) inevitable in an unequal relationship c) a fear factor d) sexy and cathartic The media’s job is: a) to seduce b) to spread c) to sell d) to drug The Internet: a) allows us to be pure minds b) connects us to distant bodies c) disconnects us from the nearest minds and bodies d) improves illiteracy Pornography is: a) a lie that exposes the truth b) a needed breather from civilization c) class warfare d) nostalgia for the garden of Eden Correct answers: c,d,d,b,b,a,b,a,a,c,b,b,b,c,b,d,b,d,c. —If you scored 14-19, you’re a well adjusted person, a home-owner, with and income of at least $50,000 a year. —If you scored 8-13, you either rent or live with your parents, never exercise, and consume at least a 6-pack a day. —if you scored 7 or less, you’re in trouble with the FBI and/or the IRS, cut your own hair, and use public transit as your primary mode of transportation.

I "—science per se—" my God, when I hear them on the radio saying that, it slays me. Is there a science that's not per se? I don't get out much, rarely get to see any lakes, gardens only sporadically and then behind fences, or in allotments, that's about the size of it, I rely on ersatz: radio, newspaper, magazines— so how can people say such things to me? It makes you wonder whether there are any surrogates for hollyhocks, for warm life, French kisses, hanky-panky, all those things that make existence a little luxurious, and all of them somehow of a piece! No, all this cerebration is not my cup of tea, but there are sometimes hours on end where there's no woman on any wavelength (I receive medium-wave, short-, long-, and VHF), no voice saying, "first you say no, then maybe, then yes," nothing but these opinionated pedagogues, it seems that everything the West thinks of as its higher product is produced by the seated male— as I say, give me the hanky-panky any day! II "—the last vestiges of the ancient culture would have completely disappeared—" (well, and what if) "—a sonorous past—" (la-di-dah) "—in villages in New Mexico farmers still bless their fields and livestock with these songs—" (very nice, I'm sure, but I don't get out of Brandenburg much). We hear Professor Salem Aleikum, the reporter still slavering over him: "the professor is lying on the porch of his house with his lute cradled in his arm singing the old ballads"— probably on an ottoman, with a carafe of ice water at his side, rejecting old hypotheses, putting out new ones— the great rivers of the world the Nile, the Brahmaputra, or what the hell do I know wouldn't be enough to drown all those professors— don't have any acreage, don't have any livestock, nothing blesses me, life is one continuous affliction, but nothing like those professors teach, teach, teach, from every pore, who turn everything into illustrated lecture (with slides).

Don’t hurt the radio for Against all Solid testimony machines Have feelings Too Brush past it lightly With a fine regard For allowing its molecules To remain 100% intact Machines can think like Wittgenstein And the radio’s a machine Thinking softly to itself Of the Midnight Flower As her tawny parts unfold In slow motion the boat Rocks on the ocean As her tawny parts unfold The radio does something mental To itself singingly As her tawny parts unfold Inside its wires And steal away its heart Two minutes after eleven The color dream communicates itself The ink falls on the paper as if magically The scalp falls away A pain is felt Deep in the radio I take out my larynx and put it on the blue chair And do my dance for the radio It’s my dance in which I kneel in front of the radio And while remaining motionless elsewise Force my eyeballs to come as close together as possible While uttering a horrible and foreign word Which I cannot repeat to you without now removing my larynx And placing it on the blue chair The blue chair isn’t here So I can’t do that trick at the present time The radio is thinking a few licks of its own Pianistic thoughts attuned to tomorrow’s grammar Beautiful spas of seltzery coition Plucked notes like sandpaper attacked by Woody Woodpecker The radio says Edwardian farmers from Minnesota march on the Mafia Armed with millions of radioactive poker chips The radio fears foul play It turns impersonal A piggy bank was smashed A victim was found naked Radio how can you tell me this In such a chipper tone Your structure of voices is a friend The best kind The kind one can turn on or off Whenever one wants to But that is wrong I know For you will intensely to continue And in a deeper way You do Hours go by And I watch you As you diligently apply A series of audible frequencies To tiny receptors Located inside my cranium Resulting in much pleasure for someone Who looks like me Although he is seated about two inches to my left And the both of us Are listening to your every word With a weird misapprehension It’s the last of the tenth And Harmon Killebrew is up With a man aboard He blasts a game-winning home run The 559th of his career But no one cares Because the broadcast is studio-monitored for taping To be replayed in 212 years Heaven must be like this, radio To not care about anything Because it’s all being taped for replay much later Heaven must be like this For as her tawny parts unfold The small lights swim roseate As if of sepals were the tarp made As it is invisibly unrolled And sundown gasps its old Ray Charles 45 of Georgia Only through your voice

I just don't think that this is what it's supposed to feel like, shaking my big one to break the stream and make a pool for moving my tools, for they only weigh half as much when moved under water. I emerged in the morning, covered in blood and fine acid sand and decided to remain partially submerged a little while longer. Itching for more exercise, and cooled not by water but by air, I spent the afternoon collecting sea shells, and found each one heavily carved with the numbers of pretty village girls offering to take tourists to the ultimate level. A spring and summer service they offer. I meant to call one, with a headline ready on my lips, but a gull would dive down wheeling and screaming each time I tried to dial. One can fool the animals, but must forgive this wild, beautiful country.

Would you believe it, I got lost again And all roads led to Rakestreet. Which was which, The short road or the long? A girl of ten Behind her counter, drew me a thumbnail sketch Of space in time. The Big House was, she said, Five minutes away, or seven hundred years. Nephin, nebulous in its hat of cloud, A reference point. I would never get out of here Unless I fell in love with my condition— Rakestreet, with its boy behind the bar, Its sweatshop, and its permanent television In the background, rumbling from afar Of war and worldly sex, greed and ambition, While the dead slept under lichened stone Behind Kilmurry chapel. Older than religion, Older than history, this quiet need to atone By staying local, once at the very least, For an hour, a day, a lifetime. Marry the girl, Buy up the stock, become one with the deceased— Let Crossmolina and the Big House world Be damned to its own eternity, Lough Conn Forever signaled, never come upon, Lose itself, like the reason I came In the first place, and my aboriginal name.

Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair nymphs, and well-dress'd youths around her shone, But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those: Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finney prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor'd Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd, But chiefly love—to love an altar built, Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves; And all the trophies of his former loves; With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r, The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air. But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides, While melting music steals upon the sky, And soften'd sounds along the waters die. Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay. All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons strait his denizens of air; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew; Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd; His purple pinions op'ning to the sun, He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun. "Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear! Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest æther play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British throne. "Our humbler province is to tend the fair, Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care. To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale, To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs, To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. "This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight, But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade, Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. "To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: Oft have we known that sev'n-fold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins; Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain; Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flow'r. Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below!" He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend, Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair, Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; At ev'ry word a reputation dies. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, And wretches hang that jury-men may dine; The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, And the long labours of the toilet cease. Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, Burns to encounter two adventrous knights, At ombre singly to decide their doom; And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, Each band the number of the sacred nine. Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard Descend, and sit on each important card: First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, Then each, according to the rank they bore; For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd, With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand; And parti-colour'd troops, a shining train, Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: "Let Spades be trumps!" she said, and trumps they were. Now move to war her sable Matadores, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. As many more Manillio forc'd to yield, And march'd a victor from the verdant field. Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card. With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, The hoary Majesty of Spades appears; Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd; The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd. The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage. Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew And mow'd down armies in the fights of loo, Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade! Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlike Amazon her host invades, Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades. The Club's black tyrant first her victim died, Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride: What boots the regal circle on his head, His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; That long behind he trails his pompous robe, And of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? The baron now his diamonds pours apace; Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face, And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd Of broken troops an easy conquest find. Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs, Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, With like confusion diff'rent nations fly, Of various habit, and of various dye, The pierc'd battalions disunited fall. In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts. At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate. An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen: He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate! Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away, And curs'd for ever this victorious day. For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, The berries crackle, and the mill turns round. On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze. From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. Straight hover round the fair her airy band; Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee, (which makes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair! But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill! Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case; So ladies in romance assist their knight Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair, And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear, Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought; As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again). The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast, When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last, Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie! "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach and six the British fair, As long at Atalantis shall be read, Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! What time would spare, from steel receives its date, And monuments, like men, submit to fate! Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel?"

But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, And secret passions labour'd in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair. For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded East is all the wind that blows. Here, in a grotto, shelter'd close from air, And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, But diff'ring far in figure and in face. Here stood Ill Nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd; With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons. There Affectation, with a sickly mien, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show. The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new disease. A constant vapour o'er the palace flies; Strange phantoms, rising as the mists arise; Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, And crystal domes, and angels in machines. Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry side are seen Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose pie talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. Safe pass'd the Gnome through this fantastic band, A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus address'd the pow'r: "Hail, wayward Queen! Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: Parent of vapours and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit, On various tempers act by various ways, Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray. A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, Like citron waters matrons' cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game; If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; That single act gives half the world the spleen." The goddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, though she grants his pray'r. A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; There she collects the force of female lungs, Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. A vial next she fills with fainting fears, Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, And all the Furies issu'd at the vent. Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. "Oh wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied) "Was it for this you took such constant care The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound, For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead? Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: (Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuffbox open'd, then the case, And thus broke out—"My Lord, why, what the devil? Z——ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil! Plague on't! 'tis past a jest—nay prithee, pox! Give her the hair"—he spoke, and rapp'd his box. "It grieves me much," replied the peer again "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain. But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said: "For ever curs'd be this detested day, Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away! Happy! ah ten times happy, had I been, If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd. Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd In some lone isle, or distant northern land; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam? Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home! 'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; The tott'ring china shook without a wind, Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, In mystic visions, now believ'd too late! See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: These, in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck. The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began. "Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd? Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace: 'Behold the first in virtue, as in face!' Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to grey, Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our pow'r to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. "To arms, to arms!" the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And bass, and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms. Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around; Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound; Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way; And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray. While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"—was his last. Thus on Mæeander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But at her smile, the beau reviv'd again. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes, Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endu'd, She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate", incens'd Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great great grandsire wore about his neck In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; All that I dread is leaving you benind! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames—but burn alive." "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, The chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So Heav'n decrees! with Heav'n who can contest? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there. There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaux' in snuff boxes and tweezercases. There broken vows and deathbed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray. This the blest lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

This sweater is made from only the finest, softest underhairs of the Mongolian camel. “Fancy-schmancy,” my father would have said, whose snazziest sweater was still a declassé synthetic from the sweatshops of Taiwan. My friend Deloris, however, who really owns such clothes, would say “exquisite” or “sublime”—her opened closet’s row of shoulders teases late-day bedroomlight along such textures, there are days when the laboring brain and throbbing crotch appear to us to be not much more than her wardrobe’s tasteful accessories. “. . . woven from genital-down of prepubescent yeti, and then hand-sewn in our undersea domes.” “Untouched by anyone other than albino elves, this wool is . . . .” ______________ Rarefied—to Helthi Hart, the diet guru, it’s a cup of clear organic cauliflower broth. And for the Emperor Excessia, it’s a mad dessert of swans’ tongues —there were, what? ten thousand?—dipped in a slip of stiffening honey and set out to await the banqueteers like a field of fresh shoots they could graze. Some Roman party hosts had great roped bowls of snow brought from the mountaintops to entertain their guests with dishes of rose-petal sherbet and chilled roe. They might even allow the household slaves to slide leftover snow along the burning welts the ropes ate into their shoulders all down the mountainside. ______________ Afterwards it was an unrecognizable tatter. But an image of my father’s worn-thin Bargain City “all-weather” jacket is still whole in its polyester glory. This is what happened: the alley dog (he later called the thing a “cur”) had cornered Livia, and she screamed once, with a seven-year-old’s unselfconscious terror. And then my father was there, with his jacket wound around his arm, and a rock. When it was over, he tore the sleeves off, tied the poor dog quiet and, after comforting Livia, they both kneeled down to comfort the dog. He was like that. And the jacket that served as weapon and restraint?—was like him, every day of his life. It did what was needed. ______________ I misread “migraine.” Which of the two would we call the most rarefied? “Margarine”? Or maybe comparison isn’t the point. A ghost is a person rarefied through the fine, fine colander death; that doesn’t make, for most of us, extinction an ideal. It was hard to think of Frank and Deloris divorcing, since it was hard to imagine the two of them engaging in anything so mundane as sex or rage or envy with the rest of the hoi polloi. They seemed unearthly in close to a literal way, like radio waves. And yet divorce they did. They found something real they could unjoin, hertz from hertz until there just was air. ______________ A dream: We own the softest of the soft Mongolian camel underhair sweaters. One day (we think we’re doing the “right thing”) we release it into the wild, to romp with its brother and sister desert sweaters, out where it “belongs.” You know, however, what happens by now: it’s unfit to fend for itself amid that hardened herd. They beat it. It’s hungry. It crawls back into the city, mewing, curling up at night against a door my father opens and, seeing something in need, brings it inside, wraps it in flannel. That’s how he was. He’d give you the cheap shirt off his back.