767 Humor poems

1. You are not going anywhere. 1.1. No one is waiting for you. 1.2. In case someone is waiting for you, you can always explain the delay later. 1.3. Blame it on the traffic, no one else knows that you chose to walk. 2. Don’t look at the pavement, look at the things that you don’t see when you’re indoors. 2.1. Water towers. 2.2. Cables. 2.2.1. Cables bringing other people’s voices and faces onto TV monitors. 2.2.2. Cables bringing electricity to light bulbs and refrigerators. 2.3. Laundry on clotheslines. 2.4. Empty cans of food. 2.4.1. With flowers growing out of them. 2.4.2. With cactuses growing out of them. 3. Feel the waves surrounding you. 3.1. Waves bringing other people’s voices to the speakers of your sound system. 3.2. Waves of street sounds. 4. Measure how fast you can run up and down staircases; compare that to the speed of the cars driving by. 5. When you tire, stand in the middle of the overpass. 5.1. Look down. 5.2. Try to look ahead, attempt to delineate the city’s skyline. 5.2.1. If there’s too much pollution, look down again. 5.2.2. Hold on tighter to the rail. 5.2.3. Stay there a bit longer; remember no one is waiting for you. 5.2.4. You’re not going anywhere. 6. Through the rails you will see stories unfolding on the street. 6.1. Pay attention. 6.2. You are not they. 6.3. They are not they. 6.3.1. They are one plus one plus one, indefinitely. 7. You’re surrounded by monads going somewhere. 8. There is a purpose to their movement. 9. Desire is a Federacy.

How wonderful to be understood, to just sit here while some kind person relieves you of the awful burden of having to explain yourself, of having to find other words to say what you meant, or what you think you thought you meant, and of the worse burden of finding no words, of being struck dumb . . . because some bright person has found just the right words for you—and you have only to sit here and be grateful for words so quiet so discerning they seem not words but literate light, in which your merely lucid blossoming grows lustrous. How wonderful that is! And how altogether wonderful it is not to be understood, not at all, to, well, just sit here while someone not unkindly is saying those impossibly wrong things, or quite possibly they’re the right things if you are, which you’re not, that someone —a difference, finally, so indifferent it would be conceit not to let it pass, unkindness, really, to spoil someone’s fun. And so you don’t mind, you welcome the umbrage of those high murmurings over your head, having found, after all, you are grateful —and you understand this, how wonderful!— that you’ve been led to be quietly yourself, like a root growing wise in darkness under the light litter, the falling words.

For Toni Keller I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by wedding 
planners, dieting, in shapewear, dragging themselves in cute outfits through the freezer section for the semifreddo bender, blessed innovative cloister girl pin-ups burning to know the rabbi of electricity in poverty, obedience, in the dream stick of opium and the green Wi-Fi fuse, who marveling and cramping and wired and allergic lock themselves out of their apartments in the trenchant imperfect delight of early day, who bared their minds to bar friends by the train in twilight and saw tiny figures like fireflies splendoring apartments Botoxed flat like canvas, who passed through universities with sensual indulgence addicts 
devoted to the indefinite space of maps and science labs while the committees shifted paperwork, who left the university from a numbing homesickness for the rez and the old alcoholic lover family father temper crack methamphetamine birdsong, who galvanized in excitable need and microdermabrasioned took the lonely exit ramp on the nature, constitution, and forces of matter, who failed their enzyme multiplied immunoassay technique not once but more than once because some guy came into her room talking about publishing, hash and vintage cardigans, drunk to the abdominals looking for speed crank coke & codeine, who took Molly and mint and Motrin and methaqualone naked in the unhappy light of Saved by the Bell on the hotel flat screen, with spring of 1924 beautiful imaginary wheat stalk wanderlust 
nylons travelhope, not allowed to explore alleys or ride the rails or hitchhike either because of the magnetic pink and with all the years of training spread out boundless the rules and safety tiresome before them, Paradise papery Wisconsin-Madison visionary blue green crosshatched for elevation maps baked wild open unspoiled lands of Lake Kivu & Congo, ardent delirious combustible desire to go astray rove stir evolve princesslike, who busted out against parents’ wishes clattered cross-county in a Model T with another girl to see the iron pyrite fool’s gold The West and the finally wide open-legged Pacific zones, who wrote letters anyway to old boyfriends before setting out on the breathless orange high desert confusion with gold carrying canvas buckets for the extra water for the car, who talked all night in the tourist camps and were up with the sun and snappish with hunger, the navigators in terror of the steep mountain road refreshing the radiator with water inhaling the rust steam fragrance of open road red oxygen metal and a lunar happiness, whistlingsinging bowwowing mooing at the glamorous elations of altitude and the hayburner no handcuff no hush money open whangdoodle fiery western sky deposits of gold and silver lost stories gun-toting candlemaking dance hall prostitute stowaway freedoms not to mention ball bang bareback gamahuche cowboy, who listened while the mechanic romanced over velocity and atonement die-stampings on sheet steel and drop forgings while the diner waitress ground out pies and pies and pies, wandering nylons suffering while the word of engagements and new babies began its bone descent by mother’s phrasing and martini lunch date with the old school of the hot comb and the inner ear, who broke up with boyfriends and walked tap heels on streets for dentist’s appointment a doctor’s appointment an interview a newspaper grocery dinner tomato, who found the sublet which for what she was making she could 
afford but the roommate had trouble with rent alarm clock rooster 
cock boyfriend, who saw her clothing was available in size 00 so it was time to disappear entirely, who took a job selling print invitations to promoters where the desk was dusty with coke Aunt Mary Aunt Nora Aunt Hazel and also dust, who took the cab to the Upper West Side to deliver the express mail package of rocks and rocks of powder for the boss in his high-ceilinged mirrored walls, comatose blonde sylph and suits of bright licorice acrylic fibers, who watched the mistress arrayed in pelts panther drunk and ringed with minerals achieving her highest human form, who leaving in the elevator sad at her scuffed boots of the underclass felt the mirror reflection of her mother repeating little lamb who made thee dost thou know, who considered the elevator’s speculum dilating her cataract radioscope telescope manifestation, who listened to the TODAY show while she Kindled exasperated on an exercise bike in the new pink Manhattan Island 22.7 square miles of dawn, who carried her infant in a baby sling she designed herself out of thrift store fabrics, who wept because caesarean was a term for last resort, having felt cheated by the dictionary of the pain of real meaning and deliverance of child into atmosphere, who anyway flamed ardent and breathless in illuminated swinging as she sang lulling smooth neurons already waddling inside the babygirl’s palimpsest brain, who watched the girl with highlights blow her boyfriend and then blew her boyfriend and then copulated analytically with a stranger waiter painter truck driver in a sorcery of forgetfulness, who philosophized in the meadow flowers on her back to the sound of black flies stirring the leaves and let herself be touched by the rude one so she could see the show without paying and lost that beautiful little gold earring she’d never see the likes of it again, who contemplated such disappointments again for the tenth time the twentieth thirtieth time the earrings whooshing the Cleopatra shouldered sighs the exchange while everywhere boys are having sex and playing basketball afterward and laughing, who is up nights and days peeing restlessly endlessly with nothing but cranberry cranberry cranberry eucharist for the body’s 
unyielding sciences and the UTI of the Punishing Boy God who decided who wins, who felt the embryo always crunching futures with crushing weight of the fixed decree by which the laws of the universe are prescribed the bitch of necessity the bitch of chance and the DNA overlord, who drove her two babies wild into the lake to what she imagined was whiteness, who from curiosity and an old curse tried the spinning wheel in the coldest room of the castle and spilled drops of blood on the snow, fell into a sleep that would last a hundred years, until, what else, a boy kisses her, who lost her virginity to the three bad playing cards in cardboard plastic coated false love the slippery wet Jack of  Text Messages the forcible Jack of All Fours the odd can opener of need filled by the One-Eyed Jack who finally demystifies though it turns out not only slightly painful but truly unpleasant, followed by all the new information, who tore at it with an honest brutal mad need stripping herself this once of the manicure of propriety and sweetheart headband of the high school dance for his long-form journalism of a cock and ferocious butcher meat smell, who blonde as a lit match in Denver watched him enter and stare and took the stare not seeing yet inside the iris a splash of sweetened road that turned with pills magic grass breasts bridge rooftop roadside bedside blindside shenanigans honey, who took iconic photographs on her Brownie camera recording two myths across the street from her house, arms around each other, C.C., secret hero of this poem, lover and marble statue muse, hot Dickens reader — props to the memory of her innumerable pots of spaghetti while the boys with shining minds could wander at night, who blonde as an aristocrat felt him watch her withhold her soft imaginative thighs while another guilty child bride tumbled sweet on a trampoline it was intoxicating, who fell deeply for his car thief  master love railroad seducer inhaled the marvelous heartbeat divine heat broke fed it and waited like the road was a closed door to the doctor’s office and Russell Street the anteroom of creation and love before it went mad haywire, if it ever would, who made cacciatore with the chickens used in the Payne Whitney Clinic trials because they were 14 cents a pound, who tired of Sheila and the Upper East Side waiting for revolution among porcelain and jumped out/through/out the window to mainline all seven stories, literally broke the window she wanted out that much, who suffering as a muse in the limestone of ancient outlandish Tangier may have believed in God but even so wasn’t going to discuss it with a bop poet on the telephone, who hymned the confusing magnetic pink lozenge and painted whore bluesy blue-note secret-love-note whole-note half-note passages bellydancing gentle hip sliding doumbek thrum belly counterpoint shimmyshimmywhimseyfuck, who skirted her soul’s furnishings in the lazar house of man poetics, its closets filled with vests and ties, who imprisoned for apostasy chained up delivered the child squallish and reddening into the ballot of time, who studied painted photographed, raised children and pined, bought kreplach & Whopper Jrs dreaming of three square 
family kingdom of the push mower and powdered milk, who rode the welfare road trip of pouring innumerable thermoses of coffee, feeling the freedom wind-in-your-hair of wrapping sandwiches in wax paper, who studied and prayed and wrote in diaries and platinumed hair gleamed gloved hands stewed rabbit in blood and wine like a priest and shot the baby out in blood over everything, who worked stable and domestic and artful and innovative and sacrificed nothing, fig trees excitedly massively blossoming not that one that disappointed Jesus for not ripening, who star-spangled lost in her housebound Eden cursed with orchards and a million gossipy daffodils, writing & nursing & not on the lists as he dipped a pen quite elsewhere repeatedly, crying purring the distance openmouthed, who burned her novel this actually happened destroyed a second Bell Jar dedicated to him call her impossible but the leap from it must have been split-second maddening rapturous, who blew him three times and then his friend because it was hard to say no when you say no nobody likes you as much when you say yes or even whatever you are loved into momentary relevance existence, who begged twenty dollars from each friend to pay for a secret abortion, her man needing the child but not her to show his father manliness by imperialism of the womb and eventual abandonment like any suburban mall, who protested the clinic shouting who themselves got abortions at that same clinic (they had to, don’t tell their husbands) came back and then protested again for the unborn (but they can’t afford another child) but it should be illegal for the poor, this article was in Esquire of all places, America where is your logic, who stained the host’s linens mad crimson lipstick boy-crazy stigmata 
her animal flesh gash her crown of suburban thorns completely honest about need, who sketched the body tangible medical painted portraits and lived inside, who should have been on the road but for the uterus repeatedly 
renewing its lease convincing energy affirmative right honey that’s right honey right there, who gave a light touch delicate hand beautiful chisel cheek blonde wave Mother Image Madwoman chick and ignu driving inward toward an isolated, lonely peace, who brewed serious coffee during the murder and scrambled eggs while disposing of the body, the detective as best man and 
silence thereafter, still unpublished, who hid his shoes hating to but still he left her for Colt 45 malt liquor Johnnie Walker Falstaff Beer, and lived the biography filled however with biographies of the others for which she made a home flashbulbed in silver their likenesses and tried love in living room, attic, slanted redeemable love their fingers articulated like saints, who after the understandable and recognizable desire loveshape would then expand, against his will and this was a shame, this lie abandonment anger congenital analgesia against hope plan bugout for ten years, returning in her saffron clothes her flat dimension the mother saint devotion song of spiritual angers lovingly pressed into an incense cone of spirituality, her image carved by apostles among the lonely 
goat forgotten sheep infant in cozy rags framed by any window to be honored in her eternal loneliness, Amherst’s Evergreens’ First Congregational’s cupola and conservatory hothouse echoing pure song and archway and hymnal 
restraint, Daisy who bends her smaller life to his in her fenced-in field within which the horse can gallop wildly as she likes, grieve her your best girl with a still, restrained, almost annoyed sigh, what voice in what 
wilderness, minutest cricket, most unworthy flower I will never be tired — I will never be noisy I will be your best little girl — 
nobody else will see me, but you — but that is enough — limitlessness, wilt thou say, ah, ladies, good night, good night, good night ladies — and who therefore know the biology of the soft matter and the cluster of creation in its salty stellar lonely archive is matched by the sweet violence of thought, who transubstantiated across the desert with both of them finally under the deep clear her blonde beauty and the celestial betrayals arrayed stellar, Andromeda chained naked to a rock, the Pleiades shedding to doves to stars, to recreate young artists’ castling brains over the mountain’s whelp of monks in open out-of-bodies absolute ascent, the madgirl and saint unrecognized and writing madrigal in bedroom and recipe in library and songs during class and sketching 
sunflowers for what’s left of us, and remains magnified sanctified we should be allowed Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba Acanthus whorled and dense and impossibly real multiplying in fields an abundance of sunflowers serious beauty, with blooming, ridiculous with blooming, arriving and opening in endless profusion forever.

"Heaven bless the babe," they said. "What queer books she must have read!" (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child!) "Little does she guess today What the world may be," they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover!)

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; All the king's horses and all the king's men Couldn't put Humpty together again.

Fit the First The Landing "Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried, As he landed his crew with care; Supporting each man on the top of the tide By a finger entwined in his hair. "Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew. Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true." The crew was complete: it included a Boots— A maker of Bonnets and Hoods— A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes— And a Broker, to value their goods. A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense, Might perhaps have won more than his share— But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense, Had the whole of their cash in his care. There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck, Or would sit making lace in the bow: And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck, Though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things He forgot when he entered the ship: His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, And the clothes he had bought for the trip. He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, With his name painted clearly on each: But, since he omitted to mention the fact, They were all left behind on the beach. The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because He had seven coats on when he came, With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was, He had wholly forgotten his name. He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry, Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!" To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!" But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!" While, for those who preferred a more forcible word, He had different names from these: His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends," And his enemies "Toasted-cheese." "His form is ungainly—his intellect small—" (So the Bellman would often remark) "But his courage is perfect! And that, after all, Is the thing that one needs with a Snark." He would joke with hænas, returning their stare With an impudent wag of the head: And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear, "Just to keep up its spirits," he said. He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late— And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad— He could only bake Bride-cake—for which, I may state, No materials were to be had. The last of the crew needs especial remark, Though he looked an incredible dunce: He had just one idea—but, that one being "Snark," The good Bellman engaged him at once. He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared, When the ship had been sailing a week, He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared, And was almost too frightened to speak: But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone, There was only one Beaver on board; And that was a tame one he had of his own, Whose death would be deeply deplored. The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark, Protested, with tears in its eyes, That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark Could atone for that dismal surprise! It strongly advised that the Butcher should be Conveyed in a separate ship: But the Bellman declared that would never agree With the plans he had made for the trip: Navigation was always a difficult art, Though with only one ship and one bell: And he feared he must really decline, for his part, Undertaking another as well. The Beaver's best course was, no doubt, to procure A second-hand dagger-proof coat— So the Baker advised it—and next, to insure Its life in some Office of note: This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire (On moderate terms), or for sale, Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire, And one Against Damage From Hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, Whenever the Butcher was by, The Beaver kept looking the opposite way, And appeared unaccountably shy. Fit the Second The Bellman's Speech The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies— Such a carriage, such ease and such grace! Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise, The moment one looked in his face! He had bought a large map representing the sea, Without the least vestige of land: And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be A map they could all understand. "What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators, Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?" So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply "They are merely conventional signs! "Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes! But we've got our brave Captain to thank (So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best— A perfect and absolute blank!" This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out That the Captain they trusted so well Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, And that was to tingle his bell. He was thoughtful and grave—but the orders he gave Were enough to bewilder a crew. When he cried "Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!" What on earth was the helmsman to do? Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes: A thing, as the Bellman remarked, That frequently happens in tropical climes, When a vessel is, so to speak, "snarked." But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed, Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East, That the ship would not travel due West! But the danger was past—they had landed at last, With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags: Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, Which consisted to chasms and crags. The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low, And repeated in musical tone Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe— But the crew would do nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand, And bade them sit down on the beach: And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand, As he stood and delivered his speech. "Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!" (They were all of them fond of quotations: So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers, While he served out additional rations). "We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks, (Four weeks to the month you may mark), But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks) Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark! "We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, (Seven days to the week I allow), But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, We have never beheld till now! "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks. "Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of Will-o'-the-wisp. "Its habit of getting up late you'll agree That it carries too far, when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea, And dines on the following day. "The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one, It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed: And it always looks grave at a pun. "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes— A sentiment open to doubt. "The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch: Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch. "For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet, I feel it my duty to say, Some are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For the Baker had fainted away. Fit the Third The Baker's Tale They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice— They roused him with mustard and cress— They roused him with jam and judicious advice— They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell. There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone. "My father and mother were honest, though poor—" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste. "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark— We have hardly a minute to waste!" "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark. "A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell—" "Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell. "He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens, And it's handy for striking a light. "'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap—'" ("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold In a hasty parenthesis cried, "That's exactly the way I have always been told That the capture of Snarks should be tried!") "'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!' "It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds! "It is this, it is this—" "We have had that before!" The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread! "I engage with the Snark—every night after dark— In a dreamy delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light: "But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away— And the notion I cannot endure!" Fit the Fourth The Hunting The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow. "If only you'd spoken before! It's excessively awkward to mention it now, With the Snark, so to speak, at the door! "We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, If you never were met with again— But surely, my man, when the voyage began, You might have suggested it then? "It's excessively awkward to mention it now— As I think I've already remarked." And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh, "I informed you the day we embarked. "You may charge me with murder—or want of sense— (We are all of us weak at times): But the slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my crimes! "I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch— I said it in German and Greek: But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) That English is what you speak!" "'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face Had grown longer at every word: "But, now that you've stated the whole of your case, More debate would be simply absurd. "The rest of my speech" (he explained to his men) "You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it. But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again! 'Tis your glorious duty to seek it! "To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care; To pursue it with forks and hope; To threaten its life with a railway-share; To charm it with smiles and soap! "For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that won't Be caught in a commonplace way. Do all that you know, and try all that you don't: Not a chance must be wasted to-day! "For England expects—I forbear to proceed: 'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite: And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need To rig yourselves out for the fight." Then the Banker endorsed a blank check (which he crossed), And changed his loose silver for notes. The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair, And shook the dust out of his coats. The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade— Each working the grindstone in turn: But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed No interest in the concern: Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride, And vainly proceeded to cite A number of cases, in which making laces Had been proved an infringement of right. The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned A novel arrangement of bows: While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand Was chalking the tip of his nose. But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine, With yellow kid gloves and a ruff— Said he felt it exactly like going to dine, Which the Bellman declared was all "stuff." "Introduce me, now there's a good fellow," he said, "If we happen to meet it together!" And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head, Said "That must depend on the weather." The Beaver went simply galumphing about, At seeing the Butcher so shy: And even the Baker, though stupid and stout, Made an effort to wink with one eye. "Be a man!" said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard The Butcher beginning to sob. "Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird, We shall need all our strength for the job!" Fit the Fifth The Beaver's Lesson They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan For making a separate sally; And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, A dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: It had chosen the very same place: Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, The disgust that appeared in his face. Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" And the glorious work of the day; And each tried to pretend that he did not remark That the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, And the evening got darker and colder, Till (merely from nervousness, not from good will) They marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, And they knew that some danger was near: The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the Butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far far behind— That blissful and innocent state— The sound so exactly recalled to his mind A pencil that squeaks on a slate! "'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. (This man, that they used to call "Dunce.") "As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, "I have uttered that sentiment once. "'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; You will find I have told it you twice. Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, If only I've stated it thrice." The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, Attending to every word: But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, When the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, It had somehow contrived to lose count, And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains By reckoning up the amount. "Two added to one—if that could but be done," It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, It had taken no pains with its sums. "The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. The thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure." The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens, And ink in unfailing supplies: While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, And watched them with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the Beaver could well understand. "Taking Three as the subject to reason about— A convenient number to state— We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight. "The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two: Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true. "The method employed I would gladly explain, While I have it so clear in my head, If I had but the time and you had but the brain— But much yet remains to be said. "In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been Enveloped in absolute mystery, And without extra charge I will give you at large A Lesson in Natural History." In his genial way he proceeded to say (Forgetting all laws of propriety, And that giving instruction, without introduction, Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), "As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual passion: Its taste in costume is entirely absurd— It is ages ahead of the fashion: "But it knows any friend it has met once before: It never will look at a bribe: And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, And collects—though it does not subscribe. "Its flavour when cooked is more exquisite far Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, And some, in mahogany kegs:) "You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: You condense it with locusts and tape: Still keeping one principal object in view— To preserve its symmetrical shape." The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt that the Lesson must end, And he wept with delight in attempting to say He considered the Beaver his friend. While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks More eloquent even than tears, It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books Would have taught it in seventy years. They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned (For a moment) with noble emotion, Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days We have spent on the billowy ocean!" Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, Have seldom if ever been known; In winter or summer, 'twas always the same— You could never meet either alone. And when quarrels arose—as one frequently finds Quarrels will, spite of every endeavour— The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, And cemented their friendship for ever! Fit the Sixth The Barrister's Dream They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain That the Beaver's lace-making was wrong, Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain That his fancy had dwelt on so long. He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court, Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye, Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig On the charge of deserting its sty. The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw, That the sty was deserted when found: And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law In a soft under-current of sound. The indictment had never been clearly expressed, And it seemed that the Snark had begun, And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed What the pig was supposed to have done. The Jury had each formed a different view (Long before the indictment was read), And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew One word that the others had said. "You must know—" said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed "Fudge!" That statute is obsolete quite! Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends On an ancient manorial right. "In the matter of Treason the pig would appear To have aided, but scarcely abetted: While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear, If you grant the plea 'never indebted.' "The fact of Desertion I will not dispute; But its guilt, as I trust, is removed (So far as relates to the costs of this suit) By the Alibi which has been proved. "My poor client's fate now depends on your votes." Here the speaker sat down in his place, And directed the Judge to refer to his notes And briefly to sum up the case. But the Judge said he never had summed up before; So the Snark undertook it instead, And summed it so well that it came to far more Than the Witnesses ever had said! When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined, As the word was so puzzling to spell; But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn't mind Undertaking that duty as well. So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned, It was spent with the toils of the day: When it said the word "GUILTY!" the Jury all groaned, And some of them fainted away. Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite Too nervous to utter a word: When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night, And the fall of a pin might be heard. "Transportation for life" was the sentence it gave, "And then to be fined forty pound." The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared That the phrase was not legally sound. But their wild exultation was suddenly checked When the jailer informed them, with tears, Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years. The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted: But the Snark, though a little aghast, As the lawyer to whom the defence was intrusted, Went bellowing on to the last. Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed To grow every moment more clear: Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell, Which the Bellman rang close at his ear. Fit the Seventh The Banker's Fate They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new It was matter for general remark, Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view In his zeal to discover the Snark But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair, For he knew it was useless to fly. He offered large discount—he offered a cheque (Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten: But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck And grabbed at the Banker again. Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws Went savagely snapping around— He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped, Till fainting he fell to the ground. The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared Led on by that fear-stricken yell: And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!" And solemnly tolled on his bell. He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace The least likeness to what he had been: While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white— A wonderful thing to be seen! To the horror of all who were present that day, He uprose in full evening dress, And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say What his tongue could no longer express. Down he sank in a chair—ran his hands through his hair— And chanted in mimsiest tones Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity, While he rattled a couple of bones. "Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!" The Bellman exclaimed in a fright. "We have lost half the day. Any further delay, And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!" Fit the Eighth The Vanishing They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, And the Beaver, excited at last, Went bounding along on the tip of its tail, For the daylight was nearly past. "There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Bellman said, "He is shouting like mad, only hark! He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head, He has certainly found a Snark!" They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed "He was always a desperate wag!" They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed— On the top of a neighbouring crag, Erect and sublime, for one moment of time, In the next, that wild figure they saw (As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm, While they waited and listened in awe. "It's a Snark!" was the sound that first came to their ears, And seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers: Then the ominous words "It's a Boo—" Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air A weary and wandering sigh That sounded like "-jum!" but the others declare It was only a breeze that went by. They hunted till darkness came on, but they found Not a button, or feather, or mark, By which they could tell that they stood on the ground Where the Baker had met with the Snark. In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away— For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks the cradle will fall; Down will come baby, cradle and all.

Hush little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns to brass, Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat. And if that billy goat won't pull, Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull. And if that cart and bull turn over, Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover. And if that dog named Rover won't bark, Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart. And if that horse and cart fall down, You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town!

WTF texts Josey, and I text back OMG. We had to tell Maggie what LOL meant– it's not Lots Of Love, though that almost always fits. Major emailed LMAO when I assumed his inbox gets dealt with by an underling, some undergrad, assumed it was Major's minor who invited me to read but "can not pay much sum of monies."Sum of Monies? I emailed back. Who wrote this? Your assistant's a Nigerian prince? WTF. For a while we just played with these, joking, like I tried on Wicked when I moved to Boston, called Lisa Liser, pizza pizzer, said Fucken, wicked, pissah, dood. But before you know it, it's part of how you talk, how I talk, fucken guy. Dude. When my ex student saw me she said Sick a dozen times, amazed, delighted, meant it's super I've moved back, and, whoda thunk it, come in to her cafe. She checked out Josey, my instant street cred. Josey bought new pants for work with a cell phone pocket; the cell phone pocket pants are Husky Boys' Dickies, which I can't get enough of, laugh every time I think of them, or try to name them out loud. Josey wears Husky Boys' Dickies. My darling, my husky, my husky little boy. Hey, Husky, we say, around the house, just waking up, just bumping into each other en route from basement to garden to kitchen.Hey, Husky, do you want coffee? Hey Husky, Hey Bunny, Hey Hon. When I'm helping my students translate Sappho's Fragments 1 and 31, I get them to make a list of many-colored things, so they don't feel stuck with colorful throne. One girl can't think of anything but Skittles.Terrific, I tell her, you're breaking product placement ground. Then I ask them to think of voices they love, the voice of someone they love. It's hard to describe a voice, but I ask them each to try, put his or her beloved in the place of Sappho's, make her theirs, more real than just sweet-voiced and lovely-laughtered.You have three minutes. Get something down, I tell them,some adjective or comparison, even if you just write the same word over and over again. 5:47 p.m. on a Wednesday, me saying Do your best and You could just say husky husky husky husky husky.

When the windows of the West Side clash like cymbals in the setting sunlight, And when wind wails amid the East Side’s aerials, And when, both north and south of thirty-fourth street, In all the dizzy buildings, The elevators clack their teeth and rattle the bars of their cages, Then the children of the city, Leaving the monkey-houses of their office-buildings and apartments, With the greatest difficulty open their mouths, and sing: “Queen among the cities of the Earth: New York! Rich as a cake, common as a doughnut, Expensive as a fur and crazy as cocaine, We love to hear you shake Your big face like a shining bank Letting the mad world know you’re full of dimes! ”This is your night to make maraccas out of all that metal money Paris is in the prison-house, and London dies of cancer. This is the time for you to whirl, Queen of our hopped-up peace, And let the excitement of your somewhat crippled congas Supersede the waltzes of more shining Capitals that have been bombed. “Meanwhile we, your children, Weeping in our seasick zoo of windows while you dance, Will gobble aspirins, And try to keep our cage from caving in. All the while our minds will fill with these petitions, Flowering quietly in between our gongs of pulse. These will have to serve as prayers: “ ‘O lock us in the safe jails of thy movies! Confine us to the semiprivate wards and white asylums Of the unbearable cocktail parties, O New York! Sentence us for life to the penitentiaries of thy bars and nightclubs, And leave us stupefied forever by the blue, objective lights That fill the pale infirmaries of thy restaurants, And the clinics of thy schools and offices, And the operating-rooms of thy dance-halls. “ ‘But never give us any explanations, even when we ask, Why all our food tastes of iodoform, And even the freshest flowers smell of funerals. No, never let us look about us long enough to wonder Which of the rich men, shivering in the overheated office, And which of the poor men, sleeping face-down on the Daily Mirror, Are still alive, and which are dead.’ ”