478 Identity poems

Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air; Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes; That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest women of your race? The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees— You take your seat and touch the keys. I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel’s wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam’s song! You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face. At once I stand by Mizpeh’s walls; With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh’s halls! Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen! Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking “If I die, I die!” You stroll the garden’s flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks. Adopted child of Judah’s creed, Like Judah’s daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed. I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet! My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours!

The people who live here do two things: their faces whiten past you or blacken into you. Girls are not supposed to come to islands by themselves; did no one tell you? You found the highest hill, away from their whistles, their eyes. Up here only windy grass, the blow of sea that brought you. Only a few cigarette butts, pistachio shells. They come here, but hardly. The house you make is sticks and burrs. Dirt on white knuckles. The sea through the cracks. They do not talk to you anymore, or look at you, your first wish. The wind and sea are full of stomachs: now, learn to disappear into them. Your house’s slender frame catches fire one day. You hear them buzzing below. They watch, they stand, wild brightness from the hill reflecting in each eye. Light. Birds almost green among the sparks. Is it the sun? No, the moon has caught the sun in its mouth. The moon is nothing but the sun letting it see itself. The question comes again, do you have too much faith in people, or too little? Like when you were sitting on the ledge by the sea and three large boys’ shadows stubbed the grass. Your first thought was, so they will make me fall. But they don’t make you fall. Whether they are afraid of you or you of them, whether they are jeering, is not clear. This is the island with the hill with the house with the girl with the fire inside. Afterwards they climb to the top to look at something ruined close-up. They touch the door, soft with ash: the body, amongst the branches and birds, is white. The face catches the sun’s light.

for Tom Raworth a.    taupe. wald. less.    commas. into.    gelatin. * “let’s.    call. this.” my.    age. leaning.    into. some.    dream. * the.    further. he. moves.    away. the.    more. surfaces. the.    longer. they.    end. as.    her. midst. * my.    nose. of.    all. recourse. (shaped. trouble.    upon. .    siecle.) my.    polk. m’edge.

Filene’s department store near nineteen-fifty-three: An Aunt Jemima floor Display. Red bandanna, apron holding white rolls of black fat fast against the bubbling pancakes, bowls and bowls of pale batter. This is what Donna sees across the “Cookwares” floor, and hears “Donessa?”Please, this can not be my aunt

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

I have two monuments besides this granite obelisk: One, the house I built on the hill, With its spires, bay windows, and roof of slate; The other, the lake-front in Chicago, Where the railroad keeps a switching yard, With whistling engines and crunching wheels, And smoke and soot thrown over the city, And the crash of cars along the boulevard, i A blot like a hog-pen on the harbor Of a great metropolis, foul as a sty. I helped to give this heritage To generations yet unborn, with my vote In the House of Representatives, And the lure of the thing was to be at rest From the never-ending fright of need, And to give my daughters gentle breeding, And a sense of security in life. But, you see, though I had the mansion house And traveling passes and local distinction, I could hear the whispers, whispers, whispers, Wherever I went, and my daughters grew up With a look as if some one were about to strike them; And they married madly, helter-skelter, Just to get out and have a change. And what was the whole of the business worth? Why, it wasn't worth a damn!

Frosty, green through gray rising steeply, top of the bank a big top, red with a sign, misty, fantastical on the walk to school. “My sister can’t express herself properly. Imagine if those performers were stuck in their caravans forever. If round the back of the big top the doors were locked. That’s her. She’s a trapeze artist, lion tamer, cramped clean-faced clown drinking tea, practicing tricks, movement through frosted windows. Language is her caravan on bricks, with tiny little windows in.” At the weekend he and his sister stood on the frosty bank beside his metaphor. She read the poster carefully, got them sat down in good time and at the back. The trapeze artist, lion tamer, freshly-made-up clown filled the top with a noise he could go on translating forever. Walking home she opened her chest: “I liked the mime best.”

for Vivian Schatz Here, in our familiar streets, the day is brisk with winter’s business. The reassuring rows of brick façades, litter baskets overflowing with the harvest of the streets and, when the light turns, the people move in unison, the cars miraculously slide to a stop, no one is killed, the streets, for some reason, do not show the blood that is pouring like a tide, on other shores. Martinez, the last peasant left alive in his village, refuses to run, hopes that God,El Salvador, will let him get the harvest in. “Can a fish live out of water?” he says for why he stays, and weeds another row, ignoring the fins of sharks that push up through the furrows. Here, it is said, we live in the belly of the beast. Ahab sits forever at the helm, his skin white wax, an effigy. The whale carries him, lashed to its side by the ropes from his own harpoon. His eyes are dead. His ivory leg juts from the flank of Leviathan like a useless tooth. One more time, the distant sail appears, a cloud forms, an old icon for mercy turned up in a dusty corner of the sky, preparing rain for the parched land, Rachel weeping for her children. “Can a fish live out of water?” he asks and the rain answers, in Spanish, manitas de plata little hands of silver on his brow.

April 3, 2011, Ai Weiwei was detained at the Beijing Airport .......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the sun    ...    81 spots in the flame    ...    each a nightmare one cannot wake up from    ...    Weiwei    ...    the last son    ...    you told me as we said goodbye    ...    your last night on the Lower East Side    ...    未未    ...    the last child of your Mother and Father    ...    born in the labor camp    ...    exiled from Beijing to the far desert    ...    watching your Father clean public latrines for singing the truth    ...    beaten cursed spat upon at every street corner    ...    why did you want to return?    ...    I asked    ...    did nyc streets no longer stir your blood?    ...    or the blackjack in Atlantic City get stale?    ...    you smiled    ...    as you flung dumpling skins out of my 13th floor window    ...    I need to go home    ...    to my father    ...    I need to speak    ...    speak indeed    ...    Weiwei    ...    with your big mouth that earned whips and bricks ever since you learned to talk    ...    and love from the people    ...    the small    ...    the poor    ...    the nameless    ...    babies poisoned by fake milk who had no time to cry mama    ...    children crushed under 
schools    ...    their bags flew across the sky like a dragon    ...    seeking their names    ...    you raked through the rubble    ...    through government files    ...    hide-and-seek with cops    ...    beaten until your brain hemorrhaged    ...    and you speak    ...    in Germany    ...    Tiananmen Square    ...    you speak    ...    watching your studio ransacked    ...    bulldozed    ...    and you speak    ...    threatened    ...    under house arrest    ...    and you speak    ...    inviting the guards into your studio for a cup of tea    ...    and you speak    ...    I’m used to pain    ...    you say    ...    and I’m ready to die suddenly or to disappear    ...    I’m the last son    ...    you say    ...    to your tormentors’ eyes    ...    I’m here for you    ...    so your babies will never again have to drink milk laced with poison    ...    so your daughter will never wonder when the classroom ceiling will drop on her    ...    so your parents will have shelter medicine food    ...    so you will never have to work at this job    ...    avoiding my eyes as you burn cigarettes into my chest    ...    push my face under the water    ...    I’m here for you    ...    all of you who speak the truth    ...    for China    ...    hello hello hello    ...    未未    ...    I mean why can’t you keep your mouth shut and enjoy what you have    ...    I mean you got money    ...    I mean you got fame    ...    I mean you got a beautiful wife and a two-year-old son    ...    don’t you want him to grow up like a normal child?    ...    but I am the son    ...    the last son of China    ...    
I have to speak as long as I have breath    ...    no matter how thin    ...    even if  you tear out my tongue    ...    I’ll still have my teeth    ...    even if you pull out my teeth    ...    I’ll still have my eyes    ...    even if you gouge out my eyes    ...    I’ll still have my ears    ...    even if you pierce my eardrums    ...    I’ll still have my hands    ...    even if you chop off my hands    ...    I’ll still have my guts    ...    even if you grind up my guts    ...    I’ll still have my heart that won’t stop beating    ...    even if you smash my heart into a million pieces    ...    they will turn into a billion sunflower seeds    ...    I mean how can you stop a sunflower from facing the sun    ...    how can you stop the sun from lighting up the earth    ...    hello hello hello    ...    Ai Weiwei    ...    
11 weeks have passed    ...    81 days and nights    ...    1,944 hours    ...    that’s 6,998,400 heartbeats from each of us    ...    whose heartstrings are tied to yours    ...    未未    ...    the last son of China    ...    艾未未    ...    pulse of the earth    ................

( can pickers ) i am a twentieth-century welfare recipient moonlighting in the sun as a latero a job invented by national and state laws designed to re-cycle aluminum cans to return to consumer acid laden gastric inflammation pituitary glands coca diet rite low-cal godsons of artificially flavored malignant indigestions somewhere down the line of a cancerous cell i collect from garbage cans in outdoor facilities congested with putrid residues my hands shelving themselves opening plastic bags never knowing what to encounter several times a day i touch evil rituals slit throats of chickens tongues of poisoned rats salivating on my index finger smells of month old rotten food next to pamper's diarrhea dry blood infectious diseases hypodermic needles tissued with heroine water drops pilfered in slimy grease blood hazardous waste materials but i cannot use rubber gloves they undermine my daily profit i am a twentieth-century welfare recipient moonlighting during the day as a latero making it big in america someday i might become experienced enough to offer technical assistance to other lateros i am thinking of publishing my own guide to latero collecting and founding a latero's union to offer medical dental benefits i am a twentieth-century welfare recipient moonlighting at night as a latero i am considered some kind of expert at collecting cans during fifth avenue parades i can now hire workers at twenty five cents an hour guaranteed salary and fifty per cent of two and one half cents profit on each can collected i am a twentieth-century welfare recipient moonlighting at midnight as a latero i am becoming an entrepreneur an american success story i have hired bag ladies to keep peddlers from my territories i have read in some guide to success that in order to get rich to make it big i have to sacrifice myself moonlighting until dawn by digging deeper into the extra can margin of profit i am on my way up the opportunistic ladder of success in ten years i will quit welfare to become a legitimate businessman i'll soon become a latero executive with corporate conglomerate intents god bless america.