517 Social commentaries poems

Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up. The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho ... The dump is full Of images. Days pass like papers from a press. The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun, And so the moon, both come, and the janitor’s poems Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears, The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea. The freshness of night has been fresh a long time. The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs More than, less than or it puffs like this or that. The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew For buttons, how many women have covered themselves With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew. One grows to hate these things except on the dump. Now, in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums, Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox), Between that disgust and this, between the things That are on the dump (azaleas and so on) And those that will be (azaleas and so on), One feels the purifying change. One rejects The trash. That’s the moment when the moon creeps up To the bubbling of bassoons. That’s the time One looks at the elephant-colorings of tires. Everything is shed; and the moon comes up as the moon (All its images are in the dump) and you see As a man (not like an image of a man), You see the moon rise in the empty sky. One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail. One beats and beats for that which one believes. That’s what one wants to get near. Could it after all Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear To a crow’s voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear, Peck the heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear Solace itself in peevish birds? Is it peace, Is it a philosopher’s honeymoon, one finds On the dump? Is it to sit among mattresses of the dead, Bottles, pots, shoes and grass and murmur aptest eve: Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and say Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone? Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.

Written after seeing Millet’s World-Famous Painting God made man in His own image, in the image of God made He him. —Genesis. Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this— More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed— More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More fraught with danger to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched ? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— With those who shaped him to the thing he is— When this dumb Terror shall reply to God After the silence of the centuries?

Up in the billboard, over old South Station, the Captain, all wide grin and ruddy cheek, held up a golden shot of Cutty Sark high as the skyline where the sunset spread a gold fan from the twig-like spars and rigging of a departing clipper ship. Above the picture the dull haze of a real sun rose, dragging the day up with it. Seven o’clock. The agitated horns, brakes, fingers, and catcalls down below me were already merging and channeling everybody on to warehouse, factory, department store and office. My father and uncle talking over all the goods to be received that day, the goods delivered, their two reflections in the window floating like blurry ghosts within the Captain’s grin, their voices raised a little above the soft erratic humming of the big machines, the riveters and pressers, warming, rousing: The Century order, did it get out last night? And had the buckles come from Personal? Who’d go do Jaffey? Who’d diddle Abramowitz and Saperstein? Those cocksucking sons of bitches, cut their balls off if they fuck with us . . . How automatically at any provocation I can aim the words at anybody now, woman or man, the reverberating angry this, not that, in ‘pussy’, ‘cocksucker’, ‘fuckhead’, hammered down so far inside me it’s almost too securely there to feel. But I was thirteen then, and for the first time old enough to have my father say these things in front of me, which must have meant I was a man now too, I listened (blushing, ashamed of blushing) for clues of what it was I had become, or was supposed to be: It did and didn’t have to do with bodies, being a man, it wasn’t fixed in bodies, but somehow passed between them, going to by being taken from, ever departing, ever arriving, unstoppable as money, and moving in a limited supply it seemed to follow where the money went. Being a man was something that you did to other men, which meant a woman was what other men became when you would do them. Either you gave a fucking, or you took one, did or were done to, it was simple as that. Somebody shouted from beyond the office that Tony had passed out in the can again. ‘The lush, the no good lush,’ my uncle said, ‘get him the fuck out of here for good, will ya.’ The stall door swung back, scrawled with giant cocks, tits, asses and cunts, beyond which in the shadows my father was gently wrestling with the man, trying to hold him steady while his free hand shimmied the tangled shorts and trousers up over the knees and hips, and even got the shirt tucked in, the pants zipped deftly enough for Tony not to notice, though he did. Even then I knew they’d fire him, and that it wasn’t gratitude at all that made the man weep inconsolably, his head bowed, nodding, as my father led him to the elevator, still with his arm around him, patting his shoulder, easing him through the door. I knew the tenderness that somewhere else could possibly have been a lover’s or a father’s could here be only an efficient way to minimize the trouble. And yet it seemed somehow my father was too adept at it, too skillful, not to feel it in some way. And feeling it not to need to pull back, to separate himself from what the rest of him was doing, which was why, I think, his face throughout was blank, expressionless like the faces of the presidents on the bills he handed Tony as the door slid shut. The men fast at the riveters and pressers and the long row of women at the Singers were oil now even more than men or women, mute oil in the loud revving of the place, a blur of hands on automatic pilot, slipping leather through the pumping needles, under the thrusting rods, the furious hammers, the nearly invisible whirring of the blades. ‘Come on now, Al, it’s time,’ my father said, and the Captain seemed to grin a little wider, as if his pleasure there at the end of his unending day grew freer, more disencumbered, because he saw me at the start of mine, under my father’s arm, his soft voice broken against the noise into an unfollowable tune of favors and petty cash, and how much ass he had to kiss to get me this, and I should be a man now and not disappoint him.

A Schwinn-ride away: Eagledale Plaza. Shopping strip of busted walkways, crooked parking spaces nicked like the lines on the sides of somebody’s mom-barbered head. Anchored by the Piccadilly disco, where a shootout was guaranteed every weekend, those gun claps: coughing stars shot from sideways guns shiny enough to light the way for anyone willing to keep a head up long enough to see. Not me. I bought the Star Map Shirt for 15¢ at the Value Village next to the Piccadilly during the daytime. The shirt was polyester with flyaway collars, outlined in the forgotten astronomies of disco. The shirt’s washed-out points of light: arranged in horse & hero shapes & I rocked it in places neither horse nor hero hung out. Polyester is made from polyethylene & catches fire easily like wings near a thrift store sun. Polyethylene, used in shampoo bottles, gun cases, & those grocery sacks skidding like upended stars across the parking lot. There are more kinds of stars in this universe than salt granules on drive-thru fries. Too many stars, lessening & swelling with each pedal pump away from the Value Village as the electric billboard above flashes first one dui attorney, then another who speaks Spanish so the sky above is constantly chattering, like the biggest disco ball ever.

Under the level winter sky I saw a thousand Christs go by. They sang an idle song and free As they went up to calvary. Careless of eye and coarse of lip, They marched in holiest fellowship. That heaven might heal the world, they gave Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave. With souls unpurged and steadfast breath They supped the sacrament of death. And for each one, far off, apart, Seven swords have rent a woman's heart.

Money changed hands. It’s how we came to be Came to be planted here in the mortar In the miniature cash forest Aster greenwood ficus hemlock Taproot stipe calyx anther in the Mortal hereafter Hearing hands making money change. Speak up. I can’t hear you. There’s something wrong with your voice. You’re speaking too fast. Slow up. Speak into the currency. It wants to bone you. It wants to receive Your warmth in its coffers. Listen up. I’ve a fee to see to A toll-man a drawbridge. Open up. Close up. You have a cross bite In your crown, palate-ax. Bite down. Bite my ball Bearing interest. I’m a businessman. I own a plant. I bid for it, bought it, soiled it, drowned it Tilled it, scolded it, heaved into it, stole from it Wept unto it A token in its behalf, suffered a stem To rise in it To market, to market In my dirty jumpsuit Worthlessness.

Adjectives continue their downward spiral, with adverbs likely to follow. Wisdom,grace, and beauty can be had three for a dollar, as they head for a recession. Diaphanous,filigree, pearlescent, and love are now available at wholesale prices. Verbs are still blue-chip investments, but not many are willing to sell. The image market is still strong, but only for those rated AA or higher. Beware of cheap imitations sold by the side of the road. Only the most conservative consider rhyme a good option, but its success in certain circles warrants a brief mention. The ongoing search for fresh metaphor has caused concern among environmental activists, who warn that both the moon and the sea have measurably diminished since the dawn of the Romantic era. Latter-day prosodists are having to settle for menial positions in poultry plants, where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms is considered a valuable trait. The outlook for the future remains uncertain, and troubled times may lie ahead. Supply will continue to outpace demand, and the best of the lot will remain unread.

My mind is like a clamorous market-place. All day in wind, rain, sun, its babel wells; Voice answering to voice in tumult swells. Chaffering and laughing, pushing for a place, My thoughts haste on, gay, strange, poor, simple, base; This one buys dust, and that a bauble sells: But none to any scrutiny hints or tells The haunting secrets hidden in each sad face. The clamour quietens when the dark draws near; Strange looms the earth in twilight of the West, Lonely with one sweet star serene and clear, Dwelling, when all this place is hushed to rest, On vacant stall, gold, refuse, worst and best, Abandoned utterly in haste and fear.

APPLES Come buy my fine wares, Plums, apples and pears. A hundred a penny, In conscience too many: Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in Heaven; My husband’s a sot, With his pipe and his pot, Not a farthen will gain them, And I must maintain them. ONIONS Come, follow me by the smell, Here are delicate onions to sell; I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, You’ll feed like a farmer; For this is every cook’s opinion, No savoury dish without an onion; But, lest your kissing should be spoiled, Your onions must be thoroughly boiled: Or else you may spare Your mistress a share, The secret will never be known: She cannot discover The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own. HERRINGS Be not sparing, Leave off swearing. Buy my herring Fresh from Malahide, Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread, Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.

Dear Sirs: I have been enjoying the law and order of our community throughout the past three months since my wife and I, our two cats, and miscellaneous photographs of the six grandchildren belonging to our previous neighbors (with whom we were very close) arrived in Saratoga Springs which is clearly prospering under your custody Indeed, until yesterday afternoon and despite my vigilant casting about, I have been unable to discover a single instance of reasons for public-spirited concern, much less complaint You may easily appreciate, then, how it is that I write to your office, at this date, with utmost regret for the lamentable circumstances that force my hand Speaking directly to the issue of the moment: I have encountered a regular profusion of certain unidentified roses, growing to no discernible purpose, and according to no perceptible control, approximately one quarter mile west of the Northway, on the southern side To be specific, there are practically thousands of the aforementioned abiding in perpetual near riot of wild behavior, indiscriminate coloring, and only the Good Lord Himself can say what diverse soliciting of promiscuous cross-fertilization As I say, these roses, no matter what the apparent background, training, tropistic tendencies, age, or color, do not demonstrate the least inclination toward categorization, specified allegiance, resolute preference, consideration of the needs of others, or any other minimal traits of decency May I point out that I did not assiduously seek out this colony, as it were, and that these certain unidentified roses remain open to viewing even by children, with or without suitable supervision (My wife asks me to append a note as regards the seasonal but nevertheless seriously licentious phenomenon of honeysuckle under the moon that one may apprehend at the corner of Nelson and Main However, I have recommended that she undertake direct correspondence with you, as regards this: yet another civic disturbance in our midst) I am confident that you will devise and pursue appropriate legal response to the roses in question If I may aid your efforts in this respect, please do not hesitate to call me into consultation Respectfully yours,