November 2011


Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland

where you’re madder than I am

I’m with you in Rockland

where you must feel strange

I’m with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother
(more…)

Gold vessels of fine wines,
thousands a gallon,
Jade dishes of rare meats,
costing more thousands, (more…)

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o’ the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv’d, with thousand coloured eyes (more…)

These lacustrine cities grew out of loathing
Into something forgetful, although angry with history.
They are the product of an idea: that man is horrible, for instance,
Though this is only one example. (more…)
And we’ve forgotten till doomsdays,
In the wild capital – our prison – 
The towns, steppes, dawns and lakes
Of our great land, as if in treason.            
In a bloody circle, day and night,
We’re pined by the abusive leisure…
And none to help us in our plight,
Because we’ve stayed at Home, treasured,
Because, with love fully obsessed,
Instead of liberty, that honors,
We have preserved for ourselves
Its palaces, its flames and waters.

(more…)

But there’re, somewhere, the simple life and light,
Warm, gay and absolutely clear…
There, speaks a neighbor through the fences, light,
With a sweet girl, and only bees can hear –
The gentlest talking of this kind.

But here we live – the solemn ones and toilsome – 
And honor rites of our meetings, sad,
When our speech, just as a bud to blossom,
Is cut by wind, the cold and mad.

(more…)

I liked the bellows operated by rope.
A hand or a foot pedal – I don’t remember.
But that blowing and blazing of fire!
And a piece of iron in the fire, held there by tongs,
Red, softened, ready for the anvil,
Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe,
Thrown in a bucket of water, sizzle, steam.
And horses hitched to be shod,
Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river
Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair.
At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor,
Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds,
I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this:
To glorify things just because they are.

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