His Toy, His Dream, His Rest
Page 3
at least,’ and with his thunder clapped a promise?
In that far away town
who lookt upon my mother with shame & rage
that any should endure such pilgrimage,
growled Henry sweating, grown
but not grown used to the goodness of this woman
in her great strength, in her hope superhuman,
no, no, not used at all.
I declare a mystery, he mumbled to himself,
of love, and took the bourbon from the shelf
and drank her a tall one, tall.
101
A shallow lake, with many waterbirds,
especially egrets: I was showing Mother around,
An extraordinary vivid dream
of Betty & Douglas, and Don—his mother’s estate
was on the grounds of a lunatic asylum.
He showed me around.
A policeman trundled a siren up the walk.
It was 6:05 p.m., Don was late home.
I askt if he ever saw
the inmates—‘No, they never leave their cells.’
Betty was downstairs, Don called down ‘A drink’
while showering.
I can’t go into the meaning of the dream
except to say a sense of total LOSS
afflicted me thereof:
an absolute disappearance of continuity & love
and children away at school, the weight of the cross,
and everything is what it seems.
102
The sunburnt terraces which swans make home
with water purling, Macchu Pichu died
like Delphi long ago—
a message to Justinian closing it out,
the thousand years’ authority, although
tho’ never found exactly wrong
political patterns did indeed emerge;
the Oracle was conservative, like Lippmann,
roared the winds on the height,
The Shining Ones behind the shrine, whose verge
saw the impious plunged, 6000 statues
above the Temple shone
plundered, centuries plundered, first the gold
then bronze & marble, then the plinths,
then the dead nerve—
root-canal-work, ugh. I—I still hold
for the saviour of teeth, & I embrace
only he threw me a vicious
103
I consider a song will be as humming-bird
swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange
as the world of anti-matter
where they are wondering: does time run backward—
which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;
but can Henry write it?
Wreckt, in deep danger, he shook once his head,
returning to meditation. And word had sped
all from the farthest West
that Henry was desired: can he get free
of the hanging menace, & this all, and go?
He doesn’t think so.
Therefore he shakes and he will sing no more,
much less a song as fast as said, as light,
so deep, so flexing. He broods.
He may, rehearsing, here of his bad year
at the very end, in squalor, ill, outside.
—Happy New Year, Mr Bones.
104
Welcome, grinned Henry, welcome, fifty-one!
I never cared for fifty, when nothing got done.
The hospitals were fun
in certain ways, and an honour or so,
but on the whole fifty was a mess as though
heavy clubs from below
and from—God save the bloody mark—above
were loosed upon his skull & soles. O love,
what was you loafing of
that fifty put you off, out & away,
leaving the pounding, horrid sleep by day,
nights naught but fits. I pray
the opening decade contravene its promise
to be as bad as all the others. Is
there something Henry miss
in the jungle of the gods whom Henry’s prayer to?
Empty temples—a decade of dark-blue
sins, son, worse than you.
105
As a kid I believed in democracy: I
‘saw no alternative’—teaching at The Big Place I ah
put it in practice:
we’d time for one long novel: to a vote—
Gone with the Wind they voted: I crunched ‘No’
and we sat down with War & Peace.
As a man I believed in democracy (nobody
ever learns anything): only one lazy day
my assistant, called James Dow,
& I were chatting, in a failure of meeting of minds,
and I said curious ‘What are your real politics?’
‘Oh, I’m a monarchist.’
Finishing his dissertation, in Political Science.
I resign. The universal contempt for Mr Nixon,
whom never I liked but who
alert & gutsy served us years under a dope,
since dynasty K swarmed in. Let’s have a King
maybe, before a few mindless votes.
106
28 July
Calmly, while sat up friendlies & made noise
delight fuller than he can ready sing
or studiously say,
on hearing that the year had swung to pause
and culminated in an abundant thing,
came his Lady’s birthday.
Dogs fill daylight, doing each other ill:
my own in love was lugged so many blocks
we had to have a vet.
Comes unrepentant round the lustful mongrel
again today, glaring at her bandages & locks:
his bark has grit.
This screen-porch where my puppy suffers and
I swarm I hope with hurtless love is now
towards the close of day
the scene of a vision of friendlies who withstand
animal nature so far as to allow
grace awhile to stay.
107
Three ’coons come at his garbage. He be cross,
I figuring porcupine & took Sir poker
unbarring Mr door,
& then screen door. Ah, but the little ’coon,
hardly a foot (not counting tail) got in with
two more at the porch-edge
and they swirled, before some two swerve off
this side of crab tree, and my dear friend held
with the torch in his tiny eyes
two feet off, banded, but then he gave &
shot away too. They were all the same size,
maybe they were brothers,
it seems, and is, clear to me we are brothers,
I wish the rabbit & the ’coons could be friends,
I’m sorry about the poker
but I’m too busy now for nipping or quills
I’ve given up literature & taken down pills,
and that rabbit doesn’t trust me
108
Sixteen below. Our cars like stranded hulls
litter all day our little Avenue.
It was 28 below.
No one goes anywhere. Fabulous calls
to duty clank. Icy dungeons, though,
have much to mention to you.
At Harvard & Yale must Pussy-cat be heard
in the dead of winter when we must be sad
and feel by the weather had.
Chrysanthemums crest, far away, in the Emperor’s garden
and, whenever we are, we must beg always pardon
Pardon was the word.
Pardon was the only word, in ferocious cold
like Asiatic prisons, where we live
and strive and strive to forgive.
Melted my honey, summers ago. I told
her true & summer things. S
he leaned an ear
in my direction, here.
109
She mentioned ‘worthless’ & he took it in,
degraded Henry, at the ebb of love—
O at the end of love—
in undershorts, with visitors, whereof
we can say their childlessness is ending. Love
finally took over,
after their two adopted: she has a month to go
and Henry has (perhaps) many months to go
until another Spring
wakens another Henry, with far to go;
far to go, pal.
My pussy-willow ceased. The tiger-lily dreamed.
All we dream, uncertain, in Syracuse & here
& there: dread we our loves, whereas the National Geographic
is on its way somewhere.
We’re not. We’re on our way to the little fair
and the cops & the flicks & the single flick
who’ll solve our intolerable problem.
110
It was the blue & plain ones. I forget all that.
My own clouds darkening hung.
Besides, it wasn’t serious.
They took them in different rooms & fed them lies.
‘She admitted you wanted to get rid of it.’
‘He told us he told you to.’
The Force, with its rapists con-men murderers,
has been our Pride (trust Henry) eighty years;—
now Teddy was hard on.
Still the tradition persists, beat up, beat on,
take, take. Frame. Get set; cover up.
The Saturday confessions are really something.
Here was there less or nothing in question but horror.
She left his brother’s son two minutes but—
as I say I forget that—
during the time he drowned. The laundry lived
and they lived, uncharged, and went their ways apart
with the blessing of the N.Y. Police Force.
111
I miss him. When I get back to camp
I’ll dig him up. Well, he can prop & watch,
can’t he, pink or blue,
and I will talk to him. I miss him. Slams,
grand or any, aren’t for the tundra much.
One face-card will do.
It’s marvellous how four sit down—beyond
my thought how many tables sometimes are
in forgotten clubs
across & down the world. Your fever conned
us, pal. Will it work out, my solitaire?
The blubber’s safe in the tubs,
the dogs are still, & all’s well … nine long times
I loosed & buried. Then I shot him dead.
I don’t remember why.
The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes,
thinks I killed him. The black cards are red
and where’s the others? I—
112
My framework is broken, I am coming to an end,
God send it soon. When I had most to say
my tongue clung to the roof
I mean of my mouth. It is my Lady’s birthday
which must be honoured, and has been. God send
it soon.
I now must speak to my disciples, west
and east. I say to you, Do not delay
I say, expectation is vain.
I say again, It is my Lady’s birthday
which must be honoured. Bring her to the test
at once.
I say again, It is my Lady’s birthday
which must be honoured, for her high black hair
but not for that alone:
for every word she utters everywhere
shows her good soul, as true as a healed bone,—
being part of what I meant to say.
113
or Amy Vladeck or Riva Freifeld
That isna Henry limping. That’s a hobble
clapped on mere Henry by the most high GOD
for the freedom of Henry’s soul.
—The body’s foul, cried god, once, twice, & bound it—
For many years I hid it from him successfully—
I’m not clear how he found it
But now he has it—much good may it do him
in the vacant spiritual of space—
only Russians & Americans
to as it were converse with—weel, one Frenchman
to liven up the airless with one nose
& opinions clever & grim.
God declared war on Valerie Trueblood,
against Miss Kaplan he had much to say
O much to say too.
My memory of his kindness comes like a flood
for which I flush with gratitude; yet away
he shouldna have put down Miss Trueblood.
114
Henry in trouble whirped out lonely whines.
When ich when was ever not in trouble?
But did he whip out whines
afore? And when check in wif ales & lifelines
anyone earlier O? —Some, now, Mr Bones,
many. —I am fleeing double:
Mr Past being no friends of mine,
all them around: Sir Future Dubious,
calamitous & grand:
I can no foothold here; wherefore I pines
for Dr Present, who won’t thrive to us
hand over neither hand
from them blue depths nor choppering down skies
does Dr Present vault unto his task.
Henry is weft on his own.
Pluck Dr Present. Let his grievous wives
thrall lie to livey toads. May his chains bask.
lower him, Capt Owen, into the sun.
115
Her properties, like her of course & frisky & new:
a stale cake sold to kids, a 7-foot weed
inside in the Great Neck night,
a record (‘great’), her work all over as u-
sual rejected. She odd in a bakery.
The owner stand beside her
and she have to sell to the brother & sister jumping
without say ‘One week old.’ Her indifference
to the fate of her manuscripts
(which flash) to a old hand is truly somefing.
I guess: she’ll take the National Book Award
presently, with like flare & indifference.
A massive, unpremeditated, instantaneous
transfer of solicitude from the thing to the creature
Henry sometimes felt.
A state of chancy mind when facts stick out
frequent was his, while that this shrugging girl,
keen, do not quit, he knelt.
(Having so swiftly, and been by, let down.)
116
Through the forest, followed, Henry made his silky way.
No chickadee was troubled, small moss smiled
on his swift passage.
But there were those ahead when at midday
they met in a clearing and lookt at each other awhile.
To kill was not the message.
He only could go with them—odds? 20 to one-and-a-half:
pointless. Besides, palaver with the High Chief
might advance THE CAUSE.
Undoubtedly down they sat and they did talk
and one did balk & stuck but one did stalk
a creation of new laws.
He smoked the pipe of peace—the scene? tepees,
wigwams, papooses, buffalo hides, a high fire—
with everyone,
even that abnormally scrubbed & powerful one,
shivering with power, held together with wires,
his worst enemy.
117
Disturbed, when Henry’s love returned with a hubby,—
I see that, Henry, I don’t put that down,—
he thought he had to think
or with a razor like a skating-rink
&n
bsp; have more to say or more to them downtown
in the Christmas season, like a hobby.
Their letters will, released, shake the mapped world
at some point, in the National Geographic.
(Friend, that hurt.)
It’s horrible how near she was my hurt
in the old days—now she’s a lawyer twirled
halfway around her finger
and I am elated & vague for love of her
and she is chilly & lost for love of me
and we are for each other
that which needs which, corresponding to Henry’s mother
but which can not have, like the lifting sea
over each other’s fur.
118
He wondered: Do I love? all this applause,
young beauties sitting at my feet & all,
and all.
It tires me out, he pondered: I’m tempted to break laws
and love myself, or the stupid questions asked me
move me to homicide—
so many beauties, one on either side,
the wall’s behind me, into which I crawl
out of my repeating voice—
the mike folds down, the foolish askers fall
over theirselves in an audience of ashes
and Henry returns to rejoice
in dark & still, and one sole beauty only
who never walked near Henry while the mob
was at him like a club:
she saw through things, she saw that he was lonely
and waited while he hid behind the wall
and all.
119
Fresh-shaven, past months & a picture in New York
of Beard Two, I did have Three took off. Well. .
Shadow & act, shadow & act,
Better get white or you’ get whacked,
or keep so-called black
& raise new hell.
I’ve had enough of this dying.
You’ve done me a dozen goodnesses; get well.
Fight again for our own.
Henry felt baffled, in the middle of the thing.
He spent his whole time in Ireland on the Book of Kells,
the jackass, made of bone.
No tremor, no perspire: Heaven is here
now, in Minneapolis.
It’s easier to vomit than it was,
beardless.
There’s always the cruelty of scholarship.