Febrile

the obscene in verse:

            I am the ephemera of

            the mind dissolving, the

            broken lease of the body,

            fever sweat, the little

            indignities of indigestion

           

                        the logic of word and

                        deed will die with you,

                        I have none—if there

                        were time, but there is

                        no time—knuckles swell—

                                    putrid and prurient

                                    dizzy from the fall

                                    of man, gorged and

                                    gagging, bound and sold

                                    under teenaged irony

                                                the obscene in verse

Jagers

Rub raw the soul

            with the inward eye,

                        for the peace of contrition

                                    is the province of the cruel.

Closeness to the earth

            is to be valued more highly

                        than the meditatio, more highly

than the noche oscuro, and

            the gift of vision.

Do you know the feel

            of sweat in the winter,

                        or the shallow breaths?

                                    Weary the shoulders

                        and sore the foot—

            there is a peace in failure.

                       

Honors due to Bruegel,

            the master, who put oil

on wood and fire in the eye.

run, river, run

we the dead assembled

in aspect and likeness

would speak our words
run, river, run

i was a mother

a mother and

i pressed my babies

into the soil

i never meant to

i never meant to

but here we are

across the jordan

what presence can i have had

flitting through the lives

of hale and healthy ones

you do not know me

you can’t have done

you can’t you can’t

the tailor came around

and said his piece

but we had none of it

we put him right out the door

some people are beyond helping

kindness leads to shiftlessness

that’s what my pappy always said

those fine lads going off to war

a blaze of brass and glory

i was there and i was watching

my heart so full of pride

full of piss and vinegar

they never did come back

those boys

but they did our village proud

they killed lots and lots of krauts

their bodies came back in boxes

with medals on their coats

i remember one day

i saw mister paul and miss lyle

leaning in a corner

they looked so grown up

and the light played on their faces

and i swear i never did see a sight so fine

and he closed the door and looked out across

the hall and his eyes fell on me

and i longed to know

what stood behind those walls

and i never did learn

in all my life

what stood behind those walls

one day she was standing

there right ahead of me

& she leaned in to smooth my hair

& i could feel the breath of her mouth

on my forehead

& i didn’t kiss her on

her pale lips though i wished to

why didn’t i do it

why didn’t i just

kiss her… ? on the lips

& it’s always too late now

too late too late

for kisses

i miss everyone

all the time

i just wanted you

to know that

i just want you to know that

the next time could always be the last time

to hear and to hold

to touch hands

to drink wine together

on this side of the river

that runs forever

In Stature and Favor

We lie to children, when they are young,

for fear that they will be satisfied

We lie to our children because we

have not been satisfied

And we say:
It is in the nature of things to break

But I tell you that nature is not nature

Nature is not nature, no

Nature is not

And we say:

It is not the wanting

but the object

and the wanting is pure

and the object is false

But I say to you

that God is in the bird-shit

and God is in the river

The one who wants is false

and therefore also the wanting

And there is joy in the wreck

and there is fear in the ribbon

and the fear is broken on account

of the break in the man

And we say:

It is well for the young to be quick

and for the young men to quarrel

and die

But I tell you that youth

is the time to be weary, youth

and the end of youth

And if God gives the mercy,

perhaps we will sleep

And if God gives the duty,

perhaps we will wake

And I am writing to you,

young men, because you

have been wearied

and seen the new city

And I am writing to you,

young ladies, because

you have been worried

at the smell of decay

We lie to the old

because we are afraid

that they will not want to die

And old men are dreamers

and they will not be deceived

They will not be unaware

of the stranger

When the divided fire falls on your head,

you will speak and know

and the violence of things will be clear

Burial At Sea

Richard died away from England

away from the white shore and the standing stones

and where they spoke in words he had forgotten

Richard died of rot

not bleeding but rotting

and blessed and pardoned as he died

Frederick Barbarossa died in water

in water and not upon the earth

nor raised aloft in air

but in water that bore him under

that bore him away

Kaiser Rotbart

er liegt unter Wasser

er schläft unter Berg

Burial at sea

in the shifting deep

where no tracks are made

and no stones declare

the name and the deeds of the buried man

Burial at sea

under the sign of exodus

and the sign of resurrection

Men forget their fathers

and men forget their homes

but the sea remembers

all her dead

Razor Burn

In my head there are streets where

The men of talent go—Berliner,

Parisienne—They rattle at the tables.

If there were time (but there is

No time)—The dry pen in my

Pocket meets the crumpled page on

My desk. There are streets in my

Head, lovely streets, and dark.

The walk is long—Los Angeles to

Birkenau—The walk is long and
we whistle as we go.

No lesser guide will do, my Florentine,

No lesser guide will do. If we are

To pass and know the unseen city

Without, within us, only the builder

Shall be the guide. Hail—well met!

And lead us on.

Johann is singing now of spring,

Of pretty girls in May,

And Tom is singing

Of the fall

(Or better, when the fall becomes the winter,

When the decaying dies and turns to barren,

When the puddles freeze

And the sun is white

And the only bird we see

Is the flashing cardinal

In the bare and perfect trees).

If there were time,

But there is no time—

Let’s take a tour, my fellows—

Viennese, Mancunian—let’s take

A tour of my own country

Where I can show you

The crooked bones—

The crooked heart—

The pulse of poison in my brain.

Let’s take a tour, my men of letters,

And see the summer of our lives.

There are streets inside my head

Where lesser guides are lost,

Where men of talent drink and cry

And make verses without meter.

I wish that I were only

Missing some piece—

“Why, he lacks this perfecting part!

That should not be… Here we are,

Good as new, a right Lazarus of a man!”—

I wish I had a jigsaw heart.

But what am I,

If not “I”?

I do and speak and act and am.

There is no other I.

If there were time, but there is no time…

I have heard the sound of his approach,

Been wary of his feet.

Run to ground, run to ground—

Foxes have their holes—

If there were time but there is no time.

He is the hunt behind all hunters,

The heat that leads us to caress

He routs me out! He routs me out!

I cannot stand the coming—

John is rapt and pleased withal—

I smolder and I bruise!

There are streets within my head

Where doors are framed in blood

But my house, my hearth remain

Without. Die ganze Welt ist

Heimat, treu, die volle Welt,

Die häuslich' Erde auch.

I fold me up,

I pray and sleep,

I sleep and dream—

I pray and dream of cities.

Are you drunk?

No, it’s Lent.

Ashes to ashes—

In my flesh—

Dust to dust—

I will see God—

A pen of iron,

       A serpent, bronze.