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.

The Heap

You stand before the mirror

in imprecation,

pressing your ulna

to the cracked paint.

                                                            

                     Zeal for your house—                                                                                                                Zeal for the name—

What is it that you have?

Eyes and tongue.

What is it that you want?

Peace, and more than peace.

The world entire.

Another world.

And what have you done in the earth?

Many things, and few.

Were they worth the doing?

I do not know.

And what will you do?

God! I do not know.

Attend.

There are wheels in the air,

luminous and free.

There are drums in the sea

whose beat you have heard.

There is a face in the fire,

too fierce for your eyes.

And what will you say?

                                                                                                                                    Zeal for the house—                                                                                                                                     Zeal for the name—

Life is longer than you know.

Somnolence

I am too much a sleeper,

too, too much a sleeper,

and here in the wreck

of the day I will sleep no

more on tangled bed.

I have broken windows

with my fist, and now I find

I can no more distinguish

skin from soul, nor mouth from mind,

and I must confess:

I am afraid.

In the empty boxes and the

scattered glass, the signs

may still be read: here is

umbra, penumbra,

here are vault and vine.

We have seen your splendid

instruments for the getting

of grief—I looked left

and the wall bled right.

Hooded eyes that sting

for sleep, and there is water

in them, a sea within the skull.

Ah, Lord—another day.

Yet another day.

Let this book be

my blood and bone—

reclined in chair,

let there be

words for me to live on.

Man is the making animal:

may the made bless the maker.

Elegy for the Shores

It will be good to see

the vision of the smith

in the midst of smoke

with hands composed

with shoulders set

his eyes narrowed with

the care of love

the shaper loves the shape

loves even

the thing that resists the shape

that will be formed only slowly

by the toil and the strain

The prairies are on fire

the skies are dark

but the fire does not burn

but the ashes do not choke

America that could have been

America that never was

O bright city

what has become of you

O high and shining walls

who is there to recall

your gleaming in the day

O young men

on what did you spend

your days and strength

and the sweat of your brow

and did you act in love

Who is there

to have mercy

and to mourn

What new land can we find

across what wide sea

where we can set

stones upon stones

Stones and Snakes

Remembrance is a butcher's
where lively blood
drains from lifeless things
Strange thought,
to look for succor here

In search of the rock
where the water springs
and the shoots might grow

the rock
that is higher
than my head,
that is higher than my head

the rock

Poised and hung,
positioned,
laid upon the gambrels

suspended on the
hanging-wire
between felt sin
(known guilt, the
consciousness of evil)

and the possibility of human goodness

a thought which has
for me both
power and pain
(the words alone can
give me chills)

The possibility of human goodness

The rock above my head

Et dixit Iesu:
ergo vos, cum sitis mali,
nostis bona data dare
filiis vestris...

On the Death of an Opossum

Noble liar, thy lie at last

Has come home to thee!

Thou couldst not long

Trick the trickster, Death

(Thy fate as well as mine,

The finger of almighty God

Crooked to claim thee).

This at least I can say for thee,

That death has scarcely made

Thee smell the worse, though,

Indeed, thou art now the more

Pungent since breath has left

Thy lungs (Lord, he stinketh),

But only by the thousandth part.

But, heart, dear Opossum!

This little dignity

Death has granted thee,

That thou art to me

Now an inconveniency.

I, who hated thee and thy kind

(Threadbare rats! with ragged tail),

Find thee in my way and on my mind,

Dead beside the safety rail—

And gladly leave thee behind.