borsht

seraphim

yacketayakking

Howl

Adonis of Denver

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

pederasty

Wait in the still eternity      Until I come to you,

Be still, be still, my precious child,      I must not give you birth!

The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,

I sit and sew

That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him.

I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo. But say, I was where I could see his face, And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle, A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on them

Praying slave Jazz-band after Breaking heart To the time of laughter … Clinking chains and minstrelsy Are wedged fast with melody.

Abandon tells you That I sing the heart of race While sadness whispers That I am the cry of a soul …

But let us break the seal of years With pungent thrusts of song, For there is joy in long-dried tears For whetted passions of a throng!

“Peter, I really cain’t tell, The place was Dixie That I took for hell.

They taught you the religion they disgraced.

Sing us ’bout de hard luck Roun’ our do’; Sing us ’bout de lonesome road We mus’ go. . . .

Ain’t got nobody but ma self. I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.

syncopated

I heard the singing of the Mississippi

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying

dead sound

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

laquearia

Pat ten patent, Pat ten patent.

slatterns

Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

apparition

vers libres

Pay no attention to the criticism of men who have never themselves written a notable work.

Unthorned into the tending hand Releases. . . yet that hour will come. . . And must, in such a spiny land. The sikly, powdery mignonette Before these gathering dews are gone May pierce me

I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.

Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

Abishag

I could say “Elves” to him, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather He said it for himself.

“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

“Lucinda Matlock”

Triolets, villanelles, rondels, rondeaus,

tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick

harvest moon

acquiescent

John is a physician, and PERHAPS—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.

little girl

dyspeptic

O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand, All night long crying with a mournful cry, As I lie and listen, and cannot understand The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea, O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I? All night long the water is crying to me. Unresting water, there shall never be rest Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail, And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west; And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea, All life long crying without avail, As the water all night long is crying to me.

Donna, sei tanto grande, e tanto vali, Che qual vuol grazia, e a te non ricorre, Sua disianza vuol volar senz’ ali.

Quae quondam rerum naturam sola gubernas.

Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar, Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,

Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter, Out of black bean and wet slate bread,