English poetry

Poems in English

The Sun Weilds Mercy

and the sun weilds mercy
But like a jet torch carried to high,
And the jets whip across its sight
And rockets leap like toads,
And the boys get out the maps
And pin-cuishon the moon,
Old green cheese,
No life there but too much on earth:
Our unwashed India boys
Crosssing their legs, playing pipes,
Starving with sucked in bellies,
Watching the snakes volute
Like beautiful women in the hungry air;
The rockets leap,
The rockets leap like hares,
Clearing clump and dog
Replacing out-dated bullets;
The Chineses still carve
In jade, quietly stuffing rice
Into their hunger, a hunger
A thousand years old,
Their muddy rivers moving with fire
And song, barges, houseboats
Pushed by drifting poles
Of waiting without wanting;
In Turkey they face the East
On their carpets
Praying to a purple god
Who smokes and laughs
And sticks fingers in their eyes
Blinding them, as gods will do;
But the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
For some reason, precious;
Madness drifts like lily pads
On a pond circling senselessly;
The painters paint dipping
Their reds and greens and yellows,
Poets rhyme their lonliness,
Musicians starve as always
And the novelists miss the mark,
But not the pelican, the gull;
Pelicans dip and dive, rise,
Shaking shocked half-dead
Radioactive fish from their beaks;
Indeed, indeed, the waters wash
The rocks with slime; and on wall st.
The market staggers like a lost drunk
Looking for his key; ah,
This will be a good one, by God:
It will take us back to the
Sabre-teeth, the winged monkey
Scrabbling in pits over bits
Of helmet, instrument and glass;
A lightning crashes across
The window and in a million rooms
Lovers lie entwined and lost
And sick as peace;
The sky still breaks red and orange for the
Painters-and for the lovers,
Flowers open as they always have
Opened but covered with thin dust
Of rocket fuel and mushrooms,
Poison mushrooms; it’s a bad time,
A dog-sick time-curtain
Act 3, standing room only,
By god, by somebody and something,
By rockets and generals and
Leaders, by poets, doctors, comedians,
By manufacturers of soup
And biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters
Of their own indexerity;
I can now see now the coal-slick
Contanminated fields, a snail or 2,
Bile, obsidian, a fish or 3
In the shallows, an obloquy of our
Source and our sight…..
Has this happend before? is history
A circle that catches itself by the tail,
A dream, a nightmare,
A general’s dream, a presidents dream,
A dictators dream…
Can’t we awaken?
Or are the forces of life greater than we are?
Can’t we awaken? must we foever,
Dear freinds, die in our sleep?

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Poem The Sun Weilds Mercy - Charles Bukowski