The Danger Of Writing Defiant Verse

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1. A Certain Lady Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head, And drink your rushing words with eager lips, And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red, And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips. When you rehearse your list of loves to me, Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed. And you laugh back, nor […]...
2. Danger With what a childish and short-sighted sense Fear seeks for safety; recons up the days Of danger and escape, the hours and ways Of death; it breathless flies the pestilence; It walls itself in towers of defence; By land, by sea, against the storm it lays Down barriers; then, comforted, it says: “This spot, this […]...
3. How a Little Girl Sang Ah, she was music in herself, A symphony of joyousness. She sang, she sang from finger tips, From every tremble of her dress. I saw sweet haunting harmony, An ecstasy, an ecstasy, In that strange curling of her lips, That happy curling of her lips. And quivering with melody Those eyes I saw, that tossing […]...
4. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 39. Old warder of these buried bones Old warder of these buried bones, And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves […]...
5. TO BRENDA WILLIAMS 'WRITING AGAINST THE GRAIN&#039 It was Karl Shapiro who wrote in his ‘Defence of Ignorance’ how many poets Go mad or seem to be so and the majority think we should all be in jail Or mental hospital and you have ended up in both places – fragile as bone china, Your pale skin taut, your fingers clasped tight […]...
6. Verse For a Certain Dog Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes, Dear little friend of mine, I never knew. All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise. (For Heaven’s sake, stop worrying that shoe!) You look about, and all you see is fair; This mighty globe was made for you alone. Of all the thunderous ages, you’re the heir. (Get […]...
7. I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair I do not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair; Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which the subtle spider weaves. I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, love’s bowers; Though such cunning […]...
8. Loving In Truth, And Fain In Verse My Love To Show Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That She, dear She, might take some pleasure of my pain, -Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain – I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, […]...
9. The Last Supper Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, And the mouth so mocking gay, A wanton you to the finger-tips, Who break men’s hearts in play; A thing of dust I have striven for, Honour and manhood given for, Headlong to ruin driven for, And this is the last, you say. . . . Drinking your wine […]...
10. For An Unknown Lady Lady, if you’d slumber sound, Keep your eyes upon the ground. If you’d toss and turn at night, Slip your glances left and right. Would the mornings find you gay, Never give your heart away. Would they find you pale and sad, Fling it to a whistling lad. Ah, but when his pleadings burn, Will […]...
11. Courage O lonely heart so timid of approach, Like the shy tropic flower that shuts its lips To the faint touch of tender finger tips: What is your word? What question would you broach? Your lustrous-warm eyes are too sadly kind To mask the meaning of your dreamy tale, Your guarded life too exquisitely frail Against […]...
12. Sonnet (1928) I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, […]...
13. A Proud Lady Hate in the world’s hand Can carve and set its seal Like the strong blast of sand Which cuts into steel. I have seen how the finger of hate Can mar and mould Faces burned passionate And frozen cold. Sorrowful faces worn As stone with rain, Faces writhing with scorn And sullen with pain. But […]...
14. The End Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain I hear your words in mournful cadence toll Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain To batter down resistance, fall again Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole, The bitter blows of truth, until the whole Is hammered into fact made strangely plain. Where […]...
15. Picture-Writing In those days said Hiawatha, “Lo! how all things fade and perish! From the memory of the old men Pass away the great traditions, The achievements of the warriors, The adventures of the hunters, All the wisdom of the Medas, All the craft of the Wabenos, All the marvellous dreams and visions Of the Jossakeeds, […]...
16. Farewell To Verse In youth when oft my muse was dumb, My fancy nighly dead, To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head; And thus I let the blood down flow Into my cerebellum, And published every Spring or so Slim tomes in vellum. Alas! I am rheumatic now, Grey is my crown; I can no […]...
17. Free Verse I now delight In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition, In writing And reciting Straight ahead, Without let or omission, Just any little rhyme In any little time That runs in my head; Because, I’ve said, My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed Like Prussian soldiers on parade That march, Stiff […]...
18. A Passing Hail Let us rest ourselves a bit! Worry? wave your hand to it Kiss your finger-tips and smile It farewell a little while. Weary of the weary way We have come from Yesterday, Let us fret not, instead, Of the wary way ahead. Let us pause and catch our breath On the hither side of death, […]...
19. When The 'Army' Prays For Watty When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty’s Horse Bazaar; When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub, Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub. Now, I often sit at Watty’s when the night […]...
20. For A Lady Who Must Write Verse Unto seventy years and seven, Hide your double birthright well- You, that are the brat of Heaven And the pampered heir to Hell. Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures, Strung and seen and thrown aside. Drill your apt and docile measures Sternly as you drill your pride. Show your quick, alarming skill in Tidy mockeries […]...
21. Destiny LIKE winds or waters were her ways: The flowing tides, the airy streams, Are troubled not by any dreams; They know the circle of their days. Like winds or waters were her ways: They heed not immemorial cries; They move to their high destinies Beyond the little voice that prays. She passed into her secret […]...
22. Who am I? My head knocks against the stars. My feet are on the hilltops. My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of Universal life. Down in the sounding foam of primal things I Reach my hands and play with pebbles of Destiny. I have been to hell and back many times. I know all about heaven, […]...
23. The New Poetry Handbook 1 If a man understands a poem, he shall have troubles. 2 If a man lives with a poem, he shall die lonely. 3 If a man lives with two poems, he shall be unfaithful to one. 4 If a man conceives of a poem, he shall have one less child. 5 If a man […]...
24. What Do You Do About Dry Periods In Your Writing? When the writing is going well, I am a prince in a desert palace, Fountains flowing in the garden. I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow And drink from a silver goblet, Poems like a banquet Spread before me on rugs With rosettes the damask of blood. But exiled From the palace, I wander […]...
25. Baseball and Writing Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting And baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either How it will go Or what you will do; Generating excitement A fever in the victim Pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter. Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited? Might […]...
26. From The Frontier Of Writing The tightness and the nilness round that space When the car stops in the road, the troops inspect Its make and number and, as one bends his face Towards your window, you catch sight of more On a hill beyond, eyeing with intent Down cradled guns that hold you under cover And everything is pure […]...
27. Writing A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful then His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness....
28. Writing often it is the only Thing Between you and Impossibility. No drink, No woman’s love, No wealth Can Match it. Nothing can save You Except Writing. It keeps the walls From Failing. The hordes from Closing in. It blasts the Darkness. Writing is the Ultimate Psychiatrist, The kindliest God of all the Gods. Writing stalks […]...
29. Against Writing about Children When I think of the many people Who privately despise children, I can’t say I’m completely shocked, Having been one. I was not Exceptional, uncomfortable as that is To admit, and most children are not Exceptional. The particulars of Cruelty, sizes Large and X-Large, Memory gnawing it like A fat dog, are ordinary: Mean Miss […]...
30. In Praise Of Writing Letters Blest be the Man! his Memory at least, Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast, And taught succeeding Times an easy way Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey; To baffle Absence, and secure Delight, Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight. The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu, The less’ning Distance […]...
31. Verse Past ruined Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades. Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids. Soon shall oblivion’s deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me....
32. This Be The Verse They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at […]...
33. NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE ‘Tis not ev’ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy: No, but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles, Full of fire, then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus enraged, my lines are hurl’d, Like the Sibyl’s, through the world: Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the […]...
34. 161. Epigram Addressed to an Artist DEAR -, I’ll gie ye some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair, But try and paint the devil. To paint an Angel’s kittle wark, Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger: You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face, But no sae weel a stranger.-R. B....
35. Fourth Floor, Dawn, Up All Night Writing Letters Pigeons shake their wings on the copper church roof Out my window across the street, a bird perched on the cross Surveys the city’s blue-grey clouds. Larry Rivers ‘ll come at 10 AM and take my picture. I’m taking Your picture, pigeons. I’m writing you down, Dawn. I’m immortalizing your exhaust, Avenue A bus. O […]...
36. I Feel (Verse Libre) I feel Very much Like taking Its unholy perpetrators By the hair Of their heads (If they have any hair) And dragging them around A few times, And then cutting them Into small, irregular pieces And burying them In the depths of the blue sea. They are without form And void,/ Or at least The […]...
37. 260. Sketch in Verse, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox HOW wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite, How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white, How Genius, th’ illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction, I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I-let the Critics go whistle! But now for a Patron whose […]...
38. Verse-Making Was Least of My Virtues Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair Wealth that never yet was but might be all that verse-making were If the life would but lengthen to wish, let the mind be laid bare. So I said, “To do little is bad, to do nothing is worse” And made verse. Love-making, how simple […]...
39. Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, […]...
40. THE ROCK OF RUBIES, AND THE QUARRY OFPEARLS Some ask’d me where the Rubies grew: And nothing I did say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. Some ask’d how Pearls did grow, and where: Then spoke I to my girl, To part her lips, and shew me there The quarrelets of Pearl....