the glory is fallen out of
the sky the last immortal
leaf
is

dead and the gold
year
a formal spasm
in the

dust
this is the passing of all shining things
therefore we also
blandly

into receptive
earth,O let
us
descend

take
shimmering wind
these fragile splendors from
us crumple them hide

them in thy breath drive
them in nothingness
for we
would sleep

this is the passing of all shining things
no lingering no backward-
wondering be unto
us O

soul,but straight
glad feet fearruining
and glorygirded
faces

lead us
into the
serious
steep

darkness

IV. TO HERMES (582 lines)

(ll. 1-29) Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord
of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing
messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed
nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess,
for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within
a deep, shady cave.  There the son of Cronos used to lie with the
rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at
dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera
fast.  And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven,
she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass.  For then
she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a
cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds
among the deathless gods.  Born with the dawning, at mid-day he
played on the lyre, and in the evening he stole the cattle of
far-shooting Apollo on the fourth day of the month; for on that
day queenly Maia bare him.  So soon as he had leaped from his
mother's heavenly womb, he lay not long waiting in his holy
cradle, but he sprang up and sought the oxen of Apollo.  But as
he stepped over the threshold of the high-roofed cave, he found a
tortoise there and gained endless delight.  For it was Hermes who
first made the tortoise a singer.  The creature fell in his way
at the courtyard gate, where it was feeding on the rich grass
before the dwelling, waddling along.  When be saw it, the luck-
bringing son of Zeus laughed and said:

(ll. 30-38) 'An omen of great luck for me so soon!  I do not
slight it.  Hail, comrade of the feast, lovely in shape, sounding
at the dance!  With joy I meet you!  Where got you that rich gaud
for covering, that spangled shell -- a tortoise living in the
mountains?  But I will take and carry you within: you shall help
me and I will do you no disgrace, though first of all you must
profit me.  It is better to be at home: harm may come out of
doors.  Living, you shall be a spell against mischievous
witchcraft (13); but if you die, then you shall make sweetest
song.

(ll. 39-61) Thus speaking, he took up the tortoise in both hands
and went back into the house carrying his charming toy.  Then he
cut off its limbs and scooped out the marrow of the mountain-
tortoise with a scoop of grey iron.  As a swift thought darts
through the heart of a man when thronging cares haunt him, or as
bright glances flash from the eye, so glorious Hermes planned
both thought and deed at once.  He cut stalks of reed to measure
and fixed them, fastening their ends across the back and through
the shell of the tortoise, and then stretched ox hide all over it
by his skill.  Also he put in the horns and fitted a cross-piece
upon the two of them, and stretched seven strings of sheep-gut.
But when he had made it he proved each string in turn with the
key, as he held the lovely thing.  At the touch of his hand it
sounded marvellously; and, as he tried it, the god sang sweet
random snatches, even as youths bandy taunts at festivals.  He
sang of Zeus the son of Cronos and neat-shod Maia, the converse
which they had before in the comradeship of love, telling all the
glorious tale of his own begetting.  He celebrated, too, the
handmaids of the nymph, and her bright home, and the tripods all
about the house, and the abundant cauldrons.

(ll. 62-67) But while he was singing of all these, his heart was
bent on other matters.  And he took the hollow lyre and laid it
in his sacred cradle, and sprang from the sweet-smelling hall to
a watch-place, pondering sheet trickery in his heart -- deeds
such as knavish folk pursue in the dark night-time; for he longed
to taste flesh.

(ll. 68-86) The Sun was going down beneath the earth towards
Ocean with his horses and chariot when Hermes came hurrying to
the shadowy mountains of Pieria, where the divine cattle of the
blessed gods had their steads and grazed the pleasant, unmown
meadows.  Of these the Son of Maia, the sharp-eyed slayer of
Argus then cut off from the herd fifty loud-lowing kine, and
drove them straggling-wise across a sandy place, turning their
hoof-prints aside.  Also, he bethought him of a crafty ruse and
reversed the marks of their hoofs, making the front behind and
the hind before, while he himself walked the other way (14).
Then he wove sandals with wicker-work by the sand of the sea,
wonderful things, unthought of, unimagined; for he mixed together
tamarisk and myrtle-twigs, fastening together an armful of their
fresh, young wood, and tied them, leaves and all securely under
his feet as light sandals.  The brushwood the glorious Slayer of
Argus plucked in Pieria as he was preparing for his journey,
making shift (15) as one making haste for a long journey.

(ll. 87-89) But an old man tilling his flowering vineyard saw him
as he was hurrying down the plain through grassy Onchestus.  So
the Son of Maia began and said to him:

(ll. 90-93) 'Old man, digging about your vines with bowed
shoulders, surely you shall have much wine when all these bear
fruit, if you obey me and strictly remember not to have seen what
you have seen, and not to have heard what you have heard, and to
keep silent when nothing of your own is harmed.'

(ll. 94-114) When he had said this much, he hurried the strong
cattle on together: through many shadowy mountains and echoing
gorges and flowery plains glorious Hermes drove them.  And now
the divine night, his dark ally, was mostly passed, and dawn that
sets folk to work was quickly coming on, while bright Selene,
daughter of the lord Pallas, Megamedes' son, had just climbed her
watch-post, when the strong Son of Zeus drove the wide-browed
cattle of Phoebus Apollo to the river Alpheus.  And they came
unwearied to the high-roofed byres and the drinking-troughs that
were before the noble meadow.  Then, after he had well-fed the
loud-bellowing cattle with fodder and driven them into the byre,
close-packed and chewing lotus and began to seek the art of fire.

He chose a stout laurel branch and trimmed it with the knife....
((LACUNA)) (16)
....held firmly in his hand: and the hot smoke rose up.  For it
was Hermes who first invented fire-sticks and fire.  Next he took
many dried sticks and piled them thick and plenty in a sunken
trench: and flame began to glow, spreading afar the blast of
fierce-burning fire.

(ll. 115-137) And while the strength of glorious Hephaestus was
beginning to kindle the fire, he dragged out two lowing, horned
cows close to the fire; for great strength was with him.  He
threw them both panting upon their backs on the ground, and
rolled them on their sides, bending their necks over (17), and
pierced their vital chord.  Then he went on from task to task:
first he cut up the rich, fatted meat, and pierced it with wooden
spits, and roasted flesh and the honourable chine and the paunch
full of dark blood all together.  He laid them there upon the
ground, and spread out the hides on a rugged rock: and so they
are still there many ages afterwards, a long, long time after all
this, and are continually (18).  Next glad-hearted Hermes dragged
the rich meats he had prepared and put them on a smooth, flat
stone, and divided them into twelve portions distributed by lot,
making each portion wholly honourable.  Then glorious Hermes
longed for the sacrificial meat, for the sweet savour wearied
him, god though he was; nevertheless his proud heart was not
prevailed upon to devour the flesh, although he greatly desired
(19).  But he put away the fat and all the flesh in the high-
roofed byre, placing them high up to be a token of his youthful
theft.  And after that he gathered dry sticks and utterly
destroyed with fire all the hoofs and all the heads.

(ll. 138-154) And when the god had duly finished all, he threw
his sandals into deep-eddying Alpheus, and quenched the embers,
covering the black ashes with sand, and so spent the night while
Selene's soft light shone down.  Then the god went straight back
again at dawn to the bright crests of Cyllene, and no one met him
on the long journey either of the blessed gods or mortal men, nor
did any dog bark.  And luck-bringing Hermes, the son of Zeus,
passed edgeways through the key-hole of the hall like the autumn
breeze, even as mist: straight through the cave he went and came
to the rich inner chamber, walking softly, and making no noise as
one might upon the floor.  Then glorious Hermes went hurriedly to
his cradle, wrapping his swaddling clothes about his shoulders as
though he were a feeble babe, and lay playing with the covering
about his knees; but at his left hand he kept close his sweet
lyre.

(ll. 155-161) But the god did not pass unseen by the goddess his
mother; but she said to him: 'How now, you rogue!  Whence come
you back so at night-time, you that wear shamelessness as a
garment?  And now I surely believe the son of Leto will soon have
you forth out of doors with unbreakable cords about your ribs, or
you will live a rogue's life in the glens robbing by whiles.  Go
to, then; your father got you to be a great worry to mortal men
and deathless gods.'

(ll. 162-181) Then Hermes answered her with crafty words:
'Mother, why do you seek to frighten me like a feeble child whose
heart knows few words of blame, a fearful babe that fears its
mother's scolding?  Nay, but I will try whatever plan is best,
and so feed myself and you continually.  We will not be content
to remain here, as you bid, alone of all the gods unfee'd with
offerings and prayers.  Better to live in fellowship with the
deathless gods continually, rich, wealthy, and enjoying stories
of grain, than to sit always in a gloomy cave: and, as regards
honour, I too will enter upon the rite that Apollo has.  If my
father will not give it to me, I will seek -- and I am able -- to
be a prince of robbers.  And if Leto's most glorious son shall
seek me out, I think another and a greater loss will befall him.
For I will go to Pytho to break into his great house, and will
plunder therefrom splendid tripods, and cauldrons, and gold, and
plenty of bright iron, and much apparel; and you shall see it if
you will.'

(ll. 182-189) With such words they spoke together, the son of
Zeus who holds the aegis, and the lady Maia.  Now Eros the early
born was rising from deep-flowing Ocean, bringing light to men,
when Apollo, as he went, came to Onchestus, the lovely grove and
sacred place of the loud-roaring Holder of the Earth.  There he
found an old man grazing his beast along the pathway from his
court-yard fence, and the all-glorious Son of Leto began and said
to him.

(ll. 190-200) 'Old man, weeder (20) of grassy Onchestus, I am
come here from Pieria seeking cattle, cows all of them, all with
curving horns, from my herd.  The black bull was grazing alone
away from the rest, but fierce-eyed hounds followed the cows,
four of them, all of one mind, like men.  These were left behind,
the dogs and the bull -- which is great marvel; but the cows
strayed out of the soft meadow, away from the pasture when the
sun was just going down.  Now tell me this, old man born long
ago: have you seen one passing along behind those cows?'

(ll. 201-211) Then the old man answered him and said: 'My son, it
is hard to tell all that one's eyes see; for many wayfarers pass
to and fro this way, some bent on much evil, and some on good: it
is difficult to know each one.  However, I was digging about my
plot of vineyard all day long until the sun went down, and I
thought, good sir, but I do not know for certain, that I marked a
child, whoever the child was, that followed long-horned cattle --
an infant who had a staff and kept walking from side to side: he
was driving them backwards way, with their heads toward him.'

(ll. 212-218) So said the old man.  And when Apollo heard this
report, he went yet more quickly on his way, and presently,
seeing a long-winged bird, he knew at once by that omen that
thief was the child of Zeus the son of Cronos.  So the lord
Apollo, son of Zeus, hurried on to goodly Pylos seeking his
shambling oxen, and he had his broad shoulders covered with a
dark cloud.  But when the Far-Shooter perceived the tracks, he
cried:

(ll. 219-226) 'Oh, oh!  Truly this is a great marvel that my eyes
behold!  These are indeed the tracks of straight-horned oxen, but
they are turned backwards towards the flowery meadow.  But these
others are not the footprints of man or woman or grey wolves or
bears or lions, nor do I think they are the tracks of a rough-
maned Centaur -- whoever it be that with swift feet makes such
monstrous footprints; wonderful are the tracks on this side of
the way, but yet more wonderfully are those on that.'

(ll. 227-234) When he had so said, the lord Apollo, the Son of
Zeus hastened on and came to the forest-clad mountain of Cyllene
and the deep-shadowed cave in the rock where the divine nymph
brought forth the child of Zeus who is the son of Cronos.  A
sweet odour spread over the lovely hill, and many thin-shanked
sheep were grazing on the grass.  Then far-shooting Apollo
himself stepped down in haste over the stone threshold into the
dusky cave.

(ll. 235-253) Now when the Son of Zeus and Maia saw Apollo in a
rage about his cattle, he snuggled down in his fragrant
swaddling-clothes; and as wood-ash covers over the deep embers of
tree-stumps, so Hermes cuddled himself up when he saw the Far-
Shooter.  He squeezed head and hands and feet together in a small
space, like a new born child seeking sweet sleep, though in truth
he was wide awake, and he kept his lyre under his armpit.  But
the Son of Leto was aware and failed not to perceive the
beautiful mountain-nymph and her dear son, albeit a little child
and swathed so craftily.  He peered in ever corner of the great
dwelling and, taking a bright key, he opened three closets full
of nectar and lovely ambrosia.  And much gold and silver was
stored in them, and many garments of the nymph, some purple and
some silvery white, such as are kept in the sacred houses of the
blessed gods.  Then, after the Son of Leto had searched out the
recesses of the great house, he spake to glorious Hermes:

(ll. 254-259) 'Child, lying in the cradle, make haste and tell me
of my cattle, or we two will soon fall out angrily.  For I will
take and cast you into dusty Tartarus and awful hopeless
darkness, and neither your mother nor your father shall free you
or bring you up again to the light, but you will wander under the
earth and be the leader amongst little folk.' (21)

(ll. 260-277) Then Hermes answered him with crafty words: 'Son of
Leto, what harsh words are these you have spoken?  And is it
cattle of the field you are come here to seek?  I have not seen
them: I have not heard of them: no one has told me of them.  I
cannot give news of them, nor win the reward for news.  Am I like
a cattle-liter, a stalwart person?  This is no task for me:
rather I care for other things: I care for sleep, and milk of my
mother's breast, and wrappings round my shoulders, and warm
baths.  Let no one hear the cause of this dispute; for this would
be a great marvel indeed among the deathless gods, that a child
newly born should pass in through the forepart of the house with
cattle of the field: herein you speak extravagantly.  I was born
yesterday, and my feet are soft and the ground beneath is rough;
nevertheless, if you will have it so, I will swear a great oath
by my father's head and vow that neither am I guilty myself,
neither have I seen any other who stole your cows -- whatever
cows may be; for I

Thank Heaven! the crisis—
  The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
  Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
  Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,
  I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
  As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
  I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
  Now in my bed,
That any beholder
  Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
  Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
  The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
  With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
  Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
  The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
  That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
  That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
  That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
  Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
  Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
  That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
  With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
  Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
  Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
  Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
  And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
  In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
  In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
  Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
  Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
  Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
  Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
  About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
  Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
  Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
  Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
  And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
  Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
  She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
  To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
  From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
  She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
  To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
  To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
  Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
  That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
  Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
  That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
  Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
  Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
  For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
  Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
  Of the eyes of my Annie.

Blandly mother
takes him strolling
     by railroad and by river
--he's the son of the absconded
     hot rod angel--
and he imagines cars
     and rides them in his dreams,

so lonely growing up among
     the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown

     to create
out of his own imagination
     the beauty of his wild
forebears--a mythology
     he cannot inherit.

Will he later hallucinate
     his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
     an insane gleam
of recollection?

     The recognition--
something so rare
     in his soul,
met only in dreams
     --nostalgias
of another life.

A question of the soul.
     And the injured
losing their injury
     in their innocence
--a ****, a cross,
     an excellence of love.

And the father grieves
     in flophouse
complexities of memory
     a thousand miles
away, unknowing
     of the unexpected
youthful stranger
     bumming toward his door.

                         New York, April 13, 1952

Someone once asked me
questions I would answer blandly
they weren't what I wanted to answer
Questions of perfect dates
and perfect people
when simply
I wanted them to ask
"What is you favorite flower?"
I could respond with my fascination
with these tiny
white petaled
flowers
ones that made me smile
so wide
eastern Europe could see my teeth.
I wanted someone to ask
about my favorite food
So i could respond
with this amazing blend
of rice and fish
and seaweed and other ingredients
but I'd add
that I only eat them with chopsticks

I would look at them and ask
If I was to fall in love with you
could we share these things
and face the world?
but I couldn't do that
because who wants me,
the girl who wants **Sushi and daisies.

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;
What seems is not always as it seems.

I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,
And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning
Went sailing toward the East:
The first had sails like fire,
The next like glittering wire,
But sackcloth were the sails of the least;
And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.

The first choir breathed in flutes,
And fingered soft guitars;
The second won from lutes
Harmonious chords and jars,
With drums for stormy bars:
But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;
Notes of triumph, then
An alarm again,
As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,
Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.

The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;
The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;
The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.
The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;
The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;
The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.
Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;
Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;
Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.

Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,
Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:
Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;
Sighs, but scarce of woe;
All the sighing
Wooed such sweet replying;
All the sighing, sweet and low,
Used to come and go
For more pleasure, merely so.
Yet at intervals some one grew tired
Of everything desired,
And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,
Out of sight.

The second crew seemed ever
Wider-visioned, graver,
More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;
With heads ***** and proud,
And voices sometimes loud;
With endless tacking, counter-tacking,
All things grasping, all things lacking,
It would seem;
Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,
Drifting on as in a dream.
Hoarding to their utmost bent,
Feasting to their fill,
Yet gnawed by discontent,
Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.
Their freight was not a treasure,
Their music not a pleasure;
The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,
Sceptre and crown changed hands.

The third crew as they went
Seemed mostly different;
They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,
As all the world might see.
They labored at the oar,
While on their heads they bore
The fiery stress of sunshine more and more.
They labored at the oar hand-sore,
Till rain went splashing,
And spray went dashing,
Down on them, and up on them, more and more.
Their sails were patched and rent,
Their masts were bent,
In peril of their lives they worked and went.
For them no feast was spread,
No soft luxurious bed
Scented and white,
No crown or sceptre hung in sight;
In weariness and painfulness,
In thirst and sore distress,
They rowed and steered from left to right
With all their might.
Their trumpeters and harpers round about
Incessantly played out,
And sometimes they made answer with a shout;
But oftener they groaned or wept,
And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.
I wept for pity watching them, but more
I wept heart-sore
Once and again to see
Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim
To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:
And there all welcomed him.

The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,
Yet all the crews were interchangeable;
Now one man, now another,
--Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,--
Changed openly, or changed by stealth,
Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.
The most left Love ship, hauling wealth
Up Worm ship's side;
While some few hollow-eyed
Left either for the sack-sailed boat;
But this, though not remote,
Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once
Scarce ever came again,
But seemed to loathe his erst companions,
And wish and work them bane.

Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,
Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,
Whence a waterspout
Instantaneously leaped out,
Roaring as it reared its head.

Soon I spied a something dim,
Many-handed, grim,
That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;
It puffed their sails full out
With puffs of smoky breath
From a smouldering lip,
And cleared the waterspout
Which reeled roaring round about
Threatening death.
With a ***** hand it steered,
And a horn appeared
On its sneering head upreared
Haughty and high
Against the blackening lowering sky.
With a hoof it swayed the waves;
They opened here and there,
Till I spied deep ocean graves
Full of skeletons
That were men and women once
Foul or fair;
Full of things that creep
And fester in the deep
And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.

The third bark held aloof
From the Monster with the hoof,
Despite his urgent beck,
And fraught with guile
Abominable his smile;
Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.
Then full of awe,
With these same eyes I saw
His head incredible retract its horn
Rounding like babe's new born,
While silvery phosphorescence played
About his dis-horned head.
The sneer smoothed from his lip,
He beamed blandly on the ship;
All winds sank to a moan,
All waves to a monotone
(For all these seemed his realm),
While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.

Then a cry well nigh of despair
Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.
The harpers harped no more,
While the trumpeters sounded sore
An alarm to wake the dead from their bed:
To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,
To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,
Or no more help or hope for ever!--
The planks strained as though they must part asunder,
The masts bent as though they must dip under,
And the winds and the waves at length
Girt up their strength,
And the depths were laid bare,
And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder
Through the rain-choked air,
And sea and sky seemed to kiss
In the horror and the hiss
Of the whole world shuddering everywhere.

Lo! a Flyer swooping down
With wings to span the globe,
And splendor for his robe
And splendor for his crown.
He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,
And spun the Monster overboard:
And that monstrous thing abhorred,
Gnashing with balked desire,
Wriggled like a worm infirm
Up the Worm
Of the loathly figurehead.
There he crouched and gnashed;
And his head re-horned, and gashed
From the other's grapple, dripped ****** red.

I saw that thing accurst
Wreak his worst
On the first and second crew:
Some with baited hook
He angled for and took,
Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,
Some he did to death
With hoof or horn or blasting breath.

I heard a voice of wailing
Where the ships went sailing,
A sorrowful voice prevailing
Above the sound of the sea,
Above the singers' voices,
And musical merry noises;
All songs had turned to sighing,
The light was failing,
The day was dying--
Ah me,
That such a sorrow should be!

There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand
To its grave in the bitter wave.
There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,
And the bitter wave was its grave.
But land and sea waxed hoary
In whiteness of a glory
Never told in story
Nor seen by mortal eye,
When the third ship crossed the bar
Where whirls and breakers are,
And steered into the splendors of the sky;
That third bark and that least
Which had never seemed to feast,
Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.

1428

Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep—
Its awful chamber open stands—
Its Curtains blandly sweep—
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades—
Whose Axis never comes.

Why does every emotion live across the street from me?
I stare every day
over my morning coffee in this blank apartment
trying to stay awake,
alive.
And the apartment across the street has a window,
an open window,
and I spy inside and glimpse the colors.

I remember having those here living with me.
How though
can I trust memories of feelings I've forever lost to the next building?
Can I?
I feel their echoes.
But when I go downstairs the pancakes will be flavorless and
blandly white with gray thick
nothing syrup
drizzled all across them. I'll have to eat
to stay alive
but don't think I like it one bit.

when we think idle thoughts and ****** with our mind
we might as well just blandly look into the sky
and absent-mindedly pursue the flights of distant birds
against the matrix of blue firmaments
which seem less infinite than our imaginary universe

trying to look beyond that globe of blue
we venture into depths that really make us think
about the cosmos out in space
infinite stars and planets of unknown identity

we soon become aware
that our idle thoughts are dwarfed
by the immenseness of the space
through which not quite discovered forces
propel our planet with incredible speed
to destinies we do not know

perhaps in order to avoid acknowledgement
of this precarious reality
we fill our lives with more comforting things
fashions  wars  power games  religion  money  
internet chats  with other avatars  et cetera

anything to distract us from the contemplation
of insights into how to live
   in such a transient indeterminacy
with a determined sense of goal and meaning

think about it

Gather nuts.
Grasp for the lean times.
Rotting potatoes
lie blandly in dark corners.
Silently stare at me with many eyes.
Find bright baubles.
Keep pretty playthings.
Trinkets and knick knacks
Ornaments on grimy shelves.
Idiotic faces chipped teeth and paint.
Saved paper
Stacked to the ceiling
Overflowing words
Seem to whisper as I pass.
Dangerous towers of unheeded news.
Faded petals
Pressed between pages.
Vacuous promises
carefree inane memories
Dreadful hopeless dreams nourishment for worms.

copyright protected Ramona Hughes

had it run just straight
with no turn on either side
we all would surely fret
life is such a boring ride

life is so dully made
that's all we would say
the road is clearly laid
same looks every day

no bumps and no holes
sharp bends of surprise
the way blandly rolls
we don't fall and rise

thank god ain't so made
life has twist and turn
in search of what's ahead
we persist with the run.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I see my flaws at the door
You're shaking their hands and letting them in.
I sit so close - skin to skin while you discuss my chopped hair and tarnished skin
Blandly discussing how you want me thin.

Five.

Six.

I blame the mirror for making me like this.
Counting the marks that don't look so beautiful - don't shine or sparkle.
Fighting the tears and biting my lip
I look at you with reassuring eyes.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.


I don't think you ever wanted to be mine.


Ten.

Thou wert born as a treasured prince,
pure ye' unloved without a sin.
In t'ose grand days thou grieved alone-
blandly and coldly as a stone.

How thou blushed at my first ingress!
Dull and grey was t'at day I dressed-
abiding by t'ose lawful tones,
which people shyly greet'd with scorns.

And seen thy smile-thy bashful smile,
my heart shook in me for a while.
'Midst th' repressed shrieks of th' gale,
within our sunless room and shell.

Thou wert sunset to my evening-
docile sunrise to my morning!
Thou lifted me whenst as I felt bleak-
and breathed hope whenst I fell weak.

O Nikolaas, my gem and merciful delight-
how I once longed to be thy bride!
Ah, thy starry gaze made my soul blithe-
and turned my blackness into white.

But how thou saileth to thy homeland;
and wasth never seen back again.
'Twas me and my love t'at remained-
cries of hatred I wrought in pain!

For days I sat in spiteful doom-
only toneless songs my mouth hummed.
I felt like I had lost my shield-
thy soul t'at now dwelleth far afield!

O Nikolaas, dance in thy very handsome feet-
and sing by thy voice sleek and sweet.
Those grey eyes once to me so dear-
ah, how thy jests I yearn 'gain to hear!

Thou art th' lone son of my night-
and by day th' fruit of my sea!
Hark, darling, how sins canst be right-
and how glad misery may be.

In fiery dreams I'll care for thee;
and stroke thy cheeks by green sunlight.
Ah, t'is lone abyss canst be witty-
ye’ its recesses may be bright.

And farewell, o, my darling king-
for by another I'm waited.
To memories thou shalt not cling-
as together we're not fated.

Kiss my vapour, and candlelight-
as thy fond pictures of o'r nights!
Full of merit and confessions-
quick'ning breaths of red affection.

Ah! and to my poems shalt I retreat-
cheer my keen reader with quick wit.
Bless them with tales t'ey're desiring-
of a prince, genuine and charming!

T'at shalt be of thee, Nikolaas;
yon first story t'ey're bout to pass!
How 'midst th' anxious windy gusts-
thou'rt still th' prince of many hearts!

Joy be with thee, o my darling,
in every step thou art to bring!
Be thy soul blithe with fond laughter
as we once promised together.

And forward now shalt we saunter,
to th' future shalt we wander.
Cannot as we walk hand in hand,
ye' still thou art my precious friend.

Ah! but today I'll remember thee-
yes, as mirth on lovely, sunny days!
How I once sat and quietly prayed-
so t'at by my side thou could stay.

But as I creep to r'ality,
I'm thankful for t'is love with me.
And grin at him doth I sweetly;
as he leanst his head on my knee.

I open my eyes with glory;
and rise ahead with fixity.
In his charms doth I rejoice;
as he plants on me a shy kiss.

O, Nikolaas!
Still thou holdeth a place in my heart;
t'at no-one dear canst tear apart.
Whilst thy burdens round but heavy;
and thy summers gray and weary.

Destiny was we possessed not;
and passion we couldn't afford!
Ye' whenst t'is world should pass away;
thy name still th' first I would say.

Twitch of the eye, recorded.
Beads trickle down rippled foreheads.
The Voice is loud, but lips are sealed.
The pawns thoughts remain concealed
As the mad King addresses the board.

The cameras don't feel the chill
Nor the barrels, aiming still
Yet as the hairs on the necks, they stand
Fellow comrades of the land
Blandly hiding their rebellious wills.

His voice is ice, his head is earth.
His heart is fire but his gaze averts
The marble army changing sides
And as the jester laughs and cries,
Whites turn black and aim as one
And fire as if through just one gun.

No sudden moves
But the King is down.
No one comes to claim the crown.

Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.

Ah me, what can I do?
I see the fear and the pain,
The terror and the unfair gain,
The starving masses through a screen,
News reported blandly;
A woman *****, her strangled throat
Cannot voice her pain,
Black children shot, democracies rot;
We must enrol to vote.
Yes! Use our voices and
Pick the suited white man, who
Best represents our feelings;
We might as well be kneeling
As picking from that self-same lot
Of narrow minds and paunchy pots,
Ah me! If I only knew
What I could do.
For now I only have these tossing thoughts
So hard to sort, or to abort;
Truth and lies, life, demise,
So I only utter, as I watch the TV screen
A silent scream;
Ah me! One day, will I find my voice?*
Voice my findings and my rage?
Have enough nous, be enough sage
To let that scream be heard,
And crack through the screen’s merde?

Every morning
I shoot through miles of tunnel
In a rattling tram
And people have forgotten how to look out of the window
At the fleeting lights
Which highlight
The graffiti
Which highlight
The primordial urge to create
Which has morphed
From the cave paintings of bison
To territorial pissings
Of equal splendour

People try to avoid eye contact
Look at their shoes
And everyone wears a shade of blue or brown
Blandly coupled with something black
But I stare at the tortured faces
Dominated by Moloch
Who is slowly branching his tendrils around my ankles
And I try to guess their stories

Tugging at my heart
Constantly tugging
Pulling me apart
Always bugging
Just leave me be
I want to be alone
Your here to bother me
This I have known
Grabbing at my sanity
Please just go away
You smile at me blandly
Why do you stay
You center yourself around me
Like you've built a home
Constantly trying to hound me
My fury has shone
If you won't leave me for only a moment
I will be forced to go
This time will be forever
I thought I'd let you know

Just cut me a break won't you?
Give me just a little bit of joy again?
it doesn't take much to push me back,
push me back down to the ground.
But I'm sick of not feeling happy,
sick of not feeling safe and sound.
I want to scream with my emotion,
yell from the rooftops,
jump high into the sky,
not just sit here blandly crying,
asking how?
asking why?
not really expecting answers...
waiting, helpless, waiting to die.

I'm sick of asking why and how,
sick of asking who and what.
I've found the cure though, deep inside,
I've found the answer, found the rot:

I bring it on myself.

there I said it! And I won't take it back
what right have you to say
I shouldn't take the blame at all?
I see now where the issue lies.
I'm prepared to take the fall.

All this time I've sat here helpless,
to myself,
silently screaming,
terrified,
dust layering onto my shelf.
And I'm done. I'm free.
So I'm now going to dare to live as
me.

the  future  is  coming*

I'm often reminded of this when
the other students in my class
ask me what my major is.

“Liberal Studies,” I say.

The follow up question is always the same cookie-cutter inquiry.

                        “So you want to be a teacher?”

                                                      “No, not really” I say.

                                        At this juncture the person who is blandly     asking the questions begins to express
genuine interest in what I might do next
in the “real-world,”
spiked with a fear of the unknown.

“So what do you want to do then?”

I've come to realize that this is the point where most of my passing conversations with peers are brought to an abrupt end.

“I don't know.” I say.

And there it is, out in the open, lying on the floor-- the ******* future. I search their eyes and find panic,
                                                    then doubt,
                                                                ­ followed by pity.

I have officially shared too much information.
Figures. Honesty  creeps  people  out.

We part ways with, “Oh, that's great” or “I'll see you around!” and march forward to that inevitable, tantalizing ***** that is the future.

I've found that when I express a modicum
of trust in the world,
                                            it is often met with an alarming dread
                                           and concern for my prolonged well-being.

I am without a plan, so naturally-- there's a problem.


That if I don't have my calendar
              marked up through to the second coming of Christ,
                    at some point all of my limbs may simultaneously fall off.
Or I may simply cease to exist
           and all the joys of life will slip through my fingers
                                                       as I descend into my faithless pit
                                                                ­   of poor-planning.

I'd like it if everyone could just breathe--
get your cell-phones and computers in class,
and live in this moment.

Because yesterday is today
                         and today is tomorrow,
                                      and there is no future more important than now.

Until then and philosophy aside,
I guess I'll keep careening on the edge of reality
with my thumb up my ***
because god forbid
you become anything
          like me.


                                                           ­   -r0

Twenty six alphabets swirling around
but this soul only has twenty four hours to wander.
Thousands of words
and there is only one of me,
deciding which word should sit next
to the other stranger.
So that it makes sense
to give the whole stanza a reason.
To let it sing a melody
but it just sits there
staring blandly at endless dreamers,
wondering if they would understand
the reason why these words
were stringed next to one another.
Or if they would give up
thinking the poet must have been
some clever mastermind
and the whole art piece needs to
be re-examined word by word.
Decoding each line
that unveils itself and
gives a whole new meaning
of it's existence.
Then again, what if I told you
As you read this
That there is no reason
To my creation.
There is no rhyme or rhythm
No rules that can set these words on fire.

What if I told you, I exist for no reason?
I am not governed by an external force
That is in need to tell a story
Or deprived of a reason to live
Or just to breathe.
Just like how the falling autumn leaves
Falls from its old roots-
Silently.
Without needing a reason to fall
Without anyone telling - its time is over.

Surely words were created for a reason,
To converse with impalpable creatures,
But words didn't ask for it
It didn't plead to have a reason for its survival
In the lonely throats of the dead.
But the universe came together
And did it anyway.

So today, the warrior words formed together,
In a battle that was long forgotten,
In silence, when it was once thrown into every page,
Forced into the mouths of the filth
And sometimes the lovers
To create romance and never endings.

Today, the words stand here tall
Within the screens and papers
In bold it speaks-
That it holds no reason,
It does not take the blame for the hurting
Nor for the joy of the fresh bonfire
in cold winter.

It stands tall for its own victory-
In its own reality.
For no reason or rhyme,
For it was only meant for those
Built with sovereignty,
Who knew words were only meant to be free.
It belonged to nobody, nor will it ever.
And with no reason,
All the words in the world,
Cease to end right here.

(I’m so incredibly alone
I might as well not exist at all)
my transmitters are malfunctioning or they’re
       fine, and its the source
which is broken
what is happiness?
A sensation unfamiliar to my blandly textured existence
if only I could be once again
      needed
My Terminal Countenance
scares away not only predators,
but friends of the same form
where lies the line which separates the two?
If it is even real
it escapes my clouded vision
(obstructed by the gleams it so desires,
                               it averts the illustrious sun)

There is something about churches—
the sanctuary filling slowly,
brass ***** pipes arrayed like halberds
in a medieval arsenal,
stooped ushers handing out programs
as the congregation
accumulates softly
like snow.

And the pulpit—like a queen
in a hive of wooden pews
all of polished walnut,
stands hushed and expectant.

(I know within that pulpit
there is a place to put cough drops,
a legal pad, second pair of glasses.)

Sanctuaries have a peculiar smell,
redolent of potted lilies,
Youth Dew perfume,
aging hymnals,
the suspired breath
of five hundred faithful
lifting their voices to that soaring
Byzantine dome.

I was glad for your presence that day,
the sound of your marvelous
voice, the warm sense
of your shoulder next to mine.
You cradled a hymnal
benevolently in your hand
as though you were baptizing a child.

"Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!"

I sang more loudly, I suppose,
for gratitude that you were with me.
I held my hymnal with more care,
sang and looked up more hopefully
to that pulpit than I might otherwise
have done on any given Easter.
I prayed more ardently for good things to happen,
thought more kindly of the man
beside me who wouldn’t make room
when we three entered the pew
but stared blandly ahead as if
waiting for an opera to begin.

When the minister spread his arms
in benediction and bade us all go in peace,
we stayed to hear the postlude
and watch the Easter crowd
wind its way to the narthex
and spill out into the boisterous
parade on Fifth Avenue.

I sat there and listened with you
as the organist played his sonorous farewell.
When I was a boy sitting next to you in church,
you might gently pat my thigh
when the organist’s final note
passed through the sanctuary
like a great bird in flight.
You would smile as if to say,
“You made it through the whole service!”

On this Easter, when the hymn began,
and the mighty ***** notes swelled around us
like God’s own voice in song,
it was the thought of your shoulder near mine,
your hands upon the pew,
that halted my singing for a moment,
to let a silent bolt of longing
pass through me
like a solitary dog crossing a road.
Then it was gone, the thought,
but so, too, was your palpable nearness,
the idea of your voice
ringing through the church
like a celebration.

no matter what the words remain the same
echoing blandly down the aching years
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

your voice is one that could with depth proclaim
ending to hurt and to the weight of fears
no matter what the words remain the same

as when we started infants in the game
certain that we'd be the new cavaliers
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

and we have come despite the threat of shame
to know the meaning of so many tears
no matter what the words remain the same

still they are uttered out of need for blame
while horror is doled out in lavish shares
our beast once wild has not turned safely tame

and cowers uncertain of the fading flame
as each who waits at last wails and despairs
no matter what the words remain the same
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

An animal avalanche
Arrives at the dance
In a defensive stance
To prevent the chance
Their resentful trance
Won’t pass first glance

The animals rush
Kicking up dust
Responding to lust
Or a threatening gust
Mass hysteria must
Make them adjust

Misery wombat
Blistering combat
Administering on that
Ministry contact
And industry contracts
In their dusty con track

They use a flawed
Blanche DuBois
Survival law
Scratch and claw
Acting raw
Imposing paws

The stampede
Slammed me
Blandly
By ramming
My standing
Expanding
My understanding
Of the farmers branding

I paddle fake
Rattlesnakes
That tattle stakes
The battle takes
To bother me
With bomber dreams
Of somber screams

I’m always annoyed
For in this void
I must avoid
Love devoid
Terror droids
On steroids

I’m backing out
By lashing out
By blacking out
Tapping out
To the drought
On my route

My mastery
Of catastrophe
Blasted me
Classically
Back to be
Where I bleed

I need a solution
That’s a substitution
To their pollution
Like a revolution
Of evolution
Sending fusion

Mysticism
And cynicism
Blocking vision
Without permission
Are just superstition
Looping pistons
So I won’t listen

Caught in the feud rain
That is the food chain
Bringing my brood pain
From the lewd game
That glues shame
To my doomed brain

The stampede
Trampled me
Sampling
The example of greed
For their ample needs
That scrambles seeds
Planting problem trees
To obstruct the breeze
To calmer breeds

our old appendages are our contemplation of our peripheries.

these minor playthings we do not touch
anymore. rusting alphabets moored
to the toppling refrigerator door. we have always been the curious kind;

before the sun sets, stills itself in unperturbed solace, we the lonely hunters of ourselves sift the word
and the ordeal: the last aureole perishes
  and here flowers the nightly pulchritude.
our age are servitudes circling around
  with elliptical utterances. we have no crutch but our brittle bones slowly chiming in the music of something we
avoid: only too well a mercy we cannot
  bequeath nor receive.

  so breakable and false, this what we
do, these that occur permitting desires
  to speak blandly of themselves.
the hazards of the existing numerals
   and their foreboding syntaxes:
how we burn bright and fade out,
   all of this briefly shattering
after a colossal fall – its trenchant elegy
   repudiates with contrapuntal music.
eyes, the contraband of visions and
   stifled breaths reared in capitulations
like tailgating a beast on the tractable road
     to snare it to its death, yet untold.

For decades now
We have serenely, blandly,
Had the Huron horizons
To the North.
All colours of clouds,
Bringing shade or rain,
Snow and flora;
And all the shapes of Noah's zoo,
Morph approaching our soft shores
Of sandcastles and tendered fires,
Those milestone from our youth.
Our fresh waters have given much,
And taken more with wailing
For the never returners.
For mothers with terror splashing
Over  faces and maligned hearts and spirits.
The alone times of punishing memories.

You are my poem.
Untold,
so true,
but awfully blue.

You are my song.
Silvery,
so gentle,
but tragically sung.

You are my story.
Explicit,
so fine,
but a fancy crime.

You are my landscape.
Beautiful,
so natural,
but blandly done.

But,
yes.
I know.
It's just
*You were.

it was blandly your image before mine,
     such fern-like hands adjust the moon’s fixated shadow staring at itself
in the mirror before death: who would not linger in such voice traipsing past
     the staircase? whose woodwork shall I seek the fragrance of spring?

also in strangeness there is a glance dizzied into liquor that yearning
    is drunk to: mazy now in the arms of attendance, before they squander the light
and shove it back to its home, they drink as though it was the most final
   of supplications,
     as though a wounded rose is pulled, a hair-trigger that is its call,
or heavier like hair, something weighted down to its empire, eyes that dread
   the dreary glint of the slow, crystalline branch outside my window in the rain
         of all watery beings converging in cusps of the Earth readying to be made loose
  amongst     breadth of  mouth  and shallow  moulds thriving  in the body
   whose house is but oblivion in half-light,

                           nourishing your heart as though it were starving
      for the cold and not your warmth, for the flame and not your embrace,
         for the flight of the azure and not the trance of your tenderness,
         something still that you are not who you were before me, when all mirrors
                       conjured the image of deaths.

In a world full of color,
I feel so blandly black and white.
My color has been drained
And I gave it up without a fight.
The greens around me try to reach out
And the pinks and oranges tell me to talk to them,
The purples shout
For me to come to join them please
Because the closest I have to color
Is a blue-ish gray tint.
I leave a trail of it everywhere because I want it all to go
To leave me with nothing,
I pray for it to fade.
I want to know what made me this way,
Because the only time I'm bright
Is when I force a color out
And I watch the red pour out of
A gray water spout.
I hold in the gasps and all the screams,
Amazed that such a bold color
Could come from something as dead as me.

The body sneers in hatred,
Girl, she is always hurting it,
Pulling it this way and that,
Cutting hair off like limbs,
Scratching marks into the functional skin,
Leaving the stomach empty for the cold to get in,
Pinching skin and chewing lips,
Girl makes the body look like a circus act,
A crudely drawn picture littered with cuts,
Face splotched with make up,
Girl is beautiful, the body can tell,
But Girl lies to herself,
And refuses to believe the truth in front of her,
Blandly pasted on her skin like a brand,
BEAUTIFUL, even the body can read it,
Scowling as the walls rumble in starvation,
Skin itches from melted candle wax,
And eyes burn from staring at the sun.

The sun is not as beautiful as Girl,
The body does not understand why she stares so long,
The only reason can be stupidity,
And Girl is not stupid,
No matter how many times she says she is,
The body knows the truth,
Sees the intelligence behind her eyes,
Curled despair around her wrists,
Trailing up her shoulders and through her hair,
Like searching hands,
The body can feel the phantom hands,
Scratching like pins on the skin,
Drawing blood with the ghostly presence,
The body does not remember the hands,
The body had healed from it.

Only Girl remembered,
And knew her reasoning,
For the flat torso and scratched skin.