Tuesday, October 14, 2014

The Then-Arrows Making Do Our Mouths Something Red, or: Born 120 Years Ago Today

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

E.E. Cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald mens hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough


[a connotation of infinity]


a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night

when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream

down eager avenues of lifelessness

consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought

is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—

on such a night the sea through her blind miles

of crumbling silence seriously smiles


[let's live suddenly without thinking]

let’s live suddenly without thinking

under honest trees,
                        a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
                                a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills

an edged nothing begins to prune

let’s live like the light that kills
and let’s as silence,
                            because Whirl’s after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red,something tall


[when life is quite through with]

when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love’s had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies, the dears;

when all’s done and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses


[my sonnet is a light goes on in]

my sonnet is a light goes on in
the toiletwindow,that’s straightacross from
my window,night air bothered with a rustling din

sort of sublimated tom-tom
which quite outdoes the mandolin-

man’s tiny racket.  The horses sleep upstairs.
And you can see their ears.  Ears win-

k, funny stable.  In the morning they go out in pairs:
amazingly,one pair is white
(but you know that)they look at each other.  Nudge.

(if they love each other,who cares?)
They pull the morning out of the night.

I am living with a mouse who shares

my meals with him,which is fair as i judge.


[love is thicker than forget]

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

1 comment:

  1. speaking of breakfastfood, this morning i was at a giant supermarket and observed in the bargain area several boxes of 'go diego go!' from general mills


    this breakfastfood is lightly sweetened corn puffs, HONEY flavored with other natural flavors/MIEL aromatizado con otros saborizantes naturales

    i bought a box, and have not yet decided whether to consume it personally or donate it to the church-run food pantry

    speaking of honey, the following james tate poem was featured in garrison keillor's writer's almanac on monday, april 6, 2009

    Honey, Can You Hear Me

    by James Tate

    Alison stared into the mirror and combed her hair. How
    beautiful she was! "I look awful," she said. I bent down and
    tied my shoe and hit my head on the coffee table on the way up.
    "Ouch," I said. "What did you say, honey?" she said. "I said
    we ought to buy a new couch," I said. "I thought we just bought
    one," she said. "We could buy another one so we'd have a backup
    in case anything happens to this one," I said. She didn't answer
    me, but continued to brush her hair. I stared down at my shoes
    and said, "Something is so wrong there." "What did you say, honey?"
    she said. I said, "It will be wonderful to be there tonight."
    "Where's that, honey?" she said. "Wherever it is that we're going,"
    I said. "We're not going anywhere," she said. "I meant here. It
    will be wonderful to be here tonight," I said. "A little romantic
    night at home," she said. What did she mean by "nomadic"? A little
    nomadic night at home. There were times when I worried about
    Alison. She hovered right on the borderline, about to cross over into
    her own private realm, where nothing she sees or hears corresponds
    to anything in the known world. I live with this fear daily. My
    shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now.