English

October is a piper,
Piping down the dell—
Sad sweet songs of sunshine—
Summer's last farewell,
He pipes till grey November
Comes in the mist and rain,
And then he puts his pipe away
Till Autumn comes again.

I have said yes to life, I take nothing back:
When the tide has gone against me I have said yes to life,
In the hour of dismay as well as in the hour of conquest I have said yes to life,
When life has been quoted against virtue and justice I have said yes to life,
Is the battle lost? I still say yes, forever yes, to life.
I went where evil was freest and did its worst,
I went into the darkest places where joy was rated very low:
Wherever I went I carried my yes with me—
Carried it with me in my heart, in my face, in my words,

after 11 years
she is still as sleek as an unspayed siamese
charming everyone into her audience
she is a winner
rising to associate director of a department store
quitting to have 2 children
(1 for each of her husband's houses)
nothing has changed
she is still as leggy as a doe
her iris-blue eyes
her long smooth arms holding me in confidence
as she complains
motherhood hasn't done much
she's as flat as ever
glancing toward the table of husbands
I try to pick hers
nothing has changed

The Pictis houndis were nocht of sic speed
As Scottis houndis, nor yet sae gude at need,
Nor in sic game they were nocht half sae gude,
Nor of sic pleasure, nor sic pulchritude.
The King therefore he did give every man
Of the best houndis were among them than,
At their pleasure that time they were nocht spared
With horse and hound and all other reward.

This noble King, of whom before I told,
One hound he had both curious and bold,
Pleasant but peir, and full of pulchritude,
Supple and swift and in all game richt gude:

Though rains of jeering pelt with hissing sneers;
Though winds of creeds their raucous bluster shout;
Though storms of sects and parties drench the land;
Though gales of a derision howl about;

He stands in windy storming—stands alone,
Whom sullen raining cannot pierce or soak;
For rooted in his faith, he calmly dons
This darkened tempest like a warming cloak.

His brow is plowed by bitterness of men,
But scourges turn to tongues of glory yet!
His back is bent with folly of the world,

Cruel, you pull away too soon your lips whenas you kiss me;
But you should hold them still, and then should you bliss me.
Now or ere I taste them,
Straight away they haste them.
But you perhaps retire them
To move my thoughts thereby the more to fire them.
Alas, such baits you need to find out never:
If you would but let me, I would kiss you ever.

On tender grass, 'neath a laurel-tree,
Who listeth to lie and drink with me?
Boy-Cupid shall come, and girding up
His light-blown robe with a hempen string,
Or flax, to his naked loins, shall bring
The wine, and bear my cup.

The life of man is a fleeting breath,
From day to day it evanisheth
Like hurrying waves that break on the shore.
Death's hour comes on … and our tomb shall keep
Nothing of us, save a nameless heap
Of little bones—no more.

I care not for custom, that bids perfume

Many folks are in a snit
They say the new poetry's not a kick
They pout and pester from academic writing posts
About emotions turned into ghosts of ghosts

Hejinian, Silliman—the tide is over
Andrews, McCaffery—abandon your mowers
You're before your time then out of date
It's not market forces nor fate

A friend of mine named Edith Jarolim
Told me a story from before meats were frozen
Seems her mother's uncle kept the beef supplied
To the distinguished family of Sig Freud's bride

She looked nearly the same
But when I hugged her
There was substantially more
To her—no doubt as with me.
She fibbed as I did at the edge
Of curb under the streetlight
As spiders dropped like tiny
Parachutes—they were difficult
To see. On the periphery
Of good luck, I thought,
Revisiting her quirky habits
And expressions, what I eventually
Found so bothersome. Except
When I glanced at my watch
I discovered I was trembling
Like a small-time embezzler.
I see, she said, you must have

Come with me and amble over the briars
into the fog. It rests a flurry by the slide
to make-b'lieve measure, harmless in the way
a doormat lay, fifty more bestride. The lovers
in their Louvre make no more sound than
this, spoken in announcement breaks
lids with iron fists. I never met
a dormouse, never sailed to Nice,
but just one time I'd like to know
who took the keys that fit.











Used by permission of the author.