A Poem of the Forty-eight States
1
O Kentucky! my parents were driving
Near blue grass when you became
For me the real contents of a glass
Of water also the first nozzle of a horse
The bakery truck floating down the street
The young baboon woman walking without a brace
Over a fiord.
The electric chair steamed lightly, then touched
Me. I drove, upward,
Into the hills of Montana. My pony!
Here you are coming along with your master!
Yet I am your master! You're wearing my sweater.
O pony, my pony!
As in a dream I was waiting to be seventh
To smile at my brothers in the happy state of Idaho
Each and every one of them condemned to the electric chair!
What have we done? Is it a crime
To shoe horses? Beside a lemon-yellow stream
There seemed to be compact bassoons,
And I was happy and a crackerjack.
My stovepipe hat! Perhaps you think I am Uncle Sam?
No, I am the State of Pennsylvania. . . .
O hills! I remember writing to a city
So as to be contented with my name
Returning in the mails near the mark " Pennsylvania " !
" Somewhere over that hill is Georgia. "
What romance there was for me in the words the old man said!
I wanted to go, but was afraid to wander very far.
Then he said, " I will take you in my wagon of hay. "
And so we rode together into the Peach State.
I will never forget that day, not so long as I live,
I will never forget the first impressions I had in Georgia!
2
In Zanesville, Ohio, they put a pennant up,
And in Waco, Texas, men stamped in the streets,
And the soldiers were coughing on the streetcar in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
In Minocqua, Wisconsin, the girls kissed each other and laughed,
The poison was working in Monroe, Illinois,
And in Stephanie, New Hampshire, burning fragments were thrown up.
It was the day of the States, and from Topeka, Kansas,
To Lumberville, New York, trees were being struck
Down so they could put the platforms up. However I lay struck
By sunlight on the beach at Waikiki, Hawaii . . .
Why can't Hawaii be one of the United States?
Nothing is being celebrated here; yet the beaches are covered with sun . . .
Florida, Vermont, Alabama, Mississippi!
I guess that I will go back to the United States.
Dear friend, let's pack our bags and climb upon the steamer!
Do not forget the birds you have bought in the jolly land of France,
They are red white orange yellow green and pink and they sing so sweetly,
They will make music to us upon the tedious ocean voyage.
3
Tedious! How could I have said such a thing?
O sea, you are more beautiful than any state!
You are fuller and bluer and more perfect than the most perfect action.
What is a perfect action?
In the streets of Kokomo a cheer goes up,
And the head of the lion is cursed by a thousand vicissitudes.
Indiana! it is so beautiful to have tar in it!
How wonderful it is to be back on a trolley car, ding dong ding!
I think I will wander into the barbershop and get my hair cut!
Just hear the slice of the scissors, look at the comb!
Now to be once more out in the streets of Indiana
With my hair much shorter, with my neck smelling of talcum powder!
O lucky streetcar wires to be able to look at me, and through whom I can see the sun!
I did not know there was so much sun in North Dakota!
But the old man who is telling me about it nods his head and says yes.
I believe him because my skin is peeling. Now I see people going to the voting booth.
The voting wagon is red and wooden, it stands on wheels where it is anchored to the curb.
I had no idea there were so many old men and old women in North Dakota,
But the old man who is explaining things to me says that each is above voting age.
4
I cannot remember what all I saw
In northern Florida, all the duck we shot.
You have asked me to recall Illinois,
But all I have is a handful of wrinkles.
Perhaps you would like me to speak of California,
But I hope not, for now I am very close to death.
The children all came down to see the whale in Arkansas,
I remember that its huge body lay attached to the side of the river.
5
O Mississippi joys!
I reckon I am about as big and dead as a whale!
I am slowly sinking down into the green ooze
Of the Everglades, that I feared so much when I was a child!
I have become about as flat as the dust on a baseball diamond
And as empty and clear as the sky when it is just-blue
And you are three, and you stand on the rim of the zone of one of the United States
And think about the forty-seven others; then in the evening
Air you hear the sound of baseball players, and the splash of canoes!
You yourself would like to play baseball and travel, but you are too young;
However you look up into the clear flat blue of the evening sky
And vow that you will one day be a traveler like myself,
And wander to all the ends of the earth until you are completely exhausted,
And then return to Texas or Indiana, whatever state you happen to be from.
And have your death celebrated by a lavish funeral
Conducted by starlight, with numerous boys and girls reading my poems aloud!
6
O Charleston! why do you always put me in the mood for kidding?
I am not dead yet, why do you make me say I am?
But I think I am growing older, my shoes are falling off,
I think it must be that my feet are getting thinner and that I am ready to die.
Here comes my pony from Montana, he is a mere skull and crossbones,
And here is the old man who told me about North Dakota, he is a little baby,
And here is Illinois, and here is Indiana, I guess they are my favorite states,
I guess I am dying now in Charleston, South Carolina.
O Charleston, why do you always do this . . . Gasp! Goodbye!
7
In Illinois the trees are growing up
Where he planted them; for he has died.
But I am the one who originally intended to read
You the fast movements. Now we will hear the Brandenburg
Concertos . Now we will go up in an
Airplane. Steady . . . The poet of America, Walt Whitman, is dead.
But many other poets have died that are reborn
In their works. He also shall be reborn,
Walt Whitman shall be reborn.
8
I did not understand what you meant by the Hudson Tunnel,
But now I understand, New Jersey, I like it fine,
I like the stifling black smoke and the jagged heave-ho of the trains,
I like the sunlight too at the end of the tunnel, like my rebirth in the poems of Kenneth Koch,
I like the way the rosy sunlight streams down upon the silver tracks,
I like the way the travelers awake from their dreams and step upon the hard paving stone of the station,
But I reckon what I should like best would be to see Indiana again,
Or Texas or Arkansas, or Alabama, the " Cotton State, "
Or Big Rose Pebble Island off the coast of Maine
Where I used to have so much fun during the summer, cooking and kidding and having myself a good time,
I like Pennsylvania too, we could have a lot of fun there,
You and I will go there when Kenneth is dead.
O Kentucky! my parents were driving
Near blue grass when you became
For me the real contents of a glass
Of water also the first nozzle of a horse
The bakery truck floating down the street
The young baboon woman walking without a brace
Over a fiord.
The electric chair steamed lightly, then touched
Me. I drove, upward,
Into the hills of Montana. My pony!
Here you are coming along with your master!
Yet I am your master! You're wearing my sweater.
O pony, my pony!
As in a dream I was waiting to be seventh
To smile at my brothers in the happy state of Idaho
Each and every one of them condemned to the electric chair!
What have we done? Is it a crime
To shoe horses? Beside a lemon-yellow stream
There seemed to be compact bassoons,
And I was happy and a crackerjack.
My stovepipe hat! Perhaps you think I am Uncle Sam?
No, I am the State of Pennsylvania. . . .
O hills! I remember writing to a city
So as to be contented with my name
Returning in the mails near the mark " Pennsylvania " !
" Somewhere over that hill is Georgia. "
What romance there was for me in the words the old man said!
I wanted to go, but was afraid to wander very far.
Then he said, " I will take you in my wagon of hay. "
And so we rode together into the Peach State.
I will never forget that day, not so long as I live,
I will never forget the first impressions I had in Georgia!
2
In Zanesville, Ohio, they put a pennant up,
And in Waco, Texas, men stamped in the streets,
And the soldiers were coughing on the streetcar in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
In Minocqua, Wisconsin, the girls kissed each other and laughed,
The poison was working in Monroe, Illinois,
And in Stephanie, New Hampshire, burning fragments were thrown up.
It was the day of the States, and from Topeka, Kansas,
To Lumberville, New York, trees were being struck
Down so they could put the platforms up. However I lay struck
By sunlight on the beach at Waikiki, Hawaii . . .
Why can't Hawaii be one of the United States?
Nothing is being celebrated here; yet the beaches are covered with sun . . .
Florida, Vermont, Alabama, Mississippi!
I guess that I will go back to the United States.
Dear friend, let's pack our bags and climb upon the steamer!
Do not forget the birds you have bought in the jolly land of France,
They are red white orange yellow green and pink and they sing so sweetly,
They will make music to us upon the tedious ocean voyage.
3
Tedious! How could I have said such a thing?
O sea, you are more beautiful than any state!
You are fuller and bluer and more perfect than the most perfect action.
What is a perfect action?
In the streets of Kokomo a cheer goes up,
And the head of the lion is cursed by a thousand vicissitudes.
Indiana! it is so beautiful to have tar in it!
How wonderful it is to be back on a trolley car, ding dong ding!
I think I will wander into the barbershop and get my hair cut!
Just hear the slice of the scissors, look at the comb!
Now to be once more out in the streets of Indiana
With my hair much shorter, with my neck smelling of talcum powder!
O lucky streetcar wires to be able to look at me, and through whom I can see the sun!
I did not know there was so much sun in North Dakota!
But the old man who is telling me about it nods his head and says yes.
I believe him because my skin is peeling. Now I see people going to the voting booth.
The voting wagon is red and wooden, it stands on wheels where it is anchored to the curb.
I had no idea there were so many old men and old women in North Dakota,
But the old man who is explaining things to me says that each is above voting age.
4
I cannot remember what all I saw
In northern Florida, all the duck we shot.
You have asked me to recall Illinois,
But all I have is a handful of wrinkles.
Perhaps you would like me to speak of California,
But I hope not, for now I am very close to death.
The children all came down to see the whale in Arkansas,
I remember that its huge body lay attached to the side of the river.
5
O Mississippi joys!
I reckon I am about as big and dead as a whale!
I am slowly sinking down into the green ooze
Of the Everglades, that I feared so much when I was a child!
I have become about as flat as the dust on a baseball diamond
And as empty and clear as the sky when it is just-blue
And you are three, and you stand on the rim of the zone of one of the United States
And think about the forty-seven others; then in the evening
Air you hear the sound of baseball players, and the splash of canoes!
You yourself would like to play baseball and travel, but you are too young;
However you look up into the clear flat blue of the evening sky
And vow that you will one day be a traveler like myself,
And wander to all the ends of the earth until you are completely exhausted,
And then return to Texas or Indiana, whatever state you happen to be from.
And have your death celebrated by a lavish funeral
Conducted by starlight, with numerous boys and girls reading my poems aloud!
6
O Charleston! why do you always put me in the mood for kidding?
I am not dead yet, why do you make me say I am?
But I think I am growing older, my shoes are falling off,
I think it must be that my feet are getting thinner and that I am ready to die.
Here comes my pony from Montana, he is a mere skull and crossbones,
And here is the old man who told me about North Dakota, he is a little baby,
And here is Illinois, and here is Indiana, I guess they are my favorite states,
I guess I am dying now in Charleston, South Carolina.
O Charleston, why do you always do this . . . Gasp! Goodbye!
7
In Illinois the trees are growing up
Where he planted them; for he has died.
But I am the one who originally intended to read
You the fast movements. Now we will hear the Brandenburg
Concertos . Now we will go up in an
Airplane. Steady . . . The poet of America, Walt Whitman, is dead.
But many other poets have died that are reborn
In their works. He also shall be reborn,
Walt Whitman shall be reborn.
8
I did not understand what you meant by the Hudson Tunnel,
But now I understand, New Jersey, I like it fine,
I like the stifling black smoke and the jagged heave-ho of the trains,
I like the sunlight too at the end of the tunnel, like my rebirth in the poems of Kenneth Koch,
I like the way the rosy sunlight streams down upon the silver tracks,
I like the way the travelers awake from their dreams and step upon the hard paving stone of the station,
But I reckon what I should like best would be to see Indiana again,
Or Texas or Arkansas, or Alabama, the " Cotton State, "
Or Big Rose Pebble Island off the coast of Maine
Where I used to have so much fun during the summer, cooking and kidding and having myself a good time,
I like Pennsylvania too, we could have a lot of fun there,
You and I will go there when Kenneth is dead.
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