Classic Poem

Roundclouds occluding patches of the
sky rival steam bluntly towering,
slowspinning billows which rival
the resting snow, which rivals the sun

beaten out upon it, flashing
to a struggle (of wings) which
fills the still air — still
but cold — yet burning . . .

It is the snow risen upon itself, it is
winter pressed breast to breast
with its own whiteness, transparent
yet visible:

Together, with their pigeon's heads whose
stupid eyes deceive no one —
they hold up between them something
which wants to fall to the ground . . .

And there's the river with thin ice upon it
fanning out half over the black
water, the free middlewater racing under its
ripples that move crosswise on the stream

But the wings and bodies of the pigeonlike
creatures keep fluttering, turning together
hiding that which is between them. It seems
to rest not in their claws but upon their breasts —

It is a baby!
Now it is very clear they're keeping the child
(naked in the air) warm and safe between them.
The eyes of the birds are fixed in

a bestial ecstasy. They strive together panting.
It is an antithesis of logic, very
theoretical. To his face the baby claps
the bearded face of Socrates . . .

Ho, ho! he's dropped it. It was a mask.
Now indeed the encounter throws aside all dissim-
ulation. The false birdheads drop back, arms
spring from the wingedges, all the parts

of two women become distinct, the anatomy
familiar and complete to the smallest detail:
A meaning plainly antipoetical . . . and
. . . all there is is won
(. . . . . . . .

It is Poesy, born of a man and two women
Exit No. 4, the string from the windowshade
has a noose at the bottom, a noose? or
a ring — bound with a white cord, knotted
around the circumference in a design —
And all there is is won

And it is Inness on the meadows and fruit is
yellow ripening in windows every minute
growing brighter in the bulblight by the
cabbages and spuds —
And all there is is won

What are black 4 a.m.'s after all but black
4 a.m.'s like anything else: a tree

a fork, a leaf, a pane of glass — ?
And all there is is won

A relic of old decency, a " very personal friend "
And all there is is won

(Envoi

Pic, your crows feed at your window sill
asso, try and get near mine . . .
And all there is is won
(. . . . . . . .

All
up and down the Rio Grande the sand is sand
on every hand (Grand chorus and finale)
(. . . . . . . .

Out of such drab trash as this
by a metamorphosis
bright as wallpaper or crayon
or where the sun casts ray on ray on
flowers in a dish, you shall weave
for Poesy a gaudy sleeve
a scarf, a cap and find him gloves
whiter than the backs of doves
. . . .

Clothe him
richly, those who loathe him
will besmirch him fast enough.
A surcease to sombre stuff —
black's black, black's one thing
but he's not a blackbird. Bring
something else for him to wear.
See! he's young he has black hair!
Very well then, a red vest . . .