friends—
Some horse-shit here, eh?—You admitted it,
Come, you did once . . and we are friends, I say.—
‘La Cuchiani aima Tristan, mais . .’
(The biographer says) unscrupulous a bit,
Or utterly … There, of course, the resemblance ends.
[ 110 ]
‘Ring us up when you want to see us . .’ —‘Sure,’
Said Moses to the SS woman, smil-
ing hopeless Moses.—Put her whip and file
Away and walked away, strip-murderer,
A svelte Lise, whistling … Knowing, it’s all your
(Alas) initiation: you I can’t: while
We are relationless, ‘us’?—Hail, chat: cant, heil!—
Hypocrite-perfect! hoping I endure.
A winter-shore is forming in my eye,
The widest river: down to it we dash,
In love, but I am naked, and shake; so,
Uncoloured-thick-oil clad, you nod and cry
Let’s go!’ . . white fuzzless limbs you razor flash,
And I am to follow the way you go.
27 August
[ 111 ]
Christian to Try: “I am so coxed in it,
All I can do is pull, pull without shame,
Backwards,—on the coxswain fall the fiery blame,
I slump free and exhausted.”—“Stop a bit,”
Try studied his sloe gin, “if you must fit
A trope so, you must hope to quit the game”
Pursued my brown friend with the plausible name
“Before your heart enlarging mucks you. Minute
By minute you pull faster.”—But I too
Am named, though lost . . you learn God’s will, give in,
After, whatever, you sit on, you sit.
Try “Quit” said “and be free.” I freeze to you
And I am free now of the fire of this sin
I choose . . I lose, yes . . but then I submit!
[ 112 ]
I break my pace now for a sonic boom,
the future’s with & in us. I sit fired
but comes on strong with the fire fatigue: I’m tired.
‘I’d drive my car across the living-room
if I could get it inside the house.’ You loom
less, less than before when your voice choired
into my transept hear I now it, not expired
but half-dead with exhaustion, like Mr Bloom.
Dazzle, before I abandon you, my eyes,
my eyes which I need for journeys difficult
in which case it may be said that I survive you.
Your voice continues, with its lows & highs,
and I am a willing accomplice in the cult
and every word that I have gasped of you is true.
[ 113 ]
‘I didn’t see anyone else, I just saw Lise’
Anne Frank remorseful from the grave: ah well,
it was a vision of her mother in Hell,
a payment beforehand for rebellion’s seize,
whereby she grew up: springing from her knees
she saw her parents level. I ward your spell
away, and I try hard to look at you level
but that is quite unaccustomed to me, Lise.
Months I lookt up, entranced by you up there
like a Goya ceiling which will not come down,
in swirling clouds, until the end is here.
Tetélestai. We steamed in a freighter from Spain
& I will never see those frescoes again
nor need to, having memorized your cloudy gown.
[ 114 ]
You come blonde visiting through the black air
knocking on my hinged lawn-level window
and you will come for years, above, below,
& through to interrupt my study where
I’m sweating it out like asterisks: so there,—
you are the text, my work’s broken down so
I found, after my grandmother died, slow,
and I had flown far South to her funeral spare
but crowded with relations, I found her last
letter unopened, much less answered: shame
overcame me so far I paused & cried
in my underground study, for all the past
undone & never again to walk tall, lame
at the mercy of your presence to abide.
[ 115 ]
All we were going strong last night this time,
the mots were flying & the frozen daiquiris
were downing, supine on the floor lay Lise
listening to Schubert grievous & sublime,
my head was frantic with a following rime:
it was a good evening, an evening to please,
I kissed her in the kitchen—ecstasies—
among so much good we tamped down the crime.
The weather’s changing. This morning was cold,
as I made for the grove, without expectation,
some
Some horse-shit here, eh?—You admitted it,
Come, you did once . . and we are friends, I say.—
‘La Cuchiani aima Tristan, mais . .’
(The biographer says) unscrupulous a bit,
Or utterly … There, of course, the resemblance ends.
[ 110 ]
‘Ring us up when you want to see us . .’ —‘Sure,’
Said Moses to the SS woman, smil-
ing hopeless Moses.—Put her whip and file
Away and walked away, strip-murderer,
A svelte Lise, whistling … Knowing, it’s all your
(Alas) initiation: you I can’t: while
We are relationless, ‘us’?—Hail, chat: cant, heil!—
Hypocrite-perfect! hoping I endure.
A winter-shore is forming in my eye,
The widest river: down to it we dash,
In love, but I am naked, and shake; so,
Uncoloured-thick-oil clad, you nod and cry
Let’s go!’ . . white fuzzless limbs you razor flash,
And I am to follow the way you go.
27 August
[ 111 ]
Christian to Try: “I am so coxed in it,
All I can do is pull, pull without shame,
Backwards,—on the coxswain fall the fiery blame,
I slump free and exhausted.”—“Stop a bit,”
Try studied his sloe gin, “if you must fit
A trope so, you must hope to quit the game”
Pursued my brown friend with the plausible name
“Before your heart enlarging mucks you. Minute
By minute you pull faster.”—But I too
Am named, though lost . . you learn God’s will, give in,
After, whatever, you sit on, you sit.
Try “Quit” said “and be free.” I freeze to you
And I am free now of the fire of this sin
I choose . . I lose, yes . . but then I submit!
[ 112 ]
I break my pace now for a sonic boom,
the future’s with & in us. I sit fired
but comes on strong with the fire fatigue: I’m tired.
‘I’d drive my car across the living-room
if I could get it inside the house.’ You loom
less, less than before when your voice choired
into my transept hear I now it, not expired
but half-dead with exhaustion, like Mr Bloom.
Dazzle, before I abandon you, my eyes,
my eyes which I need for journeys difficult
in which case it may be said that I survive you.
Your voice continues, with its lows & highs,
and I am a willing accomplice in the cult
and every word that I have gasped of you is true.
[ 113 ]
‘I didn’t see anyone else, I just saw Lise’
Anne Frank remorseful from the grave: ah well,
it was a vision of her mother in Hell,
a payment beforehand for rebellion’s seize,
whereby she grew up: springing from her knees
she saw her parents level. I ward your spell
away, and I try hard to look at you level
but that is quite unaccustomed to me, Lise.
Months I lookt up, entranced by you up there
like a Goya ceiling which will not come down,
in swirling clouds, until the end is here.
Tetélestai. We steamed in a freighter from Spain
& I will never see those frescoes again
nor need to, having memorized your cloudy gown.
[ 114 ]
You come blonde visiting through the black air
knocking on my hinged lawn-level window
and you will come for years, above, below,
& through to interrupt my study where
I’m sweating it out like asterisks: so there,—
you are the text, my work’s broken down so
I found, after my grandmother died, slow,
and I had flown far South to her funeral spare
but crowded with relations, I found her last
letter unopened, much less answered: shame
overcame me so far I paused & cried
in my underground study, for all the past
undone & never again to walk tall, lame
at the mercy of your presence to abide.
[ 115 ]
All we were going strong last night this time,
the mots were flying & the frozen daiquiris
were downing, supine on the floor lay Lise
listening to Schubert grievous & sublime,
my head was frantic with a following rime:
it was a good evening, an evening to please,
I kissed her in the kitchen—ecstasies—
among so much good we tamped down the crime.
The weather’s changing. This morning was cold,
as I made for the grove, without expectation,
some
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