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The Baloon Of The Mind
Hands, do what you're bid:
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.
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On the radio I heard the news
of that day
at least 6 times, I was
well versed in world
affairs.
The remainder of the stations played a
thin, sick music.
The classical stations refused to come in
clearly
and when they did
it was a stale repetition of standard and
tiresome works.
I turned the radio off.
A strange whirling began in my
head—it circled behind the forehead, clockwise...
I began to wonder, is this what happens
when one goes
mad?
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Stanzas
If thou be in a lonely place,
If one hour's calm be thine,
As Evening bends her placid face
o'er this sweet day's decline;
If all the earth and all the heaven
Now look serene to thee,
As o'er them shuts the summer even,
One momentthink of me!
Pause, in the lane, returning home;
'Tis dusk, it will be still:
Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom
Its breezeless boughs will fill.
Look at that soft and golden light,
High in the unclouded sky;
Watch the last bird's belated flight,
As it flits silent by.
Hark! For a sound upon the wind,
a step, a voice, a sigh;
If all be still, then yield thy mind,
Unchecked, to memory.
If thy love were like mine, how blest
That twilight hour would seem,
When, back from the regretted Past,
Returned our early dream!
If thy love were like mine, how wild
Thy longings, even to pain,
For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,
To bring that hour again!
But oft, when in thine arms I lay,
I've seen thy dark eyes shine,
And deeply felt, their changeful ray
Spoke other love than mine.
My love is almost anguish now,
It beats so strong and true;
'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou
Such anguish ever knew.
I have been but thy transient flower,
Thou wert my God divine;
Till, checked by death's congealing power,
This heart must throb for thine.
And well my dying hour were blest,
If life's expiring breath
Should pass, as thy lips gently prest
My forehead, cold in death;
And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,
Beneath the churchyard tree,
If sometimes in thy heart should beat
One pulse, still true to me.
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To George Sand A Desire
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand! Whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! That thou to woman's claim
And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
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The World Is Great
The world is great!
The birds fly from me;
The stars are golden fruit
Upon a tree
All out of reach
My little sister went and I am lonely.
The world is great!
I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines
Where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher.
Little Lisa went and I am lonely.
The world is great!
The wind comes rushing by.
I wonder where it comes from.
Sea-birds cry
And hurt my heart.
My little sister went and I am lonely.
The world is great!
The people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday.
How fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me.
Little Lisa went and I am lonely.
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A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
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Another Day
Having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
You sit at a table.
The waitress smiles at you.
She's dumpy. Her ass is too big.
She radiates kindess and symphaty.
Live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
O. k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
You order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
The man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
At a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
They talk loudly of land development.
Why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
Then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
And you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
Then somebody behind you laughs.
It's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
You begin eating the sandwhich.
It's something.
It's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
You order another beer.
Jesus, look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
Well, time to get out.
Pivk up the bill.
Tip.
Go to the register.
Pay.
Pick up a toothpick.
Go out the door.
Your car is still there.
And there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
They each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
They drive away first
they drive away fast.
They're best I guess.
It's an unberably hot day.
There's a first-stage smog alert.
All the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
You start the engine.
Charles Bukowski a Smile To Remember
We had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
And she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.
My mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
Why don't you ever smile? '
And then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw.
One day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled.
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And Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?
Te somnia nostra reducunt. '
OVID.
And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream–a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.
I saw her as'twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play'd a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.
With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
a garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath'd with lambent fire
And amaranth was woven round it.
I saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.
I strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air–a lovely vision!
And I awoke, but oh! To me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.
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Leda And The Swan
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
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Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.
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