English

Here I'm gazing, wide awake,
Robert Browning, no mistake!

'Twas Goethe taught us all
By diagnosis,
That change in plants we call
Metamorphosis!

Happy, happy glowing fire!

Zephyr
Fragrant air! delicious light!

Dusketha
Let me to my glooms retire!

Breama
I to green-weed rivers bright!

Salamander
Happy, happy glowing fire!
Dazzling bowers of soft retire,
Ever let my nourished wing,
Like a bat's, still wandering,
Nimbly fan your fiery spaces,
Spirit sole in deadly places.
In unhaunted roar and blaze,
Open eyes that never daze,
Let me see the myriad shapes
Of men and beasts, and fish, and apes,

the poem her belly marched through me as
one army. From her nostrils to her feet

she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat

of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy....


the bloodbeat
In her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has

—One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring

sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled

the skinny voice

of the leatherfaced
woman with the crimson
nose and coquettishly-
cocked bonnet

having ceased the

captain
announces that as three
dimes seven nickels and ten
pennies have been deposited upon

the drum there is need

of just twenty five cents
dear friends
to make it an even
dollar whereupon

the Divine Average who was

attracted by the inspired
sister's howling moves
off
will anyone tell him why he should

I will wade out
till my things are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Wind , the season-climate mixer,
In my Witches' Weather Primer
Says, to make this Fall Elixir
First you let the summer simmer,
Using neither spoon nor skimmer,

Till about the right consistence.
(This like fate by stars is reckoned,
None remaining in existence
Under magnitude the second.)

Then take some leftover winter
Far to north of the St Lawrence.
Leaves to strip and branches splinter,
Bring on wind. Bring rain in torrents—
Colder than the season warrants.

Dash it with some snow for powder.

If yellow betokens infidelity,
I am an infidel.
I could not bear a yellow rose ill will
because books said that yellow boded ill,
white promised well.

However, your particular possession,
the sense of privacy,
indeed might deprecate
Offended ears, and need not tolerate/

I heard the Whitethroat sing
Last eve at twilight when the wind was dead,
And her sleek bosom and her fair smooth head
Vibrated, ruffling, and her olive wing
Trembled. So soft her song was that it seemed
As though, in wandering through the copse at noon,
She must have found the holy bough where dreamed
The day-struck Nightingale,
And, listening, must have overheard too soon
The dim rehearsal of that golden tale
That greets the laggard moon.

But through the imitative strain,
Between each gentle cadence, and again

O menscheyt bloß, O marter gros,
O wunden tiff, O blutis craft,
O todis bitterkeyt, O du clare gotheit,
Hulff vns zcu der Ewigen seligkeyt! Amen.