77 Dream Songs (4 page)

while the rainy lepers salaamed back,

smiles & a passion of their & his eyes flew

in feelings not ever accorded solely to oneself.

25

Henry, edged, decidedly, made up stories

lighting the past of Henry, of his glorious

present, and his hoaries,

all the bight heals he tamped— —Euphoria,

Mr Bones, euphoria. Fate clobber all.

—Hand me back my crawl,

condign Heaven. Tighten into a ball

elongate & valved Henry. Tuck him peace.

Render him sightless,

or ruin at high rate his crampon focus,

wipe out his need. Reduce him
to the rest of us.

—But, Bones, you is that.

—I cannot remember. I am going away.

There was something in my dream about a Cat,

which fought and sang.

Something about a lyre, an island. Unstrung.

Linked to the land at low tide. Cables fray.

Thank you for everything.

26

The glories of the world struck me, made me aria, once.

—What happen then, Mr Bones?

if be you cares to say.

—Henry. Henry became interested in women’s bodies,

his loins were & were the     scene of stupendous achievement.

Stupor. Knees, dear. Pray.

All the knobs & softnesses of, my God,

the ducking & trouble it swarm on Henry,

at one time.

—What happen then, Mr Bones?

you seems
excited-like.

—Fell Henry back into     the original crime: art, rime

besides a sense of others, my God, my God,

and a jealousy for the honour (alive) of his country,

what can get more odd?

and discontent with the thriving gangs & pride.

—What happen then, Mr Bones?

—I had a most marvellous     piece of luck. I died.

II

27

The greens of the Ganges delta foliate.

Of heartless youth made late aware he pled:

Brownies, please come.

To Henry in his sparest times sometimes

the little people spread, & did friendly things;

then he was glad.

Pleased, at the worst, except with man, he shook

the brightest winter sun.

All the green lives

of the great delta, hours, hurt his migrant heart

in a safety of the steady
’plane. Please, please

come.

My friends,—he has been known to mourn,—I’ll die;

live you, in the most wild, kindly, green

partly forgiving wood,

sort of forever and all those human sings

close not your better ears to, while good Spring

returns with a dance and a sigh.

28

Snow Line

It was wet & white & swift and where I am

we don’t know. It was dark and then

it isn’t.

I wish the barker would come. There seems to be to eat

nothing. I am unusually tired.

I’m alone too.

If only the strange one with so few legs would come,

I’d say my prayers out of my mouth, as usual.

Where are his notes I loved?

There may be horribles; it’s hard to tell.

The barker
nips me but somehow I feel

he too is on my side.

I’m too alone. I see no end. If we could all

run, even that would be better. I am hungry.

The sun is not hot.

It’s not a good position I am in.

If I had to do the whole thing over again

I wouldn’t.

29

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart

só heavy, if he had a hundred years

& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time

Henry could not make good.

Starts again always in Henry’s ears

the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind

like a grave Sienese face a thousand years

would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,

with open eyes, he attends, blind.

All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;

thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,

end anyone and hacks her body up

and hide the pieces, where they may be found.

He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing.

Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.

Nobody is ever missing.

30

Collating bones: I would have liked to do.

Henry would have been hot at that.

I missed his profession.

As a little boy I always thought

‘I’m an archeologist’; who

could be more respected peaceful serious than that?

Hell talkt my brain awake.

Bluffed to the ends of me pain

& I took up a pencil;

like this I’m longing with. One sign

would snow me back, back.

Is there anyone in the
audience who has lived in vain?

A Chinese tooth! African jaw!

Drool, says a nervous system,

for a joyous replacing. Heat burns off dew.

Between the Ices (Mindel-Würm)

in a world I ever saw

some of my dying people indexed: “Warm.”

31

Henry Hankovitch, con guítar,

did a short Zen pray,

on his tatami in a relaxed lotos

fixin his mind on nuffin, rose-blue breasts,

and gave his parnel one French kiss;

enslaving himself he withdrew from his blue

Florentine leather case an Egyptian black

& flickt a zippo.

Henry & Phoebe happy as cockroaches

in the world-kitchen woofed, with all away.

The international flame, like despair,
rose

or like the foolish Paks or Sudanese

Henry Hankovitch, con guítar,

did a praying mantis pray

who even more obviously than the increasingly fanatical Americans

cannot govern themselves. Swedes don’t exist,

Scandinavians in general do not exist,

take it from there.

32

And where, friend Quo, lay you hiding

across malignant half my years or so?

One evil faery

it was workt night, with amoroso pleasing

menace, the panes shake

where Lie-by-the-fire is waiting for his cream.

A tiger by a torrent in rain, wind,

narrows fiend’s eyes for grief

in an old ink-on-silk,

reminding me of Delphi, and,

friend Quo, once was safe

imagination as sweet milk.

Let
all flowers wither like a party.

And now you have abandoned

own your young & old, the oldest, people

to a solitudinem of mournful communes,

mournful communes.

Status, Status, come home.

33

An apple arc’d toward Kleitos; whose great King

wroth & of wine did study where his sword,

sneaked away, might be …

with swollen lids staggered up and clung

dim to the cloth of gold. An un-Greek word

blister, to him his guard,

and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted. Ha,

they hustle Clitus out; by another door,

loaded, crowds he back in

who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax
ah

grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore

for weapons. For the sin:

little it is gross Henry has to say.

The King heaved. Pluckt out, the ax-end would

he jab in his sole throat.

As if an end. A baby, the guard may

squire him to his apartments. Weeping & blood

wound round his one friend.

34

My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide

in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried

to his trigger-digit, pal.

He should not have done that, but, I guess,

he didn’t feel the best, Sister,—felt less

and more about less than us…?

Now—tell me, my love,
if
you recall

the dove light after dawn at the island and all—

here is the story, Jack:

he verbed for forty years, very enough,

& shot & buckt—and, baby, there was of

schist but small there (some).

Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack

of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back—

in the taxi too, sick—

silent—it’s so I broke down here, in his mind

whose sire as mine one same way— I refuse,

hoping the guy go home.

35

MLA

Hey, out there!—assistant professors, full,

associates,—instructors—others—any—

I have a sing to shay.

We are assembled here in the capital

city for Dull—and one professor’s wife is Mary—

at Christmastide, hey!

and all of you did theses or are doing

and the moral history of what we were up to

thrives in Sir Wilson’s hands—

who I don’t see here—only deals go screwing

some of
you out, some up—the chairmen too

are nervous, little friends—

a chairman’s not a chairman, son, forever,

and hurts with his appointments; ha, but circle—

take my word for it—

though maybe Frost is dying—around Mary;

forget your footnotes on the old gentleman;

dance around Mary.

36

The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who’s there?

—Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side.

I smell your grief.

—I sent my grief away. I cannot care

forever. With them all again & again I died

and cried, and I have to live.

—Now there
you
exaggerate, Sah. We hafta
die.

That is our ’pointed task. Love & die.

—Yes; that makes sense.

But what makes sense between, then? What
if I

roiling & babbling & braining, brood on why and

just sat on the fence?

—I doubts you did or do. De choice is lost.

—It’s fool’s gold. But I go in for that.

The boy & the bear

looked at each other. Man all is tossed

& lost with groin-wounds by the grand bulls, cat.

William Faulkner’s where?

(Frost being still around.)

37

Three around the Old Gentleman

His malice was a pimple down his good

big face, with its sly eyes. I must be sorry

Mr Frost has left:

I like it so less I don’t understood—

he couldn’t hear or see well—all we sift—

but this is a
bad
story.

He had fine stories and was another man

in private; difficult, always. Courteous,

on the whole, in private.

He apologize to Henry, off & on,

for
two blue slanders; which was good of him.

I don’t know how he made it.

Quickly, off stage with all but kindness, now.

I can’t say what I have in mind. Bless Frost,

any odd god around.

Gentle his shift, I decussate & command,

stoic deity. For a while here we possessed

an unusual man.

38

The Russian grin bellows his condolence

tó the family: ah but it’s Kay,

& Ted, & Chis & Anne,

Henry thinks of: who eased his fearful way

from here, in here, to there. This wants thought.

I won’t make it out.

Maybe the source of noble such may come

clearer to dazzled Henry. It may come.

I’d say it will come with pain,

in mystery. I’d rather leave it alone.

I do leave it alone.

And
down with the listener.

Now he has become, abrupt, an industry.

Professional-Friends-Of-Robert-Frost all over

gap wide their mouths

while the quirky medium of so many truths

is quiet. Let’s be quiet. Let us listen:

—What for, Mr Bones?

                        —while he begins to have it out with Horace.

39

Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You’re in the clear.

‘Nobody’ (Mark says     you said) ‘is ever found out.’

I figure you were right,

having as Henry got away with murder

for long. Some jarred clock tell me it’s late,

not for you who went straight

but for the lorn. Our roof is lefted off

lately: the shooter, and the bourbon man,

and then you got tired.

I’m afraid that’s it. I figure you
with love,

lifey, deathy, but I have a little sense

the rest of us are fired

or fired: be with us: we will blow our best,

our sad wild riffs come easy in that case,

thinking you over,

knowing you resting, who was reborn to rest,

your gorgeous sentence done. Nothing’s the same,

sir,—taking cover.

40

I’m scared a lonely. Never see my son,

easy be not to see anyone,

combers out to sea

know they’re goin somewhere but not me.

Got a little poison, got a little gun,

I’m scared a lonely.

I’m scared a only one thing, which is me,

from othering I don’t take nothin, see,

for any hound dog’s sake.

But this is where I livin, where I rake

my leaves and cop my promise, this’ where we

cry
oursel’s awake.

Wishin was dyin but I gotta make

it all this way to that bed on these feet

where peoples said to meet.

Maybe but even if I see my son

forever never, get back on the take,

free, black & forty-one.

41

If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert)

while snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew

so many all of nothing,

for lead & fire, it’s not we would assert

particulars, but animal; cats mew,

horses scream, man sing.

Or: men psalm. Man palms his ears and moans.

Death is a German expert. Scrambling, sitting,