Mine, said the stone,
mine is the hour.
I crush the scissors,
such is my power.
Stronger than wishes,
my power, alone.
Mine, said the paper,
mine are the words
that smother the stone
with imagined birds,
reams of them, flown
from the mind of the shaper.
Mine, said the scissors,
mine all the knives
gashing through paper’s
ethereal lives;
nothing’s so proper
as tattering wishes.
As stone crushes scissors,
as paper snuffs stone
and scissors cut paper,
all end alone.
So heap up your paper
and scissor your wishes
and uproot the stone
from the top of the hill.
They all end alone
as you will, you will.
mine is the hour.
I crush the scissors,
such is my power.
Stronger than wishes,
my power, alone.
Mine, said the paper,
mine are the words
that smother the stone
with imagined birds,
reams of them, flown
from the mind of the shaper.
Mine, said the scissors,
mine all the knives
gashing through paper’s
ethereal lives;
nothing’s so proper
as tattering wishes.
As stone crushes scissors,
as paper snuffs stone
and scissors cut paper,
all end alone.
So heap up your paper
and scissor your wishes
and uproot the stone
from the top of the hill.
They all end alone
as you will, you will.
Dream Song 5
Henry sats in de bar & was odd,
off in the glass from the glass,
at odds wif de world & its god,
his wife is a complete nothing,
St Stephen
getting even.
Henry sats in de plane & was gay.
Careful Henry nothing said aloud
but where a Virgin out of cloud
to her Mountain dropt in light,
his thought made pockets & the plane buckt.
'Parm me, lady.' 'Orright.'
Henry lay in de netting, wild,
while the brainfever bird did scales;
Mr Heartbreak, the New Man,
come to farm a crazy land;
an image of the dead on the fingernail
of a newborn child.
Henry sats in de bar & was odd,
off in the glass from the glass,
at odds wif de world & its god,
his wife is a complete nothing,
St Stephen
getting even.
Henry sats in de plane & was gay.
Careful Henry nothing said aloud
but where a Virgin out of cloud
to her Mountain dropt in light,
his thought made pockets & the plane buckt.
'Parm me, lady.' 'Orright.'
Henry lay in de netting, wild,
while the brainfever bird did scales;
Mr Heartbreak, the New Man,
come to farm a crazy land;
an image of the dead on the fingernail
of a newborn child.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
Through the forests of the night.
Everett’s was the hand and eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry.
Everett, could cage it in a
Line of thought, a line of verse.
Everett knew what words were worth.
And Everett’s words were diamond words.
Whenever you heard them, something stirred
Inside of you.
'Cause that's what poets do.
Oh, Everett, he never ate
A square meal in thirty years.
But men don't live by bread alone,
And you could find him any time,
Slouched up on his high chair,
Drinking scotch,
And staring at his crotch.
He slept on sofas, slept on floors.
some nights he slept out of doors.
Napkin backs and envelopes
were the places Everett wrote
his masterworks,
and all of us young Turks
gathered up the scraps
that Everett tossed into our laps.
And that's how Everett won his fame:
we'd print them under Everett’s name,
every year or two,
'cause that's what poets do.
Who was the man behind the mask?
None of us ever dared to ask.
Poetry was Everette's shield and sword.
Despair could be its own reward,
when despair was polished hard,
until it shone, like a precious stone,
where all of the pain could sparkle through.
'Cause that's what poets do.
And all of us at the Maple Leaf,
knew that he would come to grief.
some folks live so close to death,
that you can swear you smell it on their breath.
Yes, poets dream, and poets drink,
and poets live life on the brink.
poets smoke, and poets die,
and if you ever ask them why,
they'll tell you, they don't have a clue.
They'll tell you,
It's just what poets do.
So, Everett’s body turned to ash,
and we all had a mighty bash.
people came from near and far,
to toast the bard at the bard's bar.
We knew he would have done the same for us.
And Everett, wherever you are,
leaning on some heavenly bar,
sloshed upon some sacred stool,
where God serves His holy fools -
even while you damn Him to His face -
Everett, I know you've got His grace.
And as I listened at your wake,
I saw how only you could make
a triumph out of tragedy,
tragedy into a divine comedy.
Your words, your words have outlived you.
'Cause, Everett,
that's what poets do.
Through the forests of the night.
Everett’s was the hand and eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry.
Everett, could cage it in a
Line of thought, a line of verse.
Everett knew what words were worth.
And Everett’s words were diamond words.
Whenever you heard them, something stirred
Inside of you.
'Cause that's what poets do.
Oh, Everett, he never ate
A square meal in thirty years.
But men don't live by bread alone,
And you could find him any time,
Slouched up on his high chair,
Drinking scotch,
And staring at his crotch.
He slept on sofas, slept on floors.
some nights he slept out of doors.
Napkin backs and envelopes
were the places Everett wrote
his masterworks,
and all of us young Turks
gathered up the scraps
that Everett tossed into our laps.
And that's how Everett won his fame:
we'd print them under Everett’s name,
every year or two,
'cause that's what poets do.
Who was the man behind the mask?
None of us ever dared to ask.
Poetry was Everette's shield and sword.
Despair could be its own reward,
when despair was polished hard,
until it shone, like a precious stone,
where all of the pain could sparkle through.
'Cause that's what poets do.
And all of us at the Maple Leaf,
knew that he would come to grief.
some folks live so close to death,
that you can swear you smell it on their breath.
Yes, poets dream, and poets drink,
and poets live life on the brink.
poets smoke, and poets die,
and if you ever ask them why,
they'll tell you, they don't have a clue.
They'll tell you,
It's just what poets do.
So, Everett’s body turned to ash,
and we all had a mighty bash.
people came from near and far,
to toast the bard at the bard's bar.
We knew he would have done the same for us.
And Everett, wherever you are,
leaning on some heavenly bar,
sloshed upon some sacred stool,
where God serves His holy fools -
even while you damn Him to His face -
Everett, I know you've got His grace.
And as I listened at your wake,
I saw how only you could make
a triumph out of tragedy,
tragedy into a divine comedy.
Your words, your words have outlived you.
'Cause, Everett,
that's what poets do.
Busy old fool, unruly sun, rivalry
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
They beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday
And thou shalt hear,All here in one bed lay.
She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
They beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday
And thou shalt hear,All here in one bed lay.
She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.
"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"
He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"
He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water
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