PenFall

A Prophecy

O Future bards
chant from skull to heart to ass
as long as language lasts
Vocalize all chords
zap all consciousness
I sing out of mind jail
in New York State
without electricity
rain on the mountain
thought fills cities
I’ll leave my body
in a thin motel
my self escapes
through unborn ears
Not my language
but a voice
chanting in patterns
survives on earth
not history’s bones
but vocal tones
Dear breaths and eyes
shine in the skies
where rockets rise
to take me home.

- Allen Ginsberg

City Trees

The trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come,—
I know what sound is there.

Arguments

I’m sick of arguments
“You threw the butter in the pan”
“I did not you let it melt on the stove”
“You invaded Turkey and killed all the Armenians!”
“I did not! You invaded China got them addicted to Opium!”
“You built a bigger H Bomb than I did”
“You used poison gas in Indochina”
“Your agent orange defoliated 1/4 the landmass     It isn’t fair”
“You sprayed Paraquat”
“You smoke pot”
“You’re under arrest”
“I declare war!”
Why don’t we turn off the loudspeakers?

- Allen Ginsberg

I looked through all of my poetry last night, for almost two hours, trying to find anything but another Alan Dugan poem to post here on my blog. I love Dugan, but there are so many greats out there — EE Cummings, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Ezra Pound (we have a love/hate relationship), TS Eliot, Ann Sexton (a bit too …well, soft porn for this blog — have you read “the fury of cocks”??), Dylan Thomas (I swoon) … the list goes on, and on, and on.

But there’s this one poem called, “On a Seven Day Diary.” During my senior year of college I was taking an advanced poetry class, convinced that poetry could not, and should not, be taught. But I was wrong. Professor Bob Day, very famous at Washington College, taught the class and it was unbelievable. Truly. At the end of the year, we were given an assignment to memorize two poems — any two poems — to then recite to the entire class. It was not an option, however, to simply memorize and recite the poems; some thought, some (for lack of a better word) performance was necessary. Let me say for the record that Professor Day was, and probably still is, somewhat against poetry being read out loud. Rather, it should be read on the page as it was meant to be.

That said, there must have been a point to his exersize — and as it turns out, there was! I remember this poem very well, and I think of it it at least two or three times a week, riding back and forth on the metro to and from work, becoming numb by thursday or friday, and then…well, Dugan says it best. Read on:

“On a Seven Day Diary”

Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn’t worth this “word.”
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.

- Alan Dugan

I’ve always loved Alan Dugan, and own a complete collection of his poetry. I have never read a collection of poems like a novel — from page 1 to the end (unless the poet has arranged the collection him/herself) — instead I flip to a page, any page, and enjoy whichever poem chooses me. Today, it was this one:

“Winter’s Onset from an Alienated Point of View”

The first cold front came in

whining like a carpenter’s plane

and curled the warm air

up the sky: winter is

for busy work, summer

for construction. As for

spring and fall, ah, you

know what we do then:

sow and reap. I want

never to be idle or by plumb

or level to fear death,

so I do none of this

in offices away from weather.

- Alan Dugan