Jack Kerouac (1922-1969)

To Harpo Marx

O Harpo! When did you seem like an angel
the last time?
and played the gray harp of gold?

When did you steal the silverware
and bug-spray the guests?

When did your brother find rain
in you sunny courtyard?

When did you chase your last blonde
across the Millionaires' lawn
with a bait hook on a line
protruding from your bicycle?

Or when last you powderpuffed
your white flour face
with fishbarrel cover?

Harpo! Who was that Lion
I saw you with?

How did you treat the midget
and Konk the Giant?

Harpo, in your recent nightclub appearance
in New Orleans were you old?
were you still chiding with your horn
in the cane at your golden belt?

Did you still emerge from your pockets
another Harpo, or screw on
new wrists?

Was your vow of silence an Indian Harp?

 

Jack Kerouac :

Leonard Cohen (b.1934)

"Chelsea Hotel #2"

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet,
giving me head on the unmade bed,
while the limousines wait in the street.
Those were the reasons and that was New York,
we were running for the money and the flesh.
And that was called love for the workers in song
probably still is for those of them left.
Ah but you got away, didn't you babe,
you just turned your back on the crowd,
you got away, I never once heard you say,
I need you, I don't need you,
I need you, I don't need you
and all of that jiving around.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, "Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music."

And then you got away, didn't you babe...

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best,
I can't keep track of each fallen robin.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
that's all, I don't even think of you that often.

Leonard Cohen Chelsea Hotel #2 Live

Samiya Bashir (b.1970)

Blackbody Curve      

Stairs: a rushed flight down thirty-eight; French doors unlocked always.

Always: a lie; an argument.

Argument: two buck hunters circle a meadow’s edge.

Edge: one of us outside bleeding.

Bleeding: shards of glass; doors locked.

Locked: carpet awash with blood.

Blood: lift and drop; a sudden breeze.

Breeze: its whistle through bone.

Bone: the other was looking at —

Bone: cradled to catch drips.

Drips: quiet as a meadow fawn.

Fawn: faces down each hunter each gun.

Gun: again.

Again: somebody call someone.

Someone: almost always prefers forgetting.

Forgetting: an argument; a lie.

Lie: a meadow; a casement; a stair.

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Source: Poetry (January 2016).

Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

 

Wallace Stevens :

Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930)

 CONVERSATION WITH COMRADE LENIN

Awhirl with events,
                   packed with jobs one too many,
the day slowly sinks
                    as the night shadows fall.
There are two in the room:
                           I
                            and Lenin-
a photograph
             on the whiteness of wall.

The stubble slides upward
                         above his lip
as his mouth
             jerks open in speech.
                                 The  tense
creases of brow
               hold thought
                           in their grip,
immense brow
              matched by thought immense.
A forest of flags,
                raised-up hands thick as grass...
Thousands are marching
                       beneath him...
                                    Transported,
alight with joy,
                 I rise from my place,
eager to see him,
                hail him,
                        report to him!
"Comrade  Lenin,
                I report to you -
(not a dictate of office,
                      the heart's prompting alone)
   
This hellish work
                 that we're out to do

will be done
            and  is already being done.
We  feed and we clothe
                       and give light to the needy,

the quotas
          for coal
                  and for iron
                             fulfill,
but there is
            any amount
                      of bleeding
muck
     and  rubbish
                 around  us still.

Without you,
            there's many
                       have got out of hand,

all the sparring
              and  squabbling
                                  does one in.
There's scum
            in plenty
                     hounding our land,

outside the borders
                   and  also
                           within.

Try to
      count 'em
               and
                  tab 'em -
                           it's no go,

there's all kinds,
                 and  they're
                             thick as nettles:
kulaks,
       red tapists,
                 and,
                     down the row,
drunkards,
          sectarians,
                    lickspittles.
They strut around
                  proudly
                         as peacocks,
badges and fountain pens
                         studding their chests.
We'll lick the lot of 'em-
                          but
                             to lick 'em
is no easy job
              at the very best.
On snow-covered lands
                      and on stubbly fields,
in smoky plants
               and on factory sites,
with you in our hearts,
                      Comrade  Lenin,
                                     we  build,
we  think,
           we breathe,
                   we  live,
                           and we fight!"
Awhirl with events,
                   packed with jobs one too many,
the day slowly sinks
                     as the night shadows fall.
There are two in the room:
                           I
                           and Lenin-
a photograph
             on the whiteness of wall.

1929

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)

The Sideboard

It is a high, carved sideboard made of oak.
The dark old wood, like old folks, seems kind;
Its drawers are open, and its odours soak
The darkness with the scent of strong old wine.

Its drawers are full, a final resting place
For scented, yellowed linens, scraps of clothes
Foe wives or children, worn and faded bows,
Grandmothers' collars made of figured lace;

There you will find old medals, locks of grey
Or yellow hair, and portraits, and a dried bouquet
Whose perfume mingles with the smell of fruit.

- O sideboard of old, you know a great deal more
And could tell us your tales, yet you stand mute
As we slowly open your old dark door.

 

Arthur Rimbaud :