A

CONEY ISLANDI i

IIII

of the

MIND

to K. Poems by LAWRENCEFERLINGHETTI

A NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK

SEVENTEEXTH PRINTING

CONTENTSCopyright © 1958 by Lawrence FerlinghettiCopyright 1955 by Lawrence FerlinghettiLibrary of Congress Catalog Card Number: 58-7150New Directions Paperbook No. 74.

1A CONEY ISLAND OF THE MIND, page 9

Some of the poems in this book have been publishedin the following magazines to which gratefulacknowledgment for permission to reprint is heregiven: The Evergreen Review, Ark II - Mobu I,The Nation, New Directions 16, Chicago Review.Parts of the poem "Autobiography" have appearedin Jam Session: An Anthology of Jazz, edited byRalph J. Gleason and published by G. P. Putnam's Sons.

2ORAL MESSAGES, page 47

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quotedin a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review,no part of this book may be reproduced in any form orby any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying and recording, or by any informationstorage and retrieval system, without permission inwriting from the Publisher.

3Poems fromPICTURES OF THE GONE WORLD

(1955), page 75

Manufactured in the United States of AmericaDesign and typography by Freda Browne

New Directions Books are published forJames Laughlin by New Directions Publishing Corporation,333 Sixth Avenue, New York 10014.

Index of Titles and First Lines, page 93

I

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I• I

I

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, ~

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I 1A CONEY ISLANDof the KIND

1In Goya's greatest scenes we seem to see

the people of the worldexactly at the moment when

they first attained the title of'suffering humanity'

They writhe upon the pagein a veritable rage

of adversityHeaped up

groaning with babies and bayonetsunder cement skies

in an abstract landscape of blasted treesbent statues bats wings and beaks

slippery gibbetscadavers and carnivorous cocks

and all the final hollering monstersof the

'imagination of disaster'they are so bloody real

it is as if they really still existed

And they do

Only the landscape is changed

They still are ranged along the roadsplagued by legionaires

false windmills and demented roosters

The title of this book is taken from Henry Miller'sINTO THE NIGHT LIFE. It is used out of contextbut expresses the way I felt about these poems whenI wrote them - as if they were, taken together, akind of Coney Island of the mind a kind of circus ofthe soul. '

They are the same peopleonly further from home

on freeways fifty lanes wideon a concrete continent

spaced with bland billboardsillustrating imbecile illusions of happiness

[ 9 ]

{10 ]

The scene shows fewer tumbrilsbut more maimed citizens

in painted carsand they have strange license plates

and enginesthat devour America

2

Sailing thru the straits of Demoswe saw symbolic birds

shrieking over uswhile eager eagles hovered

and elephants in bathtubsfloated past us out to sea

strumming bent mandolinsand bailing for old glory with their ears

while patriotic maidenswearing paper poppies

and eating bonbonsran along the shores

wailing after usand while we lashed ourselves to masts

and stopt our ears with chewing gumdying donkeys on high hills

sang low songsand gay cows flew away

chanting Athenian anthemsas their pods turned to tulips

and heliocopters from Heliosflew over us

dropping free railway ticketsfrom Lost Angeles to Heaven

and promising Free Elections

[ 11]

So thatwe set up mast and sail

on that swart ship once moreand so set forth once more

forth upon the gobbly sealoaded with liberated vestal virgins

and discus throwers reading Waldenbut

shortly after reachingthe strange suburban shores

of that great Americandemi-democracy

looked at each otherwith a mild surprise

silent upon a peakin Darien

3The poet's eye obscenely seeing

sees the surface of the round world

with its drunk rooftops

and wooden oiseaux on clotheslines

and its clay males and females

with hot legs and rosebud breasts

in rollaway beds

and its trees full of mysteries

and its Sunday parks and speechless statues

and its Americawith its ghost towns and empty Ellis Islands

and its surrealist landscape of

mindless prairies

supermarket suburbs

steamheated cemeteries

cinerama holy days

and protesting cathedrals

a kissproof world of plastic toiletseats tampax and taxis

drugged store cowboys and las vegas virgins

disowned indians and cinemad matrons

unroman senators and conscientious non-objectors

and all the other fatal shorn-up fragments

of the immigrant's dream come too true

and mislaid

among the sunbathers

[ 12][ 13 J

4 5In a surrealist year

of sandwichmen and sunbathersdead sunflowers and live telephones

house-broken politicos with party whipsperformed as usualin the rings of their sawdust circuseswhere tumblers and human cannonballs

filled the air like crieswhen some cool clown

pressed an inedible mushroom buttonand an inaudible Sunday bomb

fell downcatching the president at his prayers

on the 19th green

Sometime during eternitysome guys show up

and one of themwho shows up real late

is a kind of carpenterfrom some square-type place

like Galileeand he starts wailing

and claiming he is hepto who made heaven

and earthand that the cat

who really laid it on usis his Dad

I111I:;:

il!

o it was a springof fur leaves and cobalt flowers

when cadillacs fell thru the trees like raindrowning the meadows with madness

while out of every imitation clouddropped myriad Wingless crowds

of nutless nagasaki survivorsAnd lost teacupsfull of our ashesfloated by

And moreoverhe adds

It's all writ downon some scroll-type parchments

which some henchmenleave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres

a long time agoand which you won't even find

for a coupla thousand years or soor at least for

nineteen hundred and fortysevenof them

to be exactand even then

nobody really believes themor me

for that matter

You're hotthey tell him

And they cool him

They stretch him on the Tree to cool

[ 14 ] [ 15 J

And everybody after thatis always making models 6of this Tree

with Him hung upand always crooning His name

and calling Him to come downand sit in

on their comboas if he is the king cat

- who's got to blowor they can't quite make it

They were putting up the statueof Saint Francis

in front of the churchof Saint Francis

in the city of San Franciscoin a little side street

just off the Avenuewhere no birds sang

and the sun was coming up on timein its usual fashion

and just beginning to shineon the statue of Saint Francis

where no birds sang

Only he don't come downfrom His Tree

Him just hang thereon His Tree

looking real Petered outand real cool

and alsoaccording to a roundup

of late world newsfrom the usual unreliable sources

real deadAnd a lot of old Italians

were standing all aroundin the little side street

just off the Avenuewatching the wily workers

who were hoisting up the statuewith a chain and a crane

and other implementsAnd a lot of young reporters

in button-down clotheswere taking down the words

of one young priestwho was propping up the statue

with all his arguments

And all the whiiewhile no birds sang

any Saint Francis Passionand while the lookers kept looking

up at Saint Franc iswith his arms outstretched

to the birds which weren't there

[ 16] [ 17]

a very tall and very purely nakedyoung virgin

with very long and very straightstraw hair

and wearing only a very smallbird's nest

in a very existential placekept passing thru the crowd

all the whileand up and down the steps

in front of Saint Francisher eyes downcast all the while

and singing to herself

7

What could she say to the fantastic foolybearand what could she say to brotherand what could she say

to the cat with future feetand what could she say to motherafter that time that she lay lush

among the lolly flowerson that hot riverbank

where ferns fell away in the broken airof the breath of her lover

and birds went madand threw themselves from trees

to taste still hot upon the groundthe spilled sperm seed

[ 18] [ 19]

8In Golden Gate Park that day

a man and his wife were coming alongthru the enormous meadow

which was the meadow of the worldHe was wearing green suspenders

and carrying an old beat-up flutein one hand

while his wife had a bunch of grapeswhich she kept handing out

individuallyto various squirrels

as if eachwere a little joke

And then the two of them came onthru the enormous meadow

which was the meadow of the worldand then

at a very still spot where the trees dreamedand seemed to have been waiting thru all time

for themthey sat down together on the grass

without looking at each otherand ate oranges

without looking at each otherand put the peels

in a basket which they seemedto have brought for that purpose

without looking at each other

And thenhe took his shirt and undershirt off

but kept his hat onsideways

and without saying anythingfell asleep under it

And his wife just sat there lookingat the birds which flew about

calling to each other

[ 20 ]

in the stilly airas if they were questioning existence

or trying to recall something forgotten

But then finallyshe too lay down flat

and just lay there looking upat nothing

yet fingering the old flutewhich nobody played

and finally looking overat him

without any particular expressionexcept a certain awful look

of terrible depression

I [ 21 J

1:

[ 22]

9 10See

it was like this whenwe waltz into this place

a couple of Papish catsis doing an Aztec two-step

I have not lain with beauty all my lifetelling over to myself

its most rife charms

And I saysDad let's cut

but then this damecomes up behind me see

and saysYou and me could really exist

I have not lain with beauty all my lifeand lied with it as well

telling over to myselfhow beauty never dies

but lies apartamong the aborigines

of artand far above the battlefields

of loveWow I says

Only the next dayshe has bad teeth

and really hatespoetry

It is above all thatoh yes

It sits upon the choicest ofChurch seats

up there where art directors meetto choose the things for immortality

And they have lain with beautyall their lives

And they have fed on honeydewand drunk the wines of Paradise

so that they know exactly howa thing of beauty is a joy

forever and foreverand how it never never

quite can fadeinto a money-losing nothingness

[ 23 J

Oh no I have not lainon Beauty Rests like this

afraid to rise at nightfor fear that I might somehow miss

some movement beauty might have made

Yet I have slept with beautyin my own weird way

and I have made a hungry scene or twowith beauty in my bed

and so spilled out another poem or twoand so spilled out another poem or two

upon the Bosch-like world

11

The wounded wilderness of Morris Gravesis not the same wild west

the white man foundIt is a land that Buddha came upon

from a different directionIt is a wild white nest

in the true mad northof introspection

where 'falcons of the inner eye'dive and die

glimpsing in their dying fallall life's memory

of existenceand with grave chalk wing

draw upon the leaded skya thousand threaded images

of flight

It is the night that is their 'native habitat'these 'spirit birds' with bled white wings

these droves of ploverbearded eagles

blind birds singingin glass fields

these moonmad swans and ecstatic ganderstrapped egrets

charcoal owlstrotting turtle symbols

these pink fish among mountainsshrikes seeking to nest

[ 24 J

whitebone dronesmating in air

among hallucinary moons

[ 25]

And a masked bird fishingin a golden stream

and an ibis feeding'on its own breast'

12and a stray Connemara Pooka

(life size) 'One of those paintings that would not die'its warring image

once conceivedwould not leave

the leaded groundno matter how many times

he hounded itinto oblivion

And then those blown mute birdsbearing fish and paper messages

between two streamswhich are the twin streams

of oblivionwherein the imagination

turning upon itselfwith white electric vision

refinds itself still madand unfed

among the hebrides

Painting over it did no goodIt kept on coming through

the wood and canvasand as it came it cried at him

a terrible bedtime songwherein each bed a grave

mined with unearthly alarmclockshollered horribly

for lovers and sleepers

[ 26] [ 27 ]

13 14Not like Dante

Don't let that horseeat that violin

discovering a commedia cried Chagall's mother

upon the slopes of heaven But hekept right on

paintingI would paint a different kind

of Paradiso And became famous

in which the people would be naked And kept on paintingThe Horse With Violin In Mouth

as they always are

in scenes like thatAnd when he finally finished ithe jumped up upon the horse

and rode awaybecause it is supposed to be waving the violin

a painting of their souls And then with a low bow gave itto the first naked nude he ran across

but there would be no anxious angels telling them

how heaven is And there were no stringsattached

the perfect picture of

a monarchy

and there would be no fires burning

in the hellish holes below

in which I might have stepped

nor any altars in the sky except

fountains of imagination

[ 28][ 29 ]

15 16Constantly risking absurdity

and deathwhenever he performs

above the headsof his audience

Kafka's Castle stands above the world

like a last bastille

of the Mystery of Existence

Its blind approaches baffle us

Steep paths

plunge nowhere from it

Roads radiate into air

the poet like an acrobatclimbs on rime

to a high wire of his own makingand balancing on eyebeams

above a sea of facespaces his way

to the other side of dayperforming entrechats

and sleight-of-foot tricksand other high theatrics

and all without mistakingany thing

for what it may not be

like the labyrinth wires

of a telephone central

thru which all calls are

infinitely untraceable

Up there

it is heavenly weather

Souls dance undressedFor he's the super realistwho must perforce perceive

together

and like loiterers

on the fringes of a fair

we ogle the unobtainable

imagined mystery

Yet away around on the far side

like the stage door of a circus tent

is a wide wide vent in the battlements

where even elephants

waltz thru

taut truthbefore the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advancetoward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waitswith gravity

to start her death-defying leap

And hea little charleychaplin man

who mayor may not catchher fair eternal form

spreadeagled in the empty airof existence

[ 30] ( 31]

17This life is nota circus wherethe shy performing dogs of love

look onas time flicks out

its tricky whip. to race us thru our paces

Yet gay parading floats drift bydecorated with gorgeous gussies in silk tights

and attended by moithering monkeysmake-believe monkshorny hiawathas

and baboons astride tame tigerswith ladies inside

while googly horns make merrygoround musicand pantomimic pierrots castrate disaster

with strange sad laughterand gory gor ill as toss tender maidens heavenward

while cakewalke r s and carnie hustlersall gassed to the gills

strike playbill posesand stagger after every

wheeling thingWhile still around the ring

lope the misshapen camels of lustand all us Emmett Kelly clowns

always making up imaginary sceneswith all our masks for faces

even eat fake Last Suppersat coltapstble tables

and mocking cross ourselvesin sawdust crosses

And yet gobble up at lastto shrive our circus souls

the also imaginarywafers of grace

[32 ]

18Frightened

by the sound of my own voiceand by the sound of birds

. singing on hot wiresin sunday sleep I see myself

1 d d' slaying sundry sinners and turkeysou ogs with sharp dead dugs

. and black knights in iron suitswith Brooks labels

and Yale locks upon the pantsYes

and with penis erectus for spear. I slay all old ladies

making them young againwith a touch of my sweet swaying sword

retrouving them their maidenhoods and he'ads

ah yesin flattering falsehoods of sleep

we come we conquer allbut all the while

real standard time ticks onand new bottled babies with

devour our fantasticfictioned future

real teeth

r 33 J

19 20In woods where many rivers run

among the unbent hillsand fields of our childhood

where ricks and rainbows mix in memoryalthough our 'fields' were streets . ..

I see again those mynad mornings rrsewhen every living thing

cast its shadow in eternityand all day long the light

like early morningwith its sharp shadows shadowing

a paradisethat I had hardly dreamed of

nor hardly knew to thinkof this unshaved today

with its derisive rooksthat rise above dry trees

and caw and cry

The pennycandystore beyond the Elis where I first

fell in lovewith unreality

Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloomof that september afternoonA cat upon the counter moved among

the licorice sticksand tootsie rolls

and Oh Boy Cum

Outside the leaves we re falling as they died

A wind had blown away the sun

A girl ran inHer hair was rainyHer breasts were breathless in the little roomand question every other

spring and thingOutside the leaves were falling

and they criedToo soon: too soon:

II

Io [ 34]- 135 ]

21 22She loved to look at flowers

smell fruit

And the leaves had the look of loving

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase himthru screendoor summers

But halfass drunken sailors

staggered thru her sleep

scattering semen

over the virgin landscape

Thru the back streetsof all my memories

Somewhere a man lamentsupon a violin

At a certain age

her heart put about

searching the lost shores

A doorstep baby criesand cries again

likeaball

bounceddown stepsAnd heard the green birds singing

from the other side of silence Which helps the afternoon arise againto a moment of remembered hysteria

t.,I

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase him

[ 36] I r 37 ]

23 24The Widder Fogliani

otherwise known as Bella Donnathe Italian lady

of American distraction

We squat upon the beach of loveamong Picasso mandolins struck full of sand

and buried catspaws that know no sphinxand picnic papers

dead crabs' clawsand starfish prints

the Widder Foglianiwas a merryoldsoul

she had whiskerson her soul

and her soul was a pussyWe squat upon the beach of love

among the beached mermaidswith their bawling babies and bald husbands

and homemade wooden animalswith icecream spoons for feet

which cannot walk or loveexcept to eat

But she had a hard coming of itthat time I beat her

at her own gamewhich was painting moustaches

on statuesin the Borghese gardens

at three in the morning We squat upon the brink of loveand are secure as only squatters are

among the puddled leavingsof salt sex's tides

and the sweet semen rivuletsand limp buried peekers

in the sand's soft flesh

and nobody the wiserif ever she gave

some stray Cellinia free Christmas goose

And still we laughand still we run

and still we throw ourselvesupon love's boats

but it is deeperand much later

than we thinkand all goes down

and all our lovebuoys fail us

And we drink and drown

[ 38] [ 39]

25 26Cast up

That 'sensual phosphorescencemy youth delighted in'

the heart flops overnow lies almost behind me

like a land of dreamsgasping 'Love'

a foolish fish which tries to draw

its breath from flesh of air

wherein an angelof hot sleep

dances like a divain strange veils

thru which desirelooks and cries

And no one there to hear its death

among the sad bushes

where the world rushes by

in a blather of asphalt and delay

And still she dancesdances still

and still she comesat me

with breathing breastsand secret lips

and (ah)

bright eyes

II

[ 40 J [ 41 J

27 28Peacocks walked Dove sta amore

Where lies loveunder the night trees

once for the birth

Dove sta amore

Here lies love

The ring dove love

In lyrical delight

Hear love's hillsong

Love's true willsong

Love's low plainsong

Too sweet painsong

In passages of night

Dove sta amore

in the lost moonlight

when I went out

looking for love

that night

A ring dove cooed in a cove

A cloche tolled twice

of lovethat night

Here lies love

The ring dove love

Dove sta amore

and once for the death

Here lies love

[ 42] [ 43]

29 all hunting love and half the hungry time not even

knowing just what is really eating them like Robin

walking in her Nightwood streets although it isn't

quite as simple as all that as if all she really

needed was a good fivecent cigar oh no and those

who have not hunted will not recognize the hunting

poise and then the hawks that hover where the

heart is hid and the hungry horses crying and

the stone angels and heaven and hell and Yerma

with her blind breasts under her dress and then

Christopher Columbus sailing off in search and

Rudolph Valentino and Juliet and Romeo and John

Barrymore and Anna Livia and Abie's Irish Rose

and so Goodnight Sweet Prince all over again

with everyone and everybody laughing and crying

along wherever night and day winter and summer

spring and tomorrow like Anna Karenin lost in

the snow and the cry of hunters in a great wood

and the soldiers coming and Freud and Ulysses

always on their hungry travels after the same

hot grail like King Arthur and his nighttime knights

and everybody wondering where and how it will all

end like in the movies or in some nightmaze novel

yes as in a nightmaze Yes I said Yes I will and he

called me his Andalusian rose and I said Yes my

heart was going like mad and that's the way Ulysses

ends as everything always ends when that hunting

cock of flesh at last cries out and has his glory

moment God and then comes tumbling down the sound

And that's the way it always is and that's the way

it always ends and the fire and the rose are one

and always the same scene and always the same

subject right from the beginning like in the Bible

or The Sun Also Rises which begins Robert Cohn

was middleweight boxing champion of his class

but later we lost our balls and there we go again

there we are again there's the same old theme

and scene again with all the citizens and all

the characters all working up to it right from

the first and it looks like all they ever think of

is doing It and it doesn't matter much with who

half the time but the other half it matters more

than anything a the sweet love fevers yes and

there's always complications like maybe she has

no eyes for him or him no eyes for her or her no

eyes for her or him no eyes for him or something

or other stands in the way like his mother or

her father or someone like that but they go right

on trying to get it all the time like in Shakespeare

or The Waste Land or Proust remembering his Things

Past or wherever And there they all are struggling

toward each other or after each other like those

marble maidens on that Grecian Urn or on any market

street or merrygoround around and around they go

[ 44] [ 45]

of axes in the wood and the trees falling and down

it goes the sweet cock's sword so wilting in the

fair flesh fields away alone at last and loved

and lost and found upon a riverbank along a

riverrun right where it all began and so begins again

[ 46]

2ORAL MESSAGES

I AM WAITING

I am waiting for my case to come upand I am waitingfor a rebirth of wonderand I am waiting for someoneto really discover Americaand wailand I am waitingfor the discoveryof a new symbolic western frontierand I am waitingfor the American Eagleto really spread its wingsand straighten up and fly rightand I am waitingfor the Age of Anxietyto drop deadand I am waitingfor the war to be foughtwhich will make the world safefor anarchyand I am waitingfor the final withering awayof all governmentsand I am perpetually awaitinga rebirth of wonder

These seven poems were conceived specifically for jazzaccompaniment and as such should be considered asspontaneously spoken "oral messages" rather than aspoems written for the printed page. As a result ofcontinued experimental reading with jazz, they arestill in a state of change. "Autobiography" and"Junkman's Obbligato" are available on the FantasyLP recording No. 7002, "Poetry Readings in theCellar," which I made with Kenneth Rexroth andthe Cellar Jazz Quintet of San Francisco.

I am waiting for the Second Comingand I am waitingfor a religious revivalto sweep thru the state of Arizonaand I am waitingfor the Grapes of Wrath to be storedand I am waitingfor them to provethat God is really Americanand I am seriously waitingfor Billy Graham and Elvis Presleyto exchange roles seriously

[ 49 j

and I am waitingto see God on televisionpiped onto church altarsif only they can findthe right channelto tune in onand I am waitingfor the Last Supper to be served againwith a strange new appetizerand I am perpetually awaitinga rebirth of wonder

and I am waitingfor linnets and planets to fall like rainand I am waiting for lovers and weepersto lie down together againin a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossedand I am anxiously waitingfor the secret of eternal life to be discoveredby an obscure general practitionerand save me forever from certain deathand I am waitingfor life to beginand I am waitingfor the storms of lifeto be overand I am waitingto set sail for happinessand I am waitingfor a reconstructed Mayflowerto reach Americawith its picture story and tv rightssold in advance to the nativesand I am waitingfor the lost music to sound againin the Lost Continentin a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be calledand I am waitingfor the living endand I am waitingfor dad to come homehis pockets fullof irradiated silver dollarsand I am waitingfor the atomic tests to endand I am waiting happilyfor things to get much worsebefore they improveand I am waitingfor the Salvation Army to take overand I am waitingfor the human crowdto wander off a cliff somewhereclutching its atomic umbrellaand I am waitingfor Ike to actand I am waitingfor the meek to be blessedand inherit the earthwithout taxesand I am waitingfor forests and animalsto reclaim the earth as theirsand I am waitingfor a way to be devisedto destroy all nattonaltsmswithout killing anybody

I am waiting for the daythat maketh all things clearand I am waitingfor Ole Man Riverto just stop rolling alongpast the country cluband I am waitingfor the deepest Southto just stop Reconstructing itselfin its own imageand I am waitingfor a sweet desegregated chariotto swing lowand carry me back to Ole Virginieand I am waitingfor Ole Virginie to discover

[ 50 J [ 51 J

just why Darkies are bornand I am waitingfor God to lookoutfrom Lookout Mountainand see the Ode to the Confederate Deadas a real farceand I am awaiting retributionfor what America didto Tom Sawyerand I am perpetually awaitinga rebirth of wonder

and I am waitingfor the last long careless raptureand I am perpetually waitingfor the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urnto catch each other up at lastand embraceand I am awaitingperpetually and forevera renaissance of wonder

I am waiting for Tom Swift to grow upand I am waitingfor the American Boyto take off Beauty's clothesand get on top of herand I am waitingfor Alice in Wonderlandto retransmit to meher total dream of innocenceand I am waitingfor Childe Roland to cometo the final darkest towerand I am waitingfor Aphroditeto grow live armsat a final disarmament conferencein a new rebirth of wonder

I am waitingto get some intimationsof immortalityby recollecting my early childhoodand I am waitingfor the green mornings to come againyouth's dumb green fields come back againand I am waitingfor some strains of unpremeditated artto shake my typewriterand I am waiting to writethe great indelible poem

[ 52 J [ 53]

JUNKMAN'S OBBLIGATO Let's gosmelling of sternowhere the benches are filledwith discarded Bowling Green statuesin the interior dark nightof the flowery boweryour eyes waterywith the contemplationof empty bottles of muscatel.Let us recite from broken bibleson streetcornersFollow dogs on docksSpeak wild songsThrow stonesSay anythingBlink at the sun and scratchand stumble into silenceDiddle in doorwaysKnow whores thirdhandafter everyone else is finishedStagger befuddled into East River sunsetsSleep in phone boothsPuke in pawnshopswailing for a winter overcoat.

Let's goCome onLet's goEmpty out our pocketsand disappear.Missing all our appointmentsand turning up unshavenyears laterold cigarette papersstuc k to our pantsleaves in our hair.Let us notworry about the paymentsanymore.Let them comeand take it awaywhatever it waswe were paying for.And us with it.

Let us arise and go nowto where dogs do itOver the Hillwhere they keep the earthquakesbehind the city dumpslost among gas mains and garbage.Let us see the City Dumpsfor what they are.My country tears of thee.Let us disappearin automobile graveyardsand reappear years laterpicking rags and newspapersdrying our drawerson garbage firespatches on our ass.Do not botherto say goodbyeto anyone.Your missus will not miss us.

Let us arise and go nowunder the citywhere ashcans rolland reappear in putrid clothesas the uncrowned underground kingsof subway men's rooms.Let us feed the pigeonsat the City Hallurging them to do their dutyin the Mayor's office.Hurry up please it's time.The end is coming.Flash floodsDisasters in the sunDogs unleashedSister in the streether brassiere backwards.

[ 54] [ 55]

Let us arise and go nowinto the interior dark nightof the soul's still boweryand find ourselves anewwhere subways stall and waitunder the River.Cross overinto full puzzlement.South Ferry will not run forever.They are cutting out the Bay ferriesbut it is still not too lateto get lost in Oakland.Washington has not yet toppledfrom his horse.There is still time to goose himand goleaving our income tax form behindand our waterproof wristwatch with itstaggering blind after alleycatsunder Brooklyn's Bridgeblown statues in baggy pantsour tincan cries and garbage voicestrailing.Junk for sale!

like roman senators in the provinceswearing poet's laurelson lighted brows.Let us not wait for the write-upon page oneof The New York Times Book Reviewimages of insane successsmiling from the photo.By the time they print your picturein Life Magazineyou will have become a negative anywaya print with a glossy finish.They will have come and gotten youto be famousand you still will not be free.Goodbye I'm going.I'm selling everythingand giving away the restto the Good Will Industries.It will be dark out therewith the Salvation Army Band.And the mind its own illumination.Goodbye I'm walking out on the whole scene.Close down the joint.The system is all loused up.Rome was never like this.I'm tired of waiting for Godot.I am going where turtles winI am goingwhere conmen puke and dieDown the sad esplanadesof the official world.Junk for sale!My country tears of thee.

Let's cut out let's gointo the real interior of the countrywhere hockshops reignmere unblind anarchy upon us.The end is herebut golf goes on at Burning Tree.It's raining it's pouringThe Ole Man is snoring.Another flood is comingthough not the kind you think.There is still time to sinkand think.I wish to descend in society.I wish to make like free.SWing low sweet chariot.Let us not wait for the cadillacsto carry us triumphantinto the interiorwaving at the natives

Let us go then you and Ileaving our neckties behind on lamppostsTake up the full beardof walking anarchylooking like Walt Whitmana homemade bomb in the pocket.I wish to descend in the social scale.High society is low society.I am a social climber

[ 56][ 57]

climbing downwardAnd the descent is difficult.The Upper Middle Class Idealis for the birdsbut the birds have no use for ithaving their own kind, of pecking orderbased upon birdsong.Pigeons on the grass alas.

Get me a bright bandanafor a jockstrap.Turn loose and we'll be offwhere sports cars collapseand the world begins again.Hurry up please it's time.It's time and a halfand there's the rub.The thinkpad makes homeboys of us all.Let us cut outinto stray eternity.Somewhere the fields are full of larks.Somewhere the land is swinging.My country 'tis of theeI'm singing.

Let us arise and go nowto the Isle of Manisfree.Let loose the hogs of peace.Hurry up please it's time.Let us arise and go nowinto the interiorof Foster's Cafeteria.So long Emily Post.So longLowell Thomas.Goodbye Broadway.Goodbye Herald Square.Turn it off.Confound the system.Cancel all our leases.Lose the Warwithout killing anybody.Let horses screamand ladies runto flushless powderrooms.The end has just begun.I want to announce it.Run don't walkto the nearest exit.The real earthquake is coming.I can feel the building shake.I am the refined type.I cannot stand it.I am goingwhere asses lie downwith customs collectors who call themselvesliterary critics.My tool is dusty.My body hung up too longin strange suspenders.

Let us arise and go nowto the Isle of Manisfreeand live the true blue simple lifeof wisdom and wondermentwhere all things growstraight upaslant and singingin the yellow sunpoppies out of cowpodsthinking angels out of turds.I must arise and go nowto the Isle of Manisfreeway up behind the broken wordsand woods of Arcady.

[ 58] [ 59 ]

AUTOBIOGRAPHYI am reading 'Lorna Doone'and a life of John Mostterror of the industrialista bomb on his desk at all times.I have seen the garbagemen paradein the Columbus Day Paradebehind the glibfarting trumpeters.I have not been out to the Cloistersin a long timenor to the Tuileriesbut I still keep thinkingof going.I have seen the garbage men paradewhen it was snowing.I have eaten hotdogs in ballparks.I have heard the Gettysburg Addressand the Ginsberg Address.I like it hereand I won't go backwhere I came from.I too have ridden boxcars boxcars boxcars.I have travelled among unknown men.I have been in Asiawith Noah in the Ark.I was in Indiawhen Rome was built.I have been in the Mangerwith an Ass.I have seen the Eternal Distributorfrom a White Hillin South San Franciscoand the Laughing Woman at Loona Parkoutside the Fun Housein a great rainstormstill laughing.I have heard the sound of revelryby night.I have wandered lonelyas a crowd.I am leading a quiet lifeoutside of Mike's Place every daywatching the world walk byin its curious shoes.

I am leading a quiet lifein Mike's Place every daywatching the champsof the Dante Billiard Parlorand the French pinball addicts.I am leading a quiet lifeon lower East Broadway.I am an American.I was an American boy.I read the American Boy Magazineand became a boy scoutin the suburbs.I thought I was Tom Sawyercatching crayfish in the Bronx Riverand imagining the Mississippi.I had a baseball mitand an American Flyer bike.I delivered the Woman's Home Companionat five in the afternoonor the Herald Tribat five in the morning.I still can hear the paper thumpon lost porches.I had an unhappy childhood.I saw Lindberg land.I looked homewardand saw no angel.I got caught stealing pencilsfrom the Five and Ten Cent Storethe same month I made Eagle Scout.I chopped trees for the CCCand sat on them.I landed in Normandyin a rowboat that turned over.I have seen the educated armieson the beach at Dover.I have seen Egyptian pilots in purple cloudsshopkeepers rolling up their blindsat middaypotato salad and dandelionsat anarchist picnics.

[ 60] [ 61]

I one e started outto walk around the worldbut ended up in Brooklyn.That Bridge was too much for me.I have engaged in silenceexile and cunning.I flew too near the sunand my wax wings fell off.I am looking for my Old Manwhom I never knew.I am looking for the Lost Leaderwith whom I flew.Young men should be explorers.Home is where one starts from.But Mother never told methere'd be scenes like this.Womb-wearyI restI have travelled.I have seen goof city.I have seen the mass mess.I have heard Kid Ory cry.I have heard a trombone preach.I have heard Debussystrained thru a sheet.I have slept in a hundred islandswhere books were trees.I have heard the birdsthat sound like bells.I have worn grey flannel trousersand walked upon the beach of hell.I have dwelt in a hundred citieswhere trees were books.What subways what taxis what cafes!What women with blind breastslimbs lost among skysc rapers!I have seen the statues of heroesat carrefours.Danton weeping at a metro entranceColumbus in Barcelonapointing Westward up the Ramblastoward the American ExpressLincoln in his stony chairAnd a great Stone Face

in North Dakota.I know that Columbusdid not invent America.I have heard a hundred housebroken Ezra Pounds.They should all be freed.It is long since I was a herdsman.I am leading a quiet lifein Mike's Place every dayreading the Classified columns.I have read the Reader's Digestfrom cover to coverand noted the close identificationof the United States and the Promised Landwhere every coin is markedIn God We Trustbut the dollar bills do not have itbeing gods unto themselves.I read the Want Ads dailylooking for a stone a leafan unfound door.I hear America singingin the Yellow Pages.One could never tellthe soul has its rages.I read the papers every dayand hear humanity amissin the sad plethora of print.I see where Walden Pond has been drainedto make an amusement park.I see they're making Melvilleeat his whale.I see another war is comingbut I won't be there to fight it.I have read the writingon the outhouse wall.I helped Kilroy write it.I marched up Fifth Avenueblowing on a bugle in a tight platoonbut hurried back to the Casbahlooking for my dog.I see a similaritybetween dogs and me.Dogs are the true observerswalking up and down the world

[62 ] [ 63]

thru the Molloy country.I have walked down alleystoo narrow for Chryslers.I have seen a hundred horseless milkwagonsin a vacant lot in Astoria.Ben Shahn never painted thembut they're thereaskew in Astoria.I have heard the junkman's obbligato.I have ridden superhighwaysand believed the billboard's promisesCrossed the Jersey Flatsand seen the Cities of the PlainAnd wallowed in the wilds of Westchesterwith its roving bands of nativesin stationwagons.I have seen them.I am the man.I was there.I sufferedsomewhat.I am an American.I have a passport.I did not suffer in public.And I'm too young to die.I am a selfmade man.And I have plans for the future.I am in linefor a top job.I may be moving onto Detroit.I am only temporarilya tie salesman.I am a good Joe.I am an open bookto my boss.I am a complete mysteryto my closest friends.I am leading a quiet lifein Mike's Place every daycontemplating my navel.I am a partof the body's long madness.I have wandered in various nightwoods.

I have leaned in drunken doorways.I have written wild storieswithout punctuation.I am the man.I was there.I sufferedsomewhat.I have sat in an uneasy chair.I am a tear of the sun.I am a hillwhere poets run.I invented the alphabetafter watching the flight of craneswho made letters with their legs.I am a lake upon a plain.I am a wordin a tree.I am a hill of poetry.I am a raidon the inarticulate.I have dreamtthat all my teeth fell outbut my tongue livedto tell the tale.For I am a stillof poetry.I am a bank of song.I am a playerpianoin an abandoned casinoon a seaside esplanadein a dense fogstill playing.I see a similaritybetween the Laughing Womanand myself.I have heard the sound of summerin the rain.I have seen girls on boardwalkshave complicated sensations.I understand their hesitations.I am a gatherer of fruit.I have seen how kissescause euphoria.I have risked enchantment.

[ 64] [ 65]

I I,

I have seen the Virginin an appletree at ChartresAnd Saint Joan burnat the Bella Union.I have seen giraffes in junglejimstheir necks like lovewound around the iron circumstancesof the world.I have seen the Venus Aphroditearmless in her drafty corridor.I have heard a siren singat One Fifth Avenue.I have seen the White Goddess dancingin the Rue des Beaux Artson the Fourteenth of Julyand the Beautiful Dame Without Mercypicking her nose in Chumley's.She did not speak English.She had yellow hairand a hoarse voiceand no bird sang.I am leading a quiet lifein Mike's Place every daywatching the pocket pool playersmaking the minestrone scenewolfing the macaronisand I have read somewherethe Meaning of Existenceyet have forgottenjust exactly where.But I am the manAnd I'll be there.And I may cause the lipsof those who are asleepto speak.And I may make my notebooksinto sheaves of grass.And I may write my owneponymous epitaphinstructing the horsemento pass.

DOG

i i: t

The dog trots freely in the streetand sees realityand the things he seesare bigger than himselfand the things he seesare his realityDrunks in doorwaysMoons on treesThe dog trots freely thru the streetand the things he seesare smaller than himselfFish on newsprintAnts in holesChickens in Chinatown windowstheir heads a block awayThe dog trots freely in the streetand the things he smellssmell something like himselfThe dog trots freely in the streetpast puddles and babiescats and cigarspoolrooms and policemenHe doesn't hate copsHe merely has no use for themand he goes past themand past the dead cows hung up wholein front of the San Francisco Meat MarketHe would rather eat a tender cowthan a tough policemanthough either might doAnd he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factoryand past Coit's Towerand past Congressman DoyleHe's afraid of Coit's Towerbut he's not afraid of Congressman Doylealthough what he hears is very discouragingvery depressingvery absurdto a sad young dog like himselfto a serious dog like himself

I j"

I:

[ 66] [ 67]

But he has his own free world to live inHis own fleas to eatHe will not be muzzledCongressman Doyle is just anotherfire hydrantto himThe dog trots freely in the streetand has his own dog's life to liveand to think aboutand to reflect upontouching and tasting and testing everythinginvestigating everythingwithout benefit of perjurya real realistwith a real tale to telland a real tail to tell it witha real live

barkingdemocratic dog

CHRIST CLIMBED DOWNChrist climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand ran away to wherethere were no rootless Christmas treeshung with candycanes and breakable stars

engaged in realfree enterprise

with something to sayabout ontology

something to sayabout reality

and how to see itand how to hear it

Christ climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand ran away to wherethere were no gilded Christmas treesand no tinsel Christmas treesand no tinfoil Christmas treesand no pink plastic Christmas treesand no gold Christmas treesand no black Christmas treesand no powderblue Christmas treeshung with electric candlesand encircled by tin electric trainsand clever cornball relatives

listening forHis Master's Voice

Christ climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand ran away to whereno intrepid Bible salesmencovered the territoryin two-tone cadillacsand where no Sears Roebuck crechescomplete with plastic babe in mangerarrived by parcel postthe babe by special deliveryand where no televised Wise Menpraised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

with his head cocked sidewaysat streetcorners

as if he is just about to havehis picture taken

for Victor Records

and lookinglike a Iiving questionmark

into thegreat gramaphone

of puzzling existencewith its wondrous hollow horn

which always seemsjust about to spout forth

some Victorious answerto everything

Christ climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand ran away to whereno fat handshaking stranger

[ 68]

in a red flannel suitand a fake white beardwent around passing himself offas some sort of North Pole saintcrossing the desert to BethlehemPennsylvaniain a Volkswagon sleddrawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeerwith German namesand bearing sacks of Humble Giftsfrom Saks Fifth Avenuefor everybody's imagined Christ child

THE LONG STREET.~ The long street

which is the street of the worldpasses around the worldfilled with all the people of the worldnot to mention all the voicesof all the peoplethat ever existedLovers and weepersvirgins and sleepersspaghetti salesmen and sandwichmenmilkmen and oratorsboneless bankersbrittle housewivessheathed in nylon snobberiesdeserts of advertising menherds of high school filliescrowds of collegiansall talking and talkingand walking aroundor hanging out windowsto see what's doingout in the worldwhere everything happenssooner or laterif it happens at allAnd the long streetwhich is the longest streetin all the worldbut which isn't as longas it seemspasses onthru all the cities and all the scenesdown every alleyup every boulevardthru every crossroadsthru red lights and green lightscities in sunlightcontinents in rainhungry Hong Kongsuntillable TuscaloosasOaklands of the soul

,"

Christ climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand ran away to whereno Bing Crosby carollersgroaned of a tight Christmasand where no Radio City angelsiceskated winglessthru a winter wonderlandinto a jinglebell heavendaily at 8:30with Midnight Mass matinees

f1t1

Christ climbed downfrom His bare Treethis yearand softly stole away intosome anonymous Mary's womb againwhere in the darkest nightof everybody's anonymous soulHe awaits again-an unimaginableand impossiblyImmaculate Reconceptionthe very craziestof Second Comings

( 70]

,.

[ 71 ]

Dublins of the imaginationAnd the long streetrolls on aroundlike an enormous choochoo trainchugging around the worldwith its bawling passengersand babies and picnic basketsand cats and dogsand all of them wonderingjust who is upin the cab aheaddriving the trainif anybodythe train which runs around the worldlike a world going roundall of them wonderingjust what is upif anythingand some of them leaning outand peering aheadand trying to catcha look at the driverin his one-eye cabtrying to see himto glimpse his fac eto cate h his eyeas they whirl around a bendbut they never doalthough one e in a whileit looks as ifthey're going toAnd the street goes rocking onthe train goes bowling onwith its windows reaching upits windows the windowsof all the buildingsin all the streets of the worldbowling alongthru the light of the worldthru the night of the worldwith lanterns at crossingslost lights flashingcrowds at carnivalsnightwood circuses

l1

j

[ 72]

L

/

whorehouses and parliamentsforgotten fountainscellar doors and unfound doorsfigures in lamplightpale idols dancingas the world rocks onBut now we cometo the lonely part of the streetthe part of the streetthat goes aroundthe lonely part of the worldAnd this is not the placethat you change trainsfor the Brighton Beach ExpressThis is not the placethat you do anythingThis is the part of the worldwhere nothing's doingwhere no one's doinganythingwhere nobody's anywherenobody nowhereexcept yourselfnot even a mirrorto make you twonot a soulexcept your ownmaybeand even thatnot theremaybeor not yoursmaybebecause you're what's calleddeadyou've reached your station

Descend

[ 73]

:MEET :MISS SUBWAYS

Meet Miss Subwaysof 1957See Miss Subwaysof 1957riding the Times Square Shuttleback and forthat four in the morning

Meet Miss Subwaysof 1957with fiftycentsize cotton plugsin her flat black noseshuttling back and forthon the Times Square Shuttleat four in the morningand hanging onto heaven's iron ringswith cut-up golden armsa black weed in a black hand

You can meet Miss SubwaysYou can see Miss Subwaysof 1957wearing sad slacksand matching handbagand cruising thru the carsand hanging onwith beat black armsa black butt in a black hand

3Poems fromPICTURES OF THE GONE WORLD

(1955)

And the iron carsshunting on foreverinto death and darkness

o lost Ubangi

staggering thruthe 'successive ogives' of Helldown Dante's finalfire escape

[ 74]

L

I.1

This group of poems has been selectedfrom my first book, "Pictures of the Gone World,"published in 1955 in the Pocket Series(City Lights Books, San Francisco 11).

I·

1Away above a harborful

of caulkless housesamong the charley noble chimneypots

of a rooftop rigged with clotheslinesa woman pastes up sails

upon the windhanging out her morning sheets

with wooden pinso lovely mammal

her nearly naked teatsthrow taut shadows

when she stretches upto hang at last the last of her

so white washed sinsbut it is wetly amorous

and winds itself about herclinging to her skin

So caught with arms upraisedshe tosses back her head

in voiceless laughterand in choiceless gesture then

shakes out gold hair/

while in the reachless seascape spaces

between the blown white shrouds

stand out the bright steamers

to kingdom come

[ 77]

2 3Just as I used to say

love comes harder to the agedbecause they've been running

on the same old rails too longand then when the sly switch comes along

they miss the turnand burn up the wrong rail while

the gay caboose goes flyingand the steamengine driver don't recognize

them new electric horns

In hintertime Praxiteleslaid about him with a golden maul

striking into stonehis alabaster ideals

uttering allthe sculptor's lexicon

in visible syllablesHe cast bronze trees

petrified a chameleon on onemade stone doves

flyHis calipers measured bridges

and the aged run out on the rusty spurwhich ends up in

the dead grass wherethe rusty tincans and bedsprings and old razor

blades and moldy mattresseslie

and loversand certain other superhumans whom

he caught upon their dusty wayto death

and the rail breaks off deadright there

though the ties go on awhileand the aged

They never reached it then

You still can almost seesay to themselves

Wellthis must be the place

we were supposed to lie down

their breathTheir stone eyes staring

thru three thousand yearsallay our fears of aging

And they do although Praxiteles himselfat twenty-eight lay dead

while the bright saloon careens along awayon a high

hilltopits windows full of bluesky and lovers

with flowerstheir long hair streaming

and all of them laughingand waving and

for sculpture isn't foryoung men

as Constantin Brancusiat a later hour

said

whispering to each otherand looking out and

wondering what that graveyardwhere the rails end

is

[ 78] [ 79 J

4 5when the sun was something in Provence

Sarolla's women in their picture hatsstretched upon his canvas beaches

beguiled the SpanishImpressionists

In Paris in a loud dark winter

when I came upon the poetry And were they fraudulent pictures

of Rene' Char of the worldthe way the light played on them

creating illusionsI saw Vaucluse againof love?

in a summer of sauterellesI cannot help but think

that their 'reality'its fountains full of petals

and its river thrown downwas almost as real as

my memory of today

of that almond world

when the last sun hung on the hillsand I heard the day falling

like the gulls that fellalmost to land

through all the burnt places

and the fields full of silenc e

though the crickets sangwhile the last picnickers lay

and loved in the blowing yellow broom

with their legsresisted and resisting

tearing themselves apart

And in the poet's plangent dream I saw again

no Lorelei upon the Rhoneagain

nor angels debarked at Marseilles until the last hot hung climaxwhich could at last no longer be resisted

made them moanbut couples going nude into the sad water

in the profound lasciviousness of spring Ani night's trees stood up

in an algebra of lyricism

which I am still deciphering

[ 80 ] [ 81 ]

6 7'Truth is not the secret of a few'

yetFortune

has its cookies to give outyou would maybe think so

the way somelibrarians

and cultural ambassadors andespecially museum directors

act

which is a good thing

since it's been a long time since

that summer in Brooklynwhen they closed off the street

one hot dayand the

you'd think they had a corneron it

the way theywalk around shaking

their high heads andlooking as if they never

went to the bathroom or anything

FIREMEN

turned on their hosesand all the kids ran out in it

in the middle of the street

iBut I wouldn't blame them

if I were youThey say the Spiritual is best conceived

in abstract termsand then too

walking around in museums always makes mewant to

'sit down'I always feel so

with the water squirting upto the

and there were

maybe a couple dozen of us

out there

constipated skyin those

high altitudes and all overus

there was maybe only six of uskids altogether

running around in ourbarefeet and birthday

suitsand I remember Molly but then

[ 82] [ 83]

the firemen stopped squirting their hosesall of a sudden and went

back intheir firehouse

andstarted playing pinochle again

just as if nothinghad ever

happened

8It was a face which darkness could kill

in an instanta face as easily hurt

by laughter or lightwhile I remember Mollylooked at me and

'We think differently at night'she told me onceran in

lying back languidly

because I guess really we were the only ones thereAnd she would quote Cocteau

'I feel there is an angel in me' she'd say'whom I am constantly shocking'

Then she would smile and look awaylight a cigarette for me

sigh and rise

~....'.

,J

"

and stretchher sweet anatomy

let fall a stocking

[ 84]

I1.1

[ 85]

9 10funny fantasies are never so real as oldstyle romances

where the hero has a heroine who haslong black braids and lets

nobody

Terrible

a horse at night

kiss her everand everybody's trying all the time to

run away with herand the hero is always drawing his

standing hitched alone

in the still street(sic) sword andtilting at ginmills and

forever telling her heloves her and has only honorable intentions and

honorable mentionsand no one ever beats him at

anything

and whinnying

as if some sad nude astride him

but then finally one dayshe who has always been so timid

had gripped hot legs on him

offs with her glove and says(though not in so many big words)

Let's lie down somewheres

and sung

a sweet high hungrybaby

single syllable

[ 86] [ 87 J

11 and its various segregationsand congressional investigations

and other constipationsthat our fool flesh

The world is a beautiful placeto be born into

is heir to

if you don't mind happinessnot always being

so very much fun

Yes the world is the best place of allfor a lot of such things as

if you don't mind a touch of hellnow and then

just when everything is finebecause even in heaven

making the fun sceneand making the love scene •!

they don't singall the time

and making the sad sceneand singing low songs and having inspirations

and walking aroundlooking at everything

and smelling flowers

The world is a beautiful placeto be born into

if you don't mind some people dyingall the time

or maybe only starvingsome of the time

and goosing statuesand even thinking

and kissing people andmaking babies and wearing pants

and waving hats and

which isn't half so badif it isn't you

dancingand going swimming in rivers

Oh the world is a beautiful placeto be born into

if you don't much minda few dead minds

in the higher placesor a bomb or two

now and thenin your upturned faces

or such other improprietiesas our Name Brand society

is prey towith its men of distinction

and its men of extinctionand its priests

and other patrolmen

on picnicsin the middle of the summer

and just generally'living it up'

Yesbut then right in the middle of it

comes the smiling

[ 89 ]

mortician

[ 88]

12 Reading Yeats I do not thinkof Arcady

and of its woods which Yeats thought deadI think instead

of all the gone facesgetting off at midtown places

with their hats and their jobsand of that lost book I had

with its blue cover and its white insidewhere a pencilhand had written

Reading Yeats I do not thinkof Ireland

but of midsummer New Yorkand of myself back then

reading that copy I foundon the Thirdavenue E I

HORSEMAN, PASS BY!

the EIwith its fly hung fans

and its signs readingSPITTING IS FORBIDDEN

the EIcareening thru its thirdstory world

with its thirdstory peoplein their thirds tory doors

looking as if they had never heardof the ground

an old damewatering her plant

or a joker in a strawputting a stickpin in his peppermint tie

and looking just like he had nowhere to gobut coneyisland

or an undershirted guyrocking in his rocker

watching the EI pass byas if he expected it to be different

each time

[ 90 ] [ 91 J

13sweet and various the woodlark

who sings at the unbought gate

and yet how many

wild beastshow many mad

in the civil thickets

H6lderlinin his stone tower

or in that kind carpenter's houseat Tiibingen

or then Rimbaudhis 'nightmare and logic'

a sophism of madness

But we have our own more recentwho also fatally assumed

that some direct connectiondoes exist between

language and realityword and world

which is a laughif you ask me

I too have drunk and seenthe spider

[ 92]

INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES

And that's the way it always is and that's the way"Autobiography"Away above a harborfulCast up the heart flops over"Christ Climbed Down"Constantly risking absurdity and death"Dog"Don't let that horse eat that violinDove sta amoreFortune has its cookies to give outFrightened by the sound of my own voiceFunny fantasies are never so real as oldstyle romancesI am leading a quiet life"I Am Waiting"I have not lain with beauty all my lifeIn a surrealist year of sandwichmen and sunbathersIn Golden Gate Park that dayIn Goya's greatest scenes we seem to seeIn hintertime Praxiteles laid about him with a golden maulIn Paris in a loud dark winterIn woods where many rivers runIt was a face which darkness could killJohnny Nolan has a patch on his ass"Junkman's Obbligato"Just as I used to sayKafka's Castle stands above the worldLet's go"Miss Subways"Not like Dante discovering a com media'One of those paintings that would not die'Peacocks walkedReading Yeats I do not think of IrelandSailing thru the straits of DemosSarolla's women in their picture hatsSee it was like this whenShe loved to look at flowersSometime during eternity some guys show upSweet and various the woodlarkTerrible a horse at nightThat 'sensual phosphorescence my youth delighted in'The dog trots freely in the street"The Long Street"The pennycandystore beyond the EIThe poet's eye obscenely seeingThe Widder FoglianiThe world is a beautiful place to be born intoThe wounded wilderness of Morris GravesThey were putting up the statueThis life is not a circus where'Truth is not the secret of a few'We squat upon the beach of loveWhat could she say to the fantastic foolybear

L

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[ 93]

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Ronald Firbank, Two Novels. NDP128.Dudley Fitts,

Poems from the Greek Anthology. NDP60.F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Crack-up. NDPS4.Gustave Flaubert, Sentimental Education.

NDP63M. K. Gandhi, Gandhi on Non-Violence.

(ed. Thomas Merton) NDP197.Andre Gide, Dostoevsky. NDPl00.

Goethe, Faust, Part I.(Macintyre translation) NDP70.

Albert J. Guerard, Thomas Hardy. NDP18S..James B. Hall, Us He Devours

(SFR) NDPlS6.Henry Hatfield, Goethe. NDP136.

Thomas Mann. (Revised Edition) NDPlOl.John Hawkes, The Cannibal. NDP123.

The Lime Twig. NDP9S.Second Skin. NDP146.

Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha, NDP6S.Edwin Honig, Garcia Lorca, (Rev.) NDPI02.Christopher Isherwood, The Berlin Stories.

NDP134.Henry James, Stories of Writers and Artists.

NDPS7.Alfred Jarry, Ubu Rot. NDPI05.James Joyce, Stephen Hero. NDP133.Franz Kafka, Amerika, NDP117.Bob Kaufman,

Solitudes Crowded with Loneliness. NDP199.Hugh Kenner, Wyndham Lewis. NDP167.Lincoln Kirstein,

Rhymes & More Rhymes of a Pjc, NDP202.de Laclos, Dangerous Acquaintances. NDP61.P. Lal, translator, Great Sanskrit Plays.

NDP142.Tommaso Landolfi,

Gogel's Wife and Other Stories. NDPI55.Lautreamont, Maldoror. NDP207.Denise Levertov, 0 Taste and See. NDP149.

The Jacob's Ladder. NDP112.Harry Levin, James Joyce. NDP87.Garda Lorca, Selected Poems.t NDP114.

Three Tragedies. NDPS2.Carson McCullers, The Member of the

Wedding. (Playscript) NDP153.Thomas Merton,

Bread in the Wilderness. NDP91.Clement of Alexandria. Gift Edition.

NDP173.Emblems of a Season of Fury. NDPl40.Original Child Bomb.· Gift Edition.

NDP174.Raids on the Unspeakable. NDP213.Selected Poems. NDP85.

Henry Miller,Big Sur & Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.

NDP161.The Colossus of Maroussi. NDP7S.The Cosmological Eye. NDPI09.Henry Miller on Writing. NDPlSl.Remember to Remember. NDPlll.The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder.·

Gift Edition. NDP176.The Time of the Assassins. NDPllS.The Wisdom of the Heart. NDP94.

Yukio Mishima, Deatb in Midsummer.NDP215.

Eugenio Montale, Selected Poems.t NDPI93.Vladimir Nabokov, Nikolai Gogol, NDP78.New Directions 17. (Anthology) NDPI03.New Directions 18. (Anthology) NDPI63.New Directions 19. (Anthology) NDP214.George Oppen,

The Materials. (SFR) NDPI22.This In Which. (SFR) NDP201.

Wilfred Owen, Collected Poems. NDP210.Boris Pasternak, Safe Conduct. NDP77.Kenneth Patchen, Because It Is. NDP83.

Doubleheader. NDP211.The Journal of Albion Moonlight. NDP99.Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer. NDP205.Selected Poems. NDPI60.

Plays for a New Theater. (Anthology)NDP216.

Ezra Pound, ABC of Reading. NDP89.Classic Noh Theatre of Japan. NDP79.The Confucian Odes. NDP81.Confucius to Cummings. (Anthology)

NDPI26.Love Poems of Ancient Egypt. Gift Edition.

NDPI78.Selected Poems. NDP66.Translattons.i (Enlarged Edition) NDPI45.

Philip Rahv, Image and Idea. NDP67.Herbert Read, The Green Child. NDP208.Jesse Reichek, Etcetera. NDPI96.Kenneth Rexroth, Assays. NDP113.

Bird in the Bush. NDP80.The Homestead Called Damascus. WPS3.Natural Numbers. (Selected Poems)

NDPl41.100 Poems from the Chinese. NDPI92.100 Poems from the Japanese.t NDPI47.

Charles Reznikoff,By the Waters of Manhattan. (SFR)

NDPl21.Testimony: The United Stales 1885-1890.

(SFR) NDP200.

Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations, t NDP56.Season in Hell & Drunken Boal.t NDP97.

San Francisco Review Annual No.1.(SFR) NDP138.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea. NDP82.Stevie Smith, Selected Poems. NDPI59.Stendhal, Lucien Leuwen,

Book I: The Green Huntsman. NDPI07.Book II: The Telegraph. NDPI08.

Jules Supervielle, Selected Writings.t NDP209.Dylan Thomas, Adventures in the Skin Trade.

NDPI83.A Child's Christmas in Wales. Gift Edition.

NDPl81.Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog.

NDP51.Quite Early One Morning. NDP90.Under Milk Wood. NDP73.

Norman Thomas, Ask at the Unicorn.NDPI29.

Lionel Trilling, E. M. Forster, NDPI89.Paul Valery, Selected Writings.t NDPI84.Nathanael West, Miss Lonelyhearts &

Day of the Locust. NDPI25.George F. Whicher, tr.,

The Goliard Poets.s NDP206.Tennessee Williams,

The Glass Menagerie. NDP218.In the Winter of Cities. NDPI54.27 Wagons Full of Cotton. NDP217.

William Carlos Williams,The Farmers' Daughters. NDP106.In the American Grain. NDP53.Many Loves. NDPl91.Paterson. Complete. NDPI52.Pictures from Brueghel,

(Pulitzer Prize) NDP118.Selected Poems. NDP13l.

Curtis Zahn,American Contemporary; (SFR) NDP139.

• Paperbound over boards. t Bilingual.(SFR) A New Directions / San Francisco Review Book.

Complete descriptive catalog available free on request fromNew Directions, 333 Sixth Avenue, New York 10014.