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
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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
Page
44607740693067294383338660492314209
79803485375478315474282742901181223615928741677135133888251732823919
[ 93]
New Directions Paperbooks
Prince Ilango Adigal, Shllappadikaram:The Ankle Bracelet. NDP162.
Corrado Alvaro, Revolt In Aspromonte,NDP119.
Chairil Anwar, Selected Poems. WPS2.Djuna Barnes, Nightwood. NDP98.Charles Baudelaire, Flowers of Evll.t NDP71.Eric Bentley, Bernard Shaw. NDPS9.Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths. NDP186.Alain Bosquet, Selected Poems.t WPS4.Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky. NDPlS8.Kay Boyle, Thirty Stories. NDP62.Breakthrough to Peace. (Anthology) NDP124.William Bronk, The World, the Worldless.
(SFR) NDPlS7.Buddha, The Dhammapada.
(Babbitt translation) NDP188.Louis-Ferdinand Celine,
Journey to the End of the Night. NDP84.Blaise Cendrars, Selected Writings.t NDP203.Bankim-chandra Chatterjee,
Krishnakanta's Will. NDP120.Michal Choromanski, Jealousy and Medicine.
NDP16S.Jean Cocteau, The Holy Terrors. NDP2l2.Maurice Collis,
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Richard Eberhart, Selected Poems. NDP198.Russell Edson, The Very Thing That Happens.
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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.
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