The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (39 page)

I asked Joe Brainard

if he had anything to say about death:

& he said,

“Well,

you always get

lots of flowers

when you die.”

Which is so true,

especially for men. That is,

it’s
only
when you die that you get

flowers,

if you are a male

I don’t think

I’ve
ever
been sent flowers

Not even on Memorial Day.

I know I’ve never sent Joe any flowers.

Once I
took
a flower

from a nearby grave where there were

lots of them

it was in a little sharp-

pointed glass tube

& stuck the pointed end into the earth,

in front of Frank O’Hara’s grave

so that the small-pink-flower

stood up.

On the gravestone it said:

GRACE  TO  BE  BORN  AND  LIVE  AS  VARIOUSLY  AS  POSSIBLE

OK
. I’ll buy that.

& once I picked a different pink flower

from the earth

in front

of Guillaume Apollinaire’s grave.

On his gravestone in French there was a poem in the shape of

a heart.

I had to go to the bathroom

so I left then

& went to a cafe

across from Père Lachaise

They had a bathroom there                 I had une pernod there

& then another

the shape of the American I am not

Still Life

the Chinese see nothing tragic in death

but for me the clue is you

the whistle of a bird or two

you are now dead

& I’m struck by how young

we are

(were)

& how useless to speak

Let it down

Let it down on me

•  •  •

please

I love you

I’m sorry

•  •  •

The evolution of man & society

is not to be taken lightly             I advance

upon the men         their quiet

I’m certain        is fooling me . . .

I sat up late in a room in Manhattan

& read about the death

of Guillaume Apollinaire

dead in his bed

of pneumonia

after surviving shrapnel

in his head

in The World War

a young girl (Sandy) peacefully

sleeping in my bed

It is night. You are asleep. & beautiful tears

have blossomed in my eyes. Guillaume Apollinaire is dead.

The big green day today is singing to itself

A vast orange library of dreams, dreams

Dressed in newspaper, wan as pale thighs

Making vast apple strides towards “The Poems.”

“The Poems” is not a dream. It is night. You

Are asleep. Vast orange libraries of dreams

Stir inside “The Poems.” On the dirt-covered ground

Crystal tears drench the ground. Vast orange dreams

Are unclenched. It is night. Songs have blossomed

In the pale crystal library of tears. You

Are asleep. A lovely light is singing to itself,

In “The Poems,” in my eyes, in the line, “Guillaume

Apollinaire is dead.”

A year or so later

another poet told me that he really liked that poem.

First of all, he said,

I can’t tell any one of your sonnets

from any other one,

but this one I can.

I was afraid of that.

Jim Brodey

Lonesome Train

•  •  •

Assassination Bizarre

•  •

I’m the girl in the rain the girl on the street

the girl in the trance the girl at your feet the

girl who just got off the girl who plays the piano

the girl who fucks the girl in the red sweater the

girl in the airplane the girl in Mexico the girl

in the lake the girl from the Village the girl

in heaven the girl on the run the girl at the

bank the girl upstairs the girl in the photograph

the girl on the sofa the nervous girl

the girl under pressure the girl with the yellow

cup

I asked Tuli Kupferberg once, “Did you really jump off of

The Manhattan Bridge?” “Yeah,” he said, “I really did.” “How

come?” I said. “I thought that I had lost the ability to love,”

Tuli said. “So, I figured I might as well be dead. So, I went one

night to the top of The Manhattan Bridge, & after a few minutes,

I jumped off.” “That’s amazing,” I said. “Yeah,” Tuli said,

“but nothing happened. I landed in the water, & I wasn’t dead.

So I swam ashore, & went home, & took a bath, & went to

bed. Nobody even noticed.”