The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (5 page)

The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan

TO JOE BRAINARD

His piercing pince-nez. Some dim frieze

Hands point to a dim frieze, in the dark night.

In the book of his music the corners have straightened:

Which owe their presence to our sleeping hands.

The ox-blood from the hands which play

For fire for warmth for hands for growth

Is there room in the room that you room in?

Upon his structured tomb:

Still they mean something. For the dance

And the architecture.

Weave among incidents

May be portentous to him

We are the sleeping fragments of his sky,

Wind giving presence to fragments.

Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

dear Berrigan. He died

Back to books. I read

It’s 8:30 p.m. in New York and I’ve been running around all day

old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,

How Much Longer Shall I Be Able To Inhabit The Divine

and the day is bright gray turning green

feminine marvelous and tough

watching the sun come up over the Navy Yard

to write scotch-tape body in a notebook

had 17 and 1/2 milligrams

Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

fucked til 7 now she’s late to work and I’m

18 so why are my hands shaking I should know better

Stronger than alcohol, more great than song,

deep in whose reeds great elephants decay;

I, an island, sail, and my shores toss

on a fragrant evening, fraught with sadness

bristling hate.

It’s true, I weep too much. Dawns break

slow kisses on the eyelids of the sea,

what other men sometimes have thought they’ve seen.

And since then I’ve been bathing in the poem

lifting her shadowy flowers up for me,

and hurled by hurricanes to a birdless place

the waving flags, nor pass by prison ships

O let me burst, and I be lost at sea!

and fall on my knees then, womanly.

Lord, it is time. Summer was very great.

All sweetly spoke to her of me

about your feet, so delicate, and yet double E!!

And high upon the Brooklyn Bridge alone,

to breathe an old woman slop oatmeal,

loveliness that longs for butterfly! There is no pad

as you lope across the trails and bosky dells

I often think sweet and sour pork”

shoe repair, and scary. In cities,

I strain to gather my absurdities

He buckled on his gun, the one

Poised like Nijinsky

at every hand, my critic

and when I stand and clank it gives me shoes

Squawking a gala occasion, forgetting, and

“Hawkaaaaaaaaaa!” Once I went scouting

As stars are, like nightmares, a crucifix.

Why can’t I read French? I don’t know why can’t you?

Rather the matter of growth

My babies parade waving their innocent flags

Huddled on the structured steps

Flinging currents into pouring streams

The “jeunes filles” so rare.

He wanted to know the
names

He liked boys, never had a mother

Meanwhile, terrific misnomers went concocted, ayearning,

ayearning

The Pure No Nonsense

And all day: Perceval! Perceval!

The bulbs burn phosphorescent, white

Your hair moves slightly,

Tenseness, but strength, outward

And the green rug nestled against the furnace

Dust had covered all the tacks, the hammer

. . . optimism for the jump . . .

The taste of such delicate thoughts

Never bring the dawn.

The bulbs burn, phosphorescent, white,

Melting the billowing snow with wine:

Could the mind turn jade? everything

Turning in this light, to stones,

Ash, bark like cork, a fading dust,

To cover the tracks of “The Hammer.”

Whenever Richard Gallup is dissevered,

Fathers and teachers, and daemons down under the sea,

Audenesque Epithalamiums! She

Sends her driver home and she stays with me.

Match-Game etcetera! Bootleggers

Barrel-assing chevrolets grow bold. I summon

To myself sad silent thoughts,

Opulent, sinister, and cold.

Shall it be male or female in the tub?

And grawk go under, and grackle disappear,

And high upon the Brooklyn Bridge alone,

An ugly ogre masturbates by ear:

Of my darling, my darling, my pipe and my slippers,

Something there is is benzedrine in bed:

And so, so Asiatic, Richard Gallup

Goes home, and gets his gat, and plugs his dad.

She comes as in a dream with west wind eggs,

bringing Huitzilopochtli hot possets:

Snakeskins! But I am young, just old enough

to breathe, an old woman, slop oatmeal,

lemongrass, dewlarks, full draught of, fall thud.

Lady of the May, thou art fair,

Lady, thou art truly fair! Children,

When they see your face,

Sing in idiom of disgrace.

Pale like an ancient scarf, she is unadorned,

bouncing a red rubber ball in the veins.

The singer sleeps in Cos. Strange juxtaposed

the phantom sings: Bring me red demented rooms,

warm and delicate words! Swollen as if new-out-of-bed

Huitzilopochtli goes his dithyrambic way,

quick-shot, resuscitate, all roar!

My babies parade waving their innocent flags

an unpublished philosopher, a man who
must

column after column down colonnade of rust

in my paintings, for they are present

I am wary of the mulctings of the pink promenade,

went in the other direction to Tulsa,

glistering, bristling, cozening whatever disguises

S of Christmas John Wayne will clown with

Dreams, aspirations of presence! Innocence gleaned,

annealed! The world in its mysteries are explained,

and the struggles of babies congeal. A hard core is formed.

“I wanted to be a cowboy.” Doughboy will do.

Romance of it all was overwhelming

daylight of itself dissolving and of course it rained.

He eats of the fruits of the great Speckle

Bird, pissing in the grass! Is it possible

He is incomplete, bringing you Ginger Ale

Of the interminably frolicsome gushing summer showers?

You were a Campfire Girl,

Only a part-time mother and father; I

Was large, stern, acrid, and undissuadable!

Ah, Bernie, we wear complete

The indexed Webster Unabridged Dictionary.

And lunch is not lacking, ants and clover

On the grass. To think of you alone

Suffering the poem of these states!

Oh Lord, it is bosky, giggling happy here,

And you, and me, the juice, at last extinct!

Red-faced and romping in the wind

I too am reading the technical journals, but

Keeping Christmas-safe each city block

With tail-pin. My angels are losing patience,

Never win. Except at night. Then

I would like a silken thread

Tied round the solid blooming winter.

Trees stand stark-naked guarding bridal paths;

The cooling wind keeps blowing, and

There is a faint chance in geometric boxes!

It doesn’t matter, though, to show he is

Your champion. Days are nursed on science fiction

And you tremble at the books upon the earth

As my strength and I walk out and look for you.

On the green a white boy goes

And he walks. Three ciphers and a faint fakir

No        One        Two       Three       Four      Today

I thought about all those radio waves

Winds flip down the dark path of breath

Passage       the treasure       Gomangani         I

Forget        bring the green boy white ways

And the wind goes there

Keats was a baiter of bears

Who died of lust         (You lie!     You lie!)

As so we all must in the green jungle

Under a sky of burnt umber we bumble to

The mien florist’s to buy green nosegays

For the fey Saint’s parade       Today

We may read about all those radio waves

Mountains of twine and

Teeth braced against it

Before gray walls. Feet walk

Released by night (which is not to imply

Death) under the murk spell

Racing down the blue lugubrious rainway

To the big promise of emptiness

In air we get our feet wet. . . . a big rock

Caresses cloud bellies

He finds he cannot fake

Wed to wakefulness, night which is not death

Fuscous with murderous dampness

But helpless, as blue roses are helpless.

Rivers of annoyance undermine the arrangements.

We remove a hand . . .

In a roomful of smoky man names burnished dull black

And labelled “blue” the din drifted in . . .

Someone said “Blake-blues” and someone else “pill-head”

Meaning bloodhounds. Someone shovelled in some

Cotton-field money brave free beer and finally “Negroes!”

They talked . . .

He thought of overshoes looked like mother

Made him

Combed his hair

Put away your hair. Books shall speak of us

When we are gone, like soft, dark scarves in gay April.

Let them discard loves in the Spring search! We

await a grass hand.

In Joe Brainard’s collage its white arrow

He is not in it, the hungry dead doctor.

Of Marilyn Monroe, her white teeth white-

I am truly horribly upset because Marilyn

and ate King Korn popcorn,” he wrote in his

of glass in Joe Brainard’s collage

Doctor, but they say “
I LOVE YOU
”

and the sonnet is not dead.

takes the eyes away from the gray words,

Diary
. The black heart beside the fifteen pieces

Monroe died, so I went to a matinee B-movie

washed by Joe’s throbbing hands. “Today

What is in it is sixteen ripped pictures

does not point to William Carlos Williams.

Into the closed air of the slow

Warmth comes, a slow going down of the Morning Land

She is warm. Into the vast closed air of the slow

Going down of the Morning Land

One vast under pinning trembles doom ice

Spreads beneath the mud troubled ice

Smother of a sword

Into her quick weak heat. She

Is introspection. One vast ice laden

Vast seas of doom and mud spread across the lake. Quick

heat,

Of her vast ice laden self under introspective heat.

White lake trembles down to green goings

On, shades of a Chinese wall, itself “a signal.”

It is a Chinese signal.

FOR CAROL CLIFFORD

Each tree stands alone in stillness

After many years still nothing

The wind’s wish is the tree’s demand

The tree stands still

The wind walks up and down

Scanning the long selves of the shore

Her aimlessness is the pulse of the tree

It beats in tiny blots

Its patternless pattern of excitement

Letters        birds       beggars        books

There is no such thing as a breakdown

The tree        the ground        the wind         these are

Dear, be the tree your sleep awaits

Sensual, solid, still, swaying alone in the wind

Dear Marge, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

Outside my room atonal sounds of rain

In my head. Dreams of Larry Walker

Drum in the pre-dawn. In my skull my brain

Season, cold images glitter brightly

In his marriage bed: of David Bearden

Answering. “Deteriorating,” you said.

Say it. And made it hard to write. You know

Margie, tonight, and every night, in any

Aches in rhythm to that pounding morning rain.

Them over and over. And now I dread

Not a question, really, but you did

In your letter, many questions. I read

Paranoid: and of Martin Cochran, dead.

Harum-scarum haze on the Pollock streets

Where Snow White sleeps among the silent dwarfs

The fleet drifts in on an angry tidal wave

Or on the vast salt deserts of America

Drifts of Johann Strauss

A boy first sought in Tucson Arizona

The withering weathers of

Melodic signs of Arabic adventure