The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (56 page)

Perhaps the simplest, most rewarding element this

quietly insane house affords you is time, time to be reading

for example, on your own, this terrific book,

“The Good Spirit,” poems by Citizen Andrei Codrescu.

FOR ANSELM HOLLO

1.

“Who’s a ‘black’ artist?”

On this plane

w/all the room in the world,

Dollars: 303 . . .

Secret Clouds

I can’t get into you,

yet,

tho
Leaving Cheyenne

was so beautiful:

it made me cry, perfectly

relaxed

a small gift I now am remembering

in Buffalo

2.

Breathe normally

Do not smoke

Awaiting rescue:

Eat, drink, sleep, or

Not . . . .

Don’t.

You were stopped, & searched,

when least you expected.

What was found was
nothing
.

Don’t expect it to be the same

coming back, baby.

Strapped: deprived

Shoot yourself: stay alive

3.

Ride it out

John F. Kennedy to Heathrow (London)

which involves you in

My Life With Jackie Kennedy

a human life

MAYA

Where civilization is taking place.

I mean, genuine civilization: no proportionate loss

of spleen.

“The head speaks out from the heart to the head connected

to the heart.”

October: half-moon rising: London sky, Piccadilly’s, greyish-black

Neon makes it funky: 3 Chesterfield Kings: 5 quid a hundred dexies

City magic makes it easy for a man to be a monkey! All the geese went “honk!”

In Hyde Park where I walked today: I thought of you as I walked my way

Not that way toward where you are; that I had turned away from, from thinking

What I had meant to do yesterday. Last year’s London’s disappeared, broken up

The way New York City had, before & after London last year. Nevertheless I’m

here

Walking around. I wish I’d run into you both upon these grounds, Hyde Park.

I couldn’t come to visit you, your home, today (& this is dumb) because

I had no place from which to come
from
. Does that make sense?

(It does.) & I miss seeing you, my friends, & talk. But Val, I liked you calling me

on the phone,

It seemed so neighbourly. & Tom, I liked reading your poems, in my room,

alone

(proofs); & the words I wrote then were truly mine, & not “to atone” . . .

I will come visit you, you two, in good time,

days to come; I’ll talk a lot, show-off my loves, & sometimes rime.

In Hyde Park Gate 14 white budgie scratchings mean

What? Black orchids on a wall serve for clouds, loom

Up from an orange bed floating, a host of words; Fall; heat coming on

White breathing disappearing as it defines this room

Above a friend his mate’s asleep; he’s somewhere else; England

Here clucks & poetry don’t mix. October 1st; half-moon rising

Soon it seems to descend. Perhaps a clock is a good idea

It tells one what to do, when

Two weeks & a day past it seemed so easy to take, NY’s room

& NY’s speed made it seem easy, giving; easy living

Tho NY’s room was someone else’s, somewhere else too

Here words take their own sweet time arriving

Here to sleep a day & a night away seems mild. Still there’s plenty to do:

Birds to be looked at, pills, a warm bath, letters to be written to you.

Train Ride
  . . .

16 coaches long!

not hardly                                   With a song in my heart . . .

I remember my

first love, &

the last time I . . . .