The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (7 page)

at Jimmy in waves

Wan as pale thighs making apple belly strides

In the morning she wakes up, and she is “in love.”

One red finger sports a gold finger-gripper

Curled to honor
La Pluie
, by Max Jacob. Max Jacob,

When I lie down to love you, I am one hundred times more

A ghost! My dreams of love have haunted you for years

More than six-pointed key olive shame. Not this day

Shall my pale apple dreams know my dream “English

muffins, broken arm”

Nor my dream where the George Gordon gauge reads, “a

Syntactical error, Try Again!” Gosh, I gulp to be here

In my skin, writing,
The Dwarf of Ticonderoga
. Icy girls

finger thighs bellies apples in my dream the big gunfire

sequence

For the Jay Kenneth Koch movie,
Phooey!
I recall

My Aunt Annie and begin.

banging around in a cigarette         she isn’t “in love”

my dream a drink with Ira Hayes we discuss the code of

the west

my hands make love to my body when my arms are around you

you never tell me your name

and I am forced to write “belly” when I mean “love”

Au revoir, scene!

I waken, read, write long letters and

wander restlessly when leaves are blowing

my dream a crumpled horn

in advance of the broken arm

she murmurs of signs to her fingers

weeps in the morning to waken so shackled with love

Not me. I like to beat people up.

My dream a white tree

She murmurs of signs to her fingers

Not this day

Breaks his arm and so he sleeps       he digs

Dressed in newspaper, wan as pale thighs

beard shaved off long hair cut and Carol reading

Put away your hair. The black heart beside the 15 pieces

of glass

Of my many faceted and fake appearance

The most elegant present I could get!

“Goodbye, Bernie!”      “Goodbye, Carol!”        “Goodbye,

Marge!”

Speckled marble bangs against his soiled green feet

And seeming wide night. Now night

Where Snow White sleeps amongst the silent dwarfs

Drifts of Johann Strauss

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

in my paintings for they are present

Dreams, aspirations of presence! And he walks

Wed to wakefulness, night which is not death

Rivers of annoyance undermine the arrangements

We remove a hand . . .

washed by Joe’s throbbing hands. ‘Today

itself “a signal.” She

is introspection.

Each tree stands alone in stillness

Scanning the long selves of the shore.

In Joe Brainard’s collage, there is no such thing

as a breakdown.

Trains go by, and they
are
trains. He hears the feet of the men

Racing to beg him to wait

The withered leaves fly higher than dolls can see

A watchdog barks in the night

Joyful ants nest in the roof of my tree

There is only off-white mescalin to be had

Anne is writing poems to me and worrying about “making it”

and Ron is writing poems and worrying about “making it”

and Pat is worrying but not working on anything

and Gude is worrying about his sex life

It is 1959, and I am waiting for the mail

Who cares about Tuesday (Jacques Louis David normalcy day)?

Boston beat New York three to one. It could have been

Carolyn. Providence is as close to Montana as Tulsa.

He buckles on his gun, the one Steve left him:

His stand-in was named Herman, but came rarely

What thwarts this fear I love

to hear it creak upon this shore

of the trackless room;        the sea, night, lilacs

all getting ambiguous

Who dreams on the black colonnade

Casually tossed off as well

Are dead after all (and who falters?)

Everything turns into writing

I strain to gather my absurdities into a symbol

Every day my bridge

They basted his caption on top of the fat sheriff, “The Pig.”

Some “others” were dormants: More water went under the dam.

What excitement to think of her returning, over the colonnade,

over the tall steppes, warm hands guiding his eyes to hers

LINES FOR LAUREN OWEN

Harum-scarum haze on the Pollock streets

The fleet drifts in on an angry tidal wave

Drifts of Johann Strauss

The withering weather of

Of polytonic breezes gathering in the gathering winds

Of a plush palace shimmering velvet red

In the trembling afternoon

A dark trance

The cherrywood romances of rainy cobblestones

Mysterious Billy Smith a fantastic trigger

Melodic signs of Arabic adventure

A boy first sought in Tucson Arizona

Or on the vast salt deserts of America

Where Snow White sleeps among the silent dwarfs

gray his head goes       his feet green

No lady dream around in any bad exposure

“no pipe dream, sir. She would be the dragon

Head, dapple green of mien. must be vacated

in favor of double-clutching, and sleep,

seldom, though deep. We savor its sodden dungheap flavor

on our creep toward the rational. William Bonney

buried his daddy and killed a many. Benito Mussolini

proved a defective, but Ezra Pound came down, came

down and went. And so, Carol, remember,

We are each free to shed big crystal tears on

The dirt-covered ground, tied together only

By white clouds and some mud we can find, if we try,

In the darksome orange shadows of the big blue swamp

Francis Marion nudges himself gently into the big blue sky

The farm was his family farm

On the real farm

I understood “The Poems.”

The dust fissure drains the gay dance

Home returning on the blue winds of dust.

A farmer rides a tractor. It is a block

To swallow. Thus a man lives by his tooth.

Meaning strides through these poems just as it strides

Through me! When I traipse on my spunk, I get

Wan! Traipse on my spunk and I get wan, too!

Francis Marion

Muscles down in tooth-clenched strides toward

The effort regulator: His piercing pince-nez

Some dim frieze in “The Poems” and these go on without me

Joyful ants nest on the roof of my tree

Crystal tears wed to wakefulness

My dream a crumpled horn

Ripeness begins in advance of the broken arm

The black heart two times scary Sunday

Pale thighs making apple belly strides

And he walks. Beside the fifteen pieces of glass

A postcard of Juan Gris

Vast orange dreams wed to wakefulness

Swans gone in the rain came down, came down and went

Warm hands corrupting every tree

Guiding his eyes to her or a shade

Ripeness begins        My dream a crumpled horn

Fifteen pieces of glass on the roof of my tree

I like to beat people up

absence of passion, principles, love. She murmurs

What just popped into my eye was a fiend’s umbrella

and if you should come and pinch me now

as I go out for coffee

. . . as I was saying winter of 18 lumps

Days produce life locations to banish 7 up

Nomads, my babies, where are you? Life’s

My dream which is gunfire in my poem

Orange cavities of dreams stir inside “The Poems”

Whatever is going to happen is already happening

Some people prefer “the interior monologue”

I like to beat people up

Summer so histrionic, marvelous dirty days

is not genuine         it shines forth from the faces

littered with soup, cigarette butts, the heavy

is a correspondent         the innocence of childhood

sadness graying the faces of virgins aching

and everything comes before their eyes

to be fucked, we fondle their snatches but they

that the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown

they weep and get solemn etcetera

from thought       for all things come to them gratuitously

by their speech       it flows directly and spontaneously

and O I am afraid! but later they’ll be eyeing the butts of the

studs

in the street rain flushing the gutters bringing from Memphis

Gus Cannon gulping, “I called myself Banjo Joe!”

FOR RICHARD WHITE

It is a human universe: & I

is a correspondent        The innocence of childhood

is not genuine       it shines forth from the faces

The poem upon the page is as massive as Anne’s thighs

Belly to hot belly we have laid

baffling combustions

are everywhere       graying the faces of virgins

aching to be fucked        we fondle their snatches

and O, I am afraid!        The poem upon the page

will not kneel       for everything comes to it

gratuitously      like Gertrude Stein to Radcliffe

Gus Cannon to say “I called myself Banjo Joe!”

O wet kisses, death on earth, lovely fucking in the poem

upon the page,

you have kept up with the times, and I am glad!

The poem upon the page is as massive as

Anne’s thighs       belly to hot belly we have laid

Serene beneath feverous folds, flashed cool

in our white heat        hungered          and tasted         and

Gone to the movies       baffling combustions

are everywhere!        like Gertrude Stein at Radcliffe,

Patsy Padgett replete with teen-age belly!        everyone’s

suddenly pregnant and no one is glad!

O wet kisses, the poem upon the page

Can tell you about teeth you’ve never dreamed

Could bite, nor be such reassurance! Babies are not

Like Word Origins and cribbage boards          or dreams

of correspondence!       Fucking is so very lovely

Who can say no to it later?

Grace to be born

and live as variously

as possible

FRANK O’HARA

Grace to be born and live as variously as possible

White boats        green banks         black dust         atremble

Massive as Anne’s thighs upon the page

I rage in a blue shirt at a brown desk in a

Bright room sustained by a bellyful of pills

“The Poems” is not a dream       for all things come to them

Gratuitously        In quick New York we imagine the blue Charles

Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble

No Poems she demands in a blanket command          belly

To hot belly we have laid        serenely white

Only my sweating pores are true in the empty night

Baffling combustions are everywhere!       we hunger and taste

And go to the movies           then run home drenched in flame

To the grace of the make-believe bed

banging around in a cigarette          she isn’t “in love”

She murmurs of signs to her fingers

in my paintings for they are present

The withered leaves fly higher than dolls can see

What thwarts this fear I love

Mud on the first day (night, rather

gray his head goes       his feet green

Francis Marion nudges himself gently in the big blue sky

Joyful ants nest on the roof of my tree

I like to beat people up.

Summer so histrionic, marvelous dirty days

It is a human universe: & I

sings like Casals in furtive dark July; Out we go

to the looney movie         to the make-believe bed

Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble

In a bright room sustained by a bellyful of pills

One’s suddenly pregnant and no one is glad!

Aching to be fucked we fondle their snatches

That the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown

Days produce life locations to banish 7 Up

A postcard of Juan Gris

To swallow. Thus a man lives by his tooth.

Buried his daddy and killed a many. Benito Mussolini

The Asiatics

Everything turns into writing

And Gude is worrying about his sex life

Each tree is introspection

The most elegant present I could get

In Joe Brainard’s collage its white arrow

does not point to William Carlos Williams.

He is not in it, the hungry dead doctor.

What is in it is sixteen ripped pictures

Of Marilyn Monroe, her white teeth whitewashed

by Joe’s throbbing hands. “Today

I am truly horribly upset because Marilyn

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

and ate King Korn popcorn,” he wrote in his

Diary
. The black heart beside the fifteen pieces

of glass in Joe Brainard’s collage

takes the eye away from the gray words,

Doctor, but they say “
I LOVE YOU
”

and the sonnet is not dead.

old prophets          Help me to believe

New York!        sacerdotal        drink it take a pill

Blocks of blooming winter.        Patricia was a

bed          Patsy       gone        The best fighter in Troy

Be bride and groom and priest:         in pajamas

Sweet girls will bring you candied apples!

Drummer-boys and Choo-Choos will astound you!

Areté          I        thus I       Again I          I

An Organ-Grinder’s monkey does his dance.