I thought to build a tidy craft
But botched the job, and built a raft—
A raffish craft, whose aft and fore
Are more or less (or less or more)
Identical—also, the same—
So where I go, and whence I came,
I cannot tell from where I sit.
And that’s a pity—isn’t it?
A dog lying in the sun
looks very wise.
Of course that is only the sun
making her narrow her eyes.
No, it is not the appearance of wisdom
that makes a dog wise:
it’s the fact that she lies
in the sun.
I.
Two crows shared the same treetop…
Nope—
it didn’t last.
II.
Don’t they know there’s a war on?
Stupid cows
in their stupid, green, spring pasture.
III.
You need to slow
the fuck down. Only then
will this poem seem long enough.
The true art of the curse is lost
no takes the time anymore to scowl so deeply
it leaves a permanent furrow
spit three times and cross the street to avoid a shadow
and carry a grudge to the grave
no one bothers any more to cast malisons
into dark corners and forget them there
because to be lost is the truth
of the true art of the curse
that no one escapes
The true art of the curse is the room with dark corners
a pinch of tansy
reddened eyes from weeping
the secret grave the doll was buried in
and the stained bones
not slurs
imprecations
mere bad language
No
the true curse
splits one’s own tongue in twain
and cares not
Robert Frost
Very nearly got lost
In a snowy wood at night.
But fortunately, it turned out all right.
William Butler Yeats
Is accounted one of the greats
So much so that poor John Keats
Now has to correct the pronunciation of everyone he meets.
Ezra Loomis Pound
Wrote verse difficult and profound
The fact that even he couldn’t figure it out
Should suffice to remove any doubt.
Wallace Stevens
Was always at sixes and sevens.
He never could decide exactly
Whether to rhyme slant, or perfectly.
Edward “e e” Estlin Cummings
Marched to the sounds of different drummings.
Without making any apologies
He ended up in some anthologies.
Ogden Nash
As a poet was brash
His lines rushed out in a lengthy and seemingly unstoppable torrent
And his rhymes were abhorrent.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Was heard on occasion to say
That only the author of Euclid’s Elements
Had ever seen Beauty without habiliments.
Mr. Edward Lear
Was rather queer.
But of course, the word had a different meaning back then
So instead, one should simply say that he preferred men.
T.S. Eliot
Never ate anything smelly. It
Was only understated food
That ever suited his mood.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Died discontently
Aware that decent rhymes for Clerihew
Are, alas, very few.
And I lay down in mirth
like a bed. Later I stood
surveying the good
and the spreading earth.
Then the woods were alive
with invisible birds
and it was good, good.
I stood at my birth
and was wishing the dead
could still hear the music I heard.
Then I pictured the dead
in their cold earthen beds
and the sound of them rose.
And the woods were alive.
And I lay down in mirth
in the grass, in the dirt
and the dead in their earths
raised their voices in song.
The invisible birds
sang along, sang along, sang along,
and it was good, good.
I took the post-ultimate step
The one past the top of the stair
That you take when you know
There’s a step yet to go
When really, no step’s there.
Somewhere between plan and forget
I planted a foot in mid-air
Then I stepped up and stood.
Now I’m stuck here for good,
On the step past the top of the stair.
Tell the truth but tell it scant
Saving some for later – give the savor
Of what’s undenied – but still may be
Refined. Truth unadorned
Bores – so leave undefined
Beginning, end, or middle – since the mind
Forgets conclusions – but adores a riddle.
Under a weight of words
the courtroom air declines;
the oaken pews are worn;
the fixtures bide their time.
Without a breath or cease
the solemn judge holds forth.
No voice responsive sighs.
All brook his ageless worth.
The eagle on the pole
conducts a fierce salute;
the slackened flag below
cannot conceal its truth.
So spoke in ancient times
Solon or Cicero
to men who stood alike
athwart the verbal flow:
Who shifted just the same
or rocking toe to heel
imbibed the toneless dream
the while the day grew still.
The law’s an endless story
that’s bodied forth by men
monotonously hasty
to some eventual end.
Bag of Anything 