An Ode of Wei (61)

Say the Ottawa's wide?

A paddleboat will cross it.

Say the Crown is far?

I can spot it from my tiptoes.

Rapid, the Ottawa?

Some parts will admit a boat.

Capitol far off?

I could be there

(save reference)

in half an hour.

The Famous Utensil

Burring, one minute a wasp

How long has he tried to enter?

Replace the

thing on the Tokonoma w/d you

(a joke stand, really, the Kakemono

is a dried dandelion and a macaroni picture on the fridge.)

What an annoying buzz. What is that?

Still? Is he hungry?

Cannot begrudge that. Sweating

it's simple so it's not vulgar

there are

a thousand leaves

this evening

a thousand thousand leaves

my darling, let's not count them,

leave that to the old botanists,

Goethe's

their colour wheels their gingkos

but here

merely leaves

a thousand ten and a thousand of leaves more.

A bumblebee's back, the screen -

oh that burring.

isn't it too hot to

shake like that

The fan of the ox-king is out

In the alcove for your pleasure

Please enjoy it, humble though

This drink is.

A mosquito's death in the afternoon,

And he bit a blacksmith named Cunda,

And the gates fell open, rusted.

The Tokonoma is re-set,

The gigantic

bones of a Deinosaurus, for

your pleasure, Vimalakirti.

These stone lanterns,

druid make?

Yes, the very ones.

If only we had a fly-swatter.

For all creatures must perish

In the heat of the afternoon

Or the fires of the hearth.

thwack.

...

And so they renamed the spoon

"fly-swatter" and it

became quite valuable.

From Karl Kraus

One asks not, what I do all the time.

I stay quiet;

and don't say why.

And there was quiet, there the Earth cracked.

It met no word.

One only speaks out of Sleep.

And dreams of a sun, which laughs.

It goes on;

After it was ennuyant.

The word passed on, as that world awoke.

--

I only am one of the Epigones

Who in the ancient house of language dwells.

But I have therein my own experiences,

I break out and I'm leaving Thebes in pieces.

Should I also come to ancient Masters, later,

So shall I rage the bloody knack of fathers.

Of vengeance speak I, I avenging language

Of all those, those who are language speakers.

I'm Epigone, the ancientworthy(ies?) elder.

But you, be the knowing Theban chorus!

--

Language controlling? That's right to me;

If one only speaks loudly, at the same time is it still?

So I control the language, that you speak

that my might may with me, what it will!

Thinking of Stendhal

At the least, the active life begins again for me;

Charms of youth, what they name vigour.

Cascades, hills over "dales" over lakes, indoors

From the rain, soup, and promenades, I see.

Sometimes, surging thoughts hide things from selves,

But not on purpose for the purposes of cowardice.

It was, above all, a woman of strong faith in herself,

Adieu, my fine Scala, my beautiful lake Como, adieu, adieu!

-

Can you not memorize this theology

Like the rules to a game of whist?

Do not Rousseau about it; nor hold (if you

happen to fall into it and believe) your old boys,

Your encyclopedic boys in disdain. No,

Have no spirit, my lad, until you graduate.

-

An Italian heart (what makes

Him less lovable, pardon):

No vanity but as adornment,

No guard against still, sole, gorgeous sights.

Sitting on an island rock,

No longer on edge,

Protected by deep night,

And the vast silence,

Some tears in the eyes,

Fresh moments not tasted

For a long time.

He swore never again to lie.

-

That religion steals the courage

to think of unusual things, and holds

above all personal examination the highest

of sins; a foot in the door of protestantism.

To know of what we are guilty, ask the priest, or read

the catalogue of sins, printed in books titled

Prepration for the Sacrement of Penitence.

Read murder; skipped passed simony.

(O Simon mago, o miseri seguaci!)

-

He was still young, still damn far

from spending his time to seek out

with patience particular realities of

things, thereby to figure out their causes.

dealers of antiques,

brokers, archaeologists,

You are not, as you think, alive.

For we are ever weak;

Always weakness entered

In the calculations

(come face al mancar dell' alimento)

The Other, Other Ballade of Villon

And what more, where is the third Calixte

Darn near last dead of that name,

Who four years tended the papists?

Alphons, the royal Arragon

The graceful duc of Bourbon

And Artus duc of Bretaigne,

And Charles Seven the hon. ?

But where is the pert Charlemaigne?

Similarly, the royal Scottish

Whose half-face was, says one,

Vermillion as an amethyst

Right down the chinstrap from the front?

The King of Chippre, of reknown,

Helas! and the good king of Spain

Of whom I do not know the name?

But where is the pert Charlemaigne?

But of more talking I desist;

The world is nought but illusion.

There's none who against death resists

Nor who finds provision.

And yet ask a question:

Lacelot the king of Bretaigne,

Where is he? Where is his old man?

But where is the pert Charlemaigne?

Where is Claquin the bonny Breton?

Where is the count Dauphin of Auvergne

And the late good duc of Alencon?

But where is the pert Charlemaigne?

A Sonnet from Guido to some Friends

Dante, Ezra, an exhale (messenger of

the heart) Suddenly attacked me sleeping

And I awoke, creeping,

Cuz I wasn't in company with love.

I turned a little and saw the servant

Of Monna Lagia who came saying

-help me can you please! - and crying

so much I felt so much more unnerved

That love showed up filing his darts

And I asked him concerning torment

And he answered me like this:

"Say to the servant the woman be seized

And he holds, by far, her adorement

And if he don't believe that, watch how her eye parts."

Speaking of "The New Sentence" ...

O blissful light of which clear beams I count the best. Subordinate to the third heaven. She is a clause of divinity. May we praise her eyes?

O sacrificial vessel the jade of which I model virtue. One cannot overestimate the rites. You are the clay of his bosom. Am I to bury you?

Onomopoeia of worship that goddes lips ykuste of mine. It arched a hillock in obeisance. It is the hollow of the well. Am I, moss, to grow over it?

Oscillate then, let again be phoenician the flame of the lyric.

The mystery play for its language alone is a parade worth summarizing.

---

O docile rhymes which parleying undulate. Of the gentle lady which another honours. You to be seen, if not granted once more. One who says: these are our brothers.

And then, Tuscan.

Suddenly, at the prima arriva. All such random hypotheses fondemens ruineux. The Eagle gave chase to Mr. Jean Rabbit. Bird who bore Ganymede.

Alors, Frenchman.

The "I have seen no root". Wood for humor so strong. Those who saw in the river Lombard. Her son fall, leaves out nor.

And the rest.

---

paragraph stanza sonnet of love

paragraph stanza inescapable sonnet of love

As blossoms in Heian eras. Writing ends you poorest immortal. Yours are fourteeners. Uncountable the wars and ways of heaven. There were kingdoms. She felled a wall.

Auspiciously a barrier for the oncoming production. I am a stage. Rains all the worlds.

Supposing a certain tendency towards vaprous talking, she could not be trusted. Hiccups are terse. Terse. Whose white is soul. Saul is where hills love.

paragraph stanza inescapable sonnet of death

As blossoms in warring states. Last in rites. First decidedly first by a hair this time around. Was it coming then. To morrow is to sorrow. I am cheered. Is it not to share. Not to sorry. Saul missed him. Him who obeys. You are not fit for aubergine my lass. Revolt in the just desserts. Proof in the prodding. Everything is not about flowers, death.

---

La Sentenzia Nova

In advance. My Lady shall be IXth. What o'clock in Arabia.

Let alignment be justice justice chiasmus chiasmus under reign.

A single long sentence. A short. What number is shortest.

De la mia donna stare se non in su lo nove, tra li nomi di queste donne.

Envoi sweet new. A foreign language probably romance. His youth.

First is divided. Second is divided. Che non abbisogna d'alcuna divisione.

---

I sing of frons, verses, feet, diesis, sirma. I canto of Safety, Love, and Virtue. I steal my dialect from all around town, the panther who visits all but dwells nowhere in particular.

Pes pes, O Amor.

I sing of frogs, mouses, geese, deer races, serpents. I cant off safely love and virtue. I steel my direction all around town, the panter whom visible patois impart incula.

Peace peace, O Amor.

Let her brave the storm.

Let him do a deed of daring.