Poetry - 2nd decade

3. 1940

Prolegomenon to a World Government Constitution

We are not certain why we live,
or why we are conscious.

Does anyone care that we are here?

We are not sure.

Were we made?

Did we just happen?

We guess, we wonder,

we wish we knew.

Some among us think they know,

but no one answer pleases all.

Can the past be changed?

We do not know.

Can we choose our destiny?

Perhaps.

Most think these questions are important.

Most wish we could answer them with confidence.

We have one hope:

Perhaps we are just part-way human;

perhaps our children's children's children

will be truly human,

truly wise enough.

We must not kill that hope.

We must not kill each other.

Do we, so limited, deserve to live?

We sometimes wonder.

But, if we are the womb

that shall bring forth true humans,

we do deserve to live.

To bring to life

beings wiser than we

is a noble goal that makes us noble.

This is government's role:

To help us tame our children and ourselves,

to help us share our wealth

to help each other live

to dedicate ourselves to science

about how to improve our minds,

civilize ourselves,

become fully human.

4. 1941

In life's dark movie theater,

I am a crumbling skeleton

Rattling down a dusty aisle.

The vastness of God's dream oppresses me.

I wish He could awake.

5. 1942

Four Hours Till Dawn

Yes, Fear, I know you well -- too well.

Too many nights you have monkey-danced, gibbering, on my chest,

Crushing my breath,

Squeezing my heart.

In the dark, alone, I have fought you,

Confused, exhausted.

When will I reach out and crush you to an abstraction?

6. 1942

Across dawn-red clouds

civilization's dark tears:

distant planes drifting.

7. 1943

Triolet

Beauty is Beauty, transcending all in life;

To create it, I was granted breath.

Betraying her for beauty, I will tell my wife:

"Beauty is Beauty, transcending all in life."

When, into my heart, they thrust the knife,

I'll sing my final words to Death:

"Beauty is Beauty, transcending all in life;

"To create it, I was granted breath."

8. 1943

Love me cruelly if you will,
For love is not a gentle passion.
Cause me pain; I crave that thrill:
Love me cruelly. If you will
Torture me with artful skill,
I will welcome your harsh ration.
Love me cruelly, if you will,
For love is not a gentle passion.


9. 1944

Hello -- Goodbye

Hello, me. You write this poem

by the new lamp's light at half past four

in the morning, March 1944.

You see years ahead going soft and wasted

like ice cream a baby dropped

untasted.

You measure your freedom and feel,

so soon,

trapped.

You guess it is worse for me.

Your skin is smooth; your blood is hot.

I've aged fast for my age: mine is not.

I haven't done as well as you hoped.

As you feared, I was caught, or bought.

You guess that I need comfort from you.

Gently, you (who can guess so much)

send me a smile and a consoling touch.

"I forgive you," you say to me.

You say to your future you's:

"Have no fear.

"I am I. I am real.

"I will always be here."

Too late now to become the man

that in March, before dawn, you hope you can,

I love you hopelessly, like a father,

a love I can never show you.

And you love me patiently, like a father.

Guessing, accepting our poem's end,

you promise you'll always be my friend.

Knowing my birth is killing you,

you pledge your love is changeless, true.

10. 1944

In the misty park

the luscious satin sound of

lovers in the dark.

11. 1945

Beyond Cosmogony

Our flowers felt like melting snow.

Plunged in a crystal funnel, time

and bubbling blackness tumbling crushed converge

to swirl more turgid past their lengthening contract.

The wetness where our flowers have dissolved

is like our tears before yours blend with mine.

Obvolute in our extended womb

we pass beyond despair constricted self

to doubt the dubious sure of doom.

Now, stars and still and galaxies

are cool and clear in outer space.

12. 1945

Eternal God, You overflow all human mind

defined infinities. Your timeless words began

Your universe of nested spheres with sparks entwined,

in which we evanescent ones do what we can.

With faithful love for our return You yearn and wait

as, all about us, Your live glory burns in all.
But we have turned away to breed our sterile hate

as numbly toward "reality" we fall.

You know, not I, how long as I, I'll live or will,

for only now and here are what my senses show

And trap me in their momentary pain or thrill.

How I am part of Your vast plan, You know.

Now is now; I choose life; choice is just here.

Soon brings death; use each breath; both trust and fear.

________________

*Earlier versions were published in the newsletter of the Chabad House of Greater Hartford, 1985, in the newsletter of Kehilat Chaverim, Hartford, Connecticut, 2001, and in Prayers & Meditations for Friday Evening, edited by H. G. Gerjuoy

13. 1946

Psycho-neurotic, -somatic, -psychotic,

Insulin, exsulin, antibiotic.

A dren in thy roid is a drain on thyroxin;

Nixotitna backwards spells antitoxin.

Lobotomy, lobotomy:

The doctors, when they got to me,

Sure took out a lot of me!

14. 1947

If Sweet Love Be Poetry

Pallid dream-shapes crumble into night,

As I, trembling, struggle up from deep

Aloneness, coughing, trying not to weep.

With sweating buttocks, throbbing jaws clenched tight,
I wake to shabby sheets' soggy blight

In humid darkness, to a formless heap

Of twisted blankets, hardened pillows, cheap

And sagging bed. So, can I feel delight?

So wakened, can I share romance? Tears

Would be too sincere, laughter merely pose.

The fingers fumbling toward my breasts rouse fears

And nausea, tense foreboding of cold throes.

Like these words that die in your dull ears,

My poetry expires in your bed of prose.

15. 1947

Alone at Night

Each moment is endless. This small room

stays.

I stay.

The slithering pendulum sways

uncertainly, limply, unevenly.

It strays

and stays. When I look away, it plays

dead. When I look, it sullenly stirs.

No cold tomb,

this room is hot and damp –

a dull, harsh, gray foolishness. My doom

is to decay in this gloom.

My voice should crack, "Is the cat fed?"

as I patch a patch in a patch in my dress.

I wonder, some nights, Is my blood still red?

There is nothing to be said, and less and less

do I care or know if I am starved or fed.

I have lost the power to change.

I go to the door. It is locked.

I look again. It is locked.

The closet is shut? It is locked.

Will the door yield? It is locked.

Gripping the knob hurts my fingers,

suddenly white (the metal is cold).

Did I turn off the gas? It is off.

Gripping the handle my fingers

are suddenly stiff (the metal is cold).

Will I stifle tonight? Does it matter?

The window is shut? It is locked.

Shall I let up the shade? There'll be light:

I'll have to look out. Leave it down.

Instead of stars and the ground:

I may see a face at the pane,

crushed soft, without bones, at the pane.

Did I turn off the gas? It is off. . . .

16. 1947

Between two poles hung,*

cut by sagging frozen wires,

rotting bloated moon.

*Published online in Blue Note, February 2001.

17. 1947

Two Voices*

"Across the borderline of pain

There lies a vale of sultry pleasure.
Here is my glove; the time is dawn;
And we shall take each other's measure."

"I fear no battle should I come:
As equals we could never duel.
And should yield, one could not win
Unless we be both friends and cruel."

"As symmetry may arc through time,

One can yet rise with one descending.

Although not one nor even like,

We'll find that we may join by blending."

------------------

*Published 1947 in Compass Intercollegiate Review. © 1947 by Alvin Toffler & Herbert Gerjuoy.

18. 1948

Evening Snow -- Naked Branches -- Gray Sky

Evening snow, naked branches, gray sky.

Dark net

itchy as spider legs; black; too many lines

to see apart each separate tree

that seeming to pray to, drink, breathe,

loves perhaps the sky.

Snowflakes touch me again and again,

soft, wet, cold like frightened little lips

that chill me slowly deeper in.

The clouds beyond the dark branches seem

somehow by contrast faintly pink --

branches grown perhaps, perhaps congealed;

bars of my cage, perfect, barren, hopeless,

almost more symbols than themselves.

Meaning flickers

not quite igniting in the frozen wood.

Could I burn up past it all if I would?

past this gray air, in empty blackness

impale myself upon the frozen stars?

19. 1948

Nocturnal Landscape, Mostly Sky

Remembering the subtle dawn-hinting 2 a.m. moon

(dark-silver sky; lost stars; drowned flickering of the night),

we abandoned adolescence (question mark) selected moonlight

strong enough to cast a shadow (mourning after noon).

Morning after noon -- imitation -- opposites; too soon

black and white, ambivalent, touch and sight,

sexual (the buildup), left (stayed) and right ( );

all sharp shadows hard (by contrast) (moon pale -- sun bright).

We don't flicker any more (I say this nervously):

pale, dull glow, hard patterns, stubborn lines;

slow sweep of hours. In time we will be clean

whirled past the horizon and dizzily tumble free

down the long sunlit vastness wherein all designs

in space flare shadows to eternity unseen.

20. 1948

Parade Drill

The drummer comes with a stomp and roar

And curled mustache and little more.

Pulse double time; you must be strong

And keep in step. He's right; you're wrong.

His scarlet stripe is bright and clean.

Pain is fun and sex obscene.

There's nothing more to this or you

Than serried ranks of Tittipu.

Salutes are meant to rape the fair.

Flags and trumpets love hot air.

21. 1949

Dion

When I touched the soft pillowed mildew on Milady's cheek,

I sighed. I breathed. I blew a cobweb downward toward the dusty floor,

And then like talc-stone rubbing Milady began to speak:

"Oceans afloat with wormwood I saw in my dream;

"I saw Revelation, and St. John at my door

"Gushed purple milk hot into me in a stream,

"While at his feet fawned a panther, and I came to his command.

"Then I woke, and saw you, my old bore,

"Limp, stupid, decaying, with seaweed clutched in your hand."

22. 1949

Masochistic Conversation*

. . . when Two are in Love, the cleansing Fire of their Passion burns away all that is superficial and sham in them, so that they show their true Selves to each other in all the pure Beauty flowing from the naked Soul.

‑‑ old foolish saying

HE:        This is a terrible world,
SHE:      so awful,

HE:        so evil,

SHE:      so awful,

HE:        so evil;

SHE:      this is a terrible world.

HE:        This is a terrible world,

SHE:      so awful,

HE:        so evil,

SHE:      so monstrous,

HE:        so evil;

SHE:      this is a terrible world.

HE:        Touch me, and I shudder, you know.

SHE:      Touch me, and I shudder.

HE:        Please let me go! Set me free!

              You aren't as cruel as I think;

              you don't want me this way.

SHE:     This is a terrible world.

HE:       What would I do without you?

SHE:     You might write a poem.

HE:       How could I? I can't make love.

SHE:     Poets don't have to make love;

              they just have to write the right words.

HE:       Write?

SHE:               Right:

HE:                            Write

SHE:                                    the right words.

HE:       You aren't so cruel. You know

              you aren't:

              You just want to be cruel,

              pretend to be cruel.

SHE:     I want what you want me to want.

HE:       I just want what you want;

             touch me, and I shudder.

SHE:    Please let me go! Set me free!

HE:      How can I? I don't know how.

            Would you show me how? . . . No – not this!

            You've shown me the rest; show me that.

SHE:    I can't.

HE:      Yes you can!

SHE:    I – don't – know – how.

HE:      Teach me!

             Is it like this?

SHE:    Oh!

BOTH: How can I get free?

HE:       Love is possession, not peace.

SHE:     Don't use that terrible word.

HE:       Which one? They're all pretty bad.

SHE:     [Pause] Love.

HE:       [Pause] It isn't so bad: it's a lie.

             No, it's not: they're none of them lies.

             I'm lying: they're only words.

SHE:    Why do you hurt yourself so?

HE:       Don't you? Don't you hurt yourself too?

SHE:     I wish you wouldn't ask me things twice.

HE:       It's hard to be kind for a change

SHE:     (to me)

HE:       when I really don't want to be kind.

             Who would care if I weren't unkind?

              If I always were kind, who would care?

              You would take me for granted.

              Would you take me for granted?

              Yes, you'd take me for granted.

SHE:      I would not.

               I know what you mean.

HE:        No, you don't.

SHE:      I know what you mean:

              You're not kind.

              If you were, then we'd all be kind.

HE:        I didn't mean it that way.

SHE:     If you were, then I'd be kind too.

HE:       If I were, then it just wouldn't matter.

SHE:    We'd all be kind then.

HE:      No one would know any better.

BOTH: [Song]:

             Oh, to the sweet lollipoolizzer trees,

             Where the flowers are bright, bright pink,

             And I'll kiss your toelets,

             And for both our soul lets,

             There'll be soft, quibbly wine to drink.

             We'll loll in the labial shade

             (with a breeze in the trees, if you please);

             oh, semper prenatal,

             where love isn't fatal,

             and to sin is to pee where you please.

HE:      What can I do to be free?

SHE:    Go away.

HE:       Please!

SHE:    Go away! You're a fool. Go away!

HE:      Wouldn't you like to be free?

SHE:    It sounds nice, as a whim.

HE:      Is that all?

SHE:   What would I do without you?

HE:      You might decide what you want.

SHE:    You know I'd decide it was you.

HE:       It'd be different that way:

             Then we would know where we stand.

SHE:    Now we know where we lie.

HE:      This is the first time you've joked.

SHE:    Do you want to know how to be free?

             Just say to yourself, "I am free."

             Then fuck me and do what you like;

             just hold me and do what you like,

             but never be gentle with me.

             I trapped you by loving your flesh;

             I caught you by turning away;

             I held you by making you –

HE:                                                    Stop! –

SHE:    by giving you pain. Pain!

             I made you give something up;

             I hurt you; I made you hurt me.

             You gave yourself every day.

             You gave your self away.

HE:       I liked it that way:

             I like pain;

             I enjoy sacrifice;

             I enjoy being patient and brave.

             I was noble: I suffered in peace;

             I waited. Yes, I did it myself.

SHE:    That's right! That was how you were caught.

             I let you be noble and good;

             I let you be noble and good;

             I tricked you; I let you be kind.

             I pretended. You thought that I cared.

HE:       I thought you were afraid.

SHE:    Why should I be?

             I let you do what you liked:

             You like to be patient with me.

             And now I'm setting you free.

              

HE:       You don't have to any more.

SHE:     Don't be so romantic:

              You know it all now, so go.

HE:        Now I know that I love you.  At last!

SHE:      You're a fool.

HE:        Why?

SHE:      Do you think I can't tell when you're lying?

HE:         I'll tell you the whole truth:

Suddenly I feel a deep and sincere tenderness toward you that is intense because it is sincere and grows out of what we feel toward each other and all that we've shared.

SHE:      Go to hell!  Damn it, let me go on!

HE:        No!

SHE:      Well, go to hell, then!

               You even broke the rhythm!

HE:         Let me kiss you.

SHE:      Must you ask for that, too?

HE:         I'll try not to ask.

SHE:       Let me be!  Let me go!

HE:         Please set me free!
SHE:       Please set me free!

BOTH:    Liar! 

                         Liar!

                                  Liar!

                                           Liar!

                                                    Liar!

                                                              Liar!

23. 1949

Introduction to Greek

(Homage to Rimbaud)

Lambda is the tongueless belle,                       Capital delta is the trinity

lithe and wicked and what-the-hell.                 on a dollar and other asininity.

Gamma is the loving goblet                             Capital beta is bubble twins,

open for every cad and sloblet.                        the sign where alto voice begins.

Beta is the twisted heart,                                  Capital gamma is an inverted L,

the buttock, or the apple tart.                           the gibbet, a street lamp without a bell.

Delta is the hangman's noose,                          Capital lambda is around the bend,

the Hebrew lambda and – What's the use?!     a well-intentioned journey's end.

24. 1949

Come, Ride with Me

My car will gratify you beyond your dreams.

Get in! Yield to the cushions' shameless embrace.

Hear the purr of the motor. Feel the wind on your face.

Sense the pulse of my pumping pistons as the wind streams
around the dashing nose, over the hood, and steams
the windshield with its passion against that upthrust space
where inner and outer world almost join, where a place
transparent, shatterproof, defrosted, wiped clean, gleams
crystalline and plastic, firm but able to bend
and wrap itself about our organic softness tightly bound
to the seat backs. We'll be driven, rushed
by my vehicle toward our ride's sure end,
when, with a rising shriek of climactic sound,
steel cracks, tires burst, and our flesh is crushed.


25. 1949

For EBS

There is a river flowing between us, and the river's name is time.

For a while

when the river was a brook

we stretched our hands across the water

and I like to think we touched.

But now we have gone downstream

and the river is rising.

By the waters of the river we wandered in the  reeds

brushing mare's tails across our thighs.

You said that May weather brought feathers to flowers and clouds,

and we felt their slow shuddery texture in our soft-touching minds

as the whispering ripples gliding and kissing the breeze

sent our minds slowly bending together like submarine fronds.

Touch our dream gently: it was time's best gift,

film quick to break, leaving shuddering silence.

Save the kindest caresses for yesterday's love, for we drift

past the mouth of the river to sea -- to the sea's long stillness

where our childish designs turn to foam, and our talents

are mocked by vastness and long meaningless coolness.

I prefer to remember our peacefully rippling young river

to the surging of breakers or wild young waves.

Good night. It is cold on the ocean: the storms do not warm,

though the memories burn when they bring back our shuddering thighs

singing "NOW" in their language denying this lingering never.