The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan Read online

  dream smoke

  (my dream the big earth)

  On the green a white boy goes to not

  Forget Released by night (which is not to imply

  Clarity The logic is not The Boats and O, I am not alone

  LXXIII

  Dear Ron: Keats was a baiter of bears etc.

  Tenseness, but strength, outward And the green

  flinging currents into pouring streams The “Jeunes filles”

  so rare Today I think about all those radio waves

  a slow going down of the Morning Land

  the great Speckle bird at last extinct (a reference

  to Herman Melville) at heart we are infinite, we are

  ethereal, we are weird! Each tree stands alone in stillness.

  Your head spins when the old bull rushes (Back in the city

  He was not a midget, and preferred to be known as a stuntman)

  Gosh, I gulp to be here in my skin! What thwarts this fear

  I love Everything turns into writing (and who falters)

  I LIKE TO BEAT PEOPLE UP!!! (absence of principles, passion

  ) love. White boats Green banks Grace to be born and live

  LXXIV

  The academy

  of the future

  is opening its doors

  JOHN ASHBERY

  The academy of the future is opening its doors

  my dream a crumpled horn

  Under the blue sky the big earth is floating into “The Poems.”

  “A fruitful vista, this, our South,” laughs Andrew to his Pa.

  But his rough woe slithers o’er the land.

  Ford Madox Ford is not a dream. The farm

  was the family farm. On the real farm

  I understood “The Poems.”

  Red-faced and romping in the wind, I, too,

  am reading the technical journals. The only travelled sea

  that I still dream of

  is a cold black pond, where once

  on a fragrant evening fraught with sadness

  I launched a boat frail as a butterfly

  LXXV

  Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season

  to outline Central Park in geometric

  trillion pointed bright red-brown and green-gold

  blocks of blooming winter. Trees stand stark-naked

  guarding bridal paths like Bowery

  Santa Clauses keeping Christmas safe each city block.

  Thus I, red faced and romping in the wind

  Whirl thru mad Manhattan dressed in books

  looking for today with tail-pin. I

  never place it right, never win. It

  doesn’t matter, though. The cooling wind keeps blowing

  and my poems are coming.

  Except at night. Then

  I walk out in the bleak village and look for you

  LXXVI

  I wake up back aching from soft bed Pat

  gone to work Ron to class (I

  never heard a sound) it’s my birthday. I put on

  birthday pants birthday shirt go to ADAM’S buy a

  pepsi for breakfast come home drink it take a pill

  I’m high. I do three Greek lessons

  to make up for cutting class. I read birthday book

  (from Joe) on Juan Gris real name José Vittoriano

  Gonzáles stop in the middle read all

  my poems gloat a little over new ballad quickly skip old

  sonnets imitations of Shakespeare. Back to books. I read

  poems by Auden Spenser Pound Stevens and Frank O’Hara.

  I hate books.

  I wonder if Jan or Helen or Babe

  ever think about me. I wonder if Dave Bearden still

  dislikes me. I wonder if people talk about me

  secretly. I wonder if I’m too old. I wonder if I’m fooling

  myself about pills. I wonder what’s in the icebox. I wonder

  if Ron or Pat bought any toilet paper this morning

  LXXVII

  “DEAR CHRIS

  it is 3:17 a.m. in New York city, yes, it is

  1962, it is the year of parrot fever. In

  Brandenburg, and by the granite gates, the

  old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,

  the season of delight. I am writing to you to say that

  I have gone mad. Now I am sowing the seeds which shall,

  when ripe, master the day, and

  portion out the night. Be watching for me when blood

  flows down the streets. Pineapples are a sign

  that I am coming. My darling, it is nearly time. Dress

  the snowman in the Easter sonnet we made for him

  when scissors were in style. For now, goodbye, and

  all my love,

  The Snake.”

  LXXVIII

  Too many fucking mosquitoes under the blazing sun

  out in the stinking alley behind my desk! too many

  lovely delicious behinds fertilizing the park! the logic

  of childhood is not genuine it shines forth

  so rare

  Dear Ron: Keats was a baiter of bears who died

  of lust! Today I think about all those radio waves

  The academy of my dreams is opening its doors

  Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season

  Except at night!

  Then I walk out in the bleak village

  in my dreams, for they are present! I wake up

  aching from soft bed Back to books. It is 3:17 a.m. in

  New York city

  The Pure No Nonsense: and all day “Perceval! Perceval!”

  LXXX

  How strange to be gone in a minute

  Bearden is dead Gallup is dead Margie is dead

  Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble

  Dear Chris, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

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

  A bright room, sustained by the darkness outside and

  A cast-off emotion. A hard core is “formed”

  That the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown

  “He Shot Me” was once my favorite poem

  Speckled marble makes my eyes ache as I rest on

  The only major statement in New York city Louis Sullivan

  is dead whose grief I would most assuage

  “He Shot Me” is still my favorite poem, and

  “I Don’t See Any Anchor Tied To Your Ass”

  LXXXI

  Musick strides through these poems

  just as it strides through me! The red block

  Dream of Hans Hofmann keeps going away and

  Coming back to me. He is not “The Poems.”

  (my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we

  discuss the code of the west)

  How strange to be gone

  in a minute!

  too soon for the broken arm. Ripeness begins corrupting every

  tree

  Each strong morning in air we get our feet wet

  (my dream

  a crumpled horn) it hurts. Huddie Ledbetter is dead

  whose griefs I would most assuage Sing I must And

  with Musick I must rage

  Against those whose griefs I would most assuage

  (my dream

  “DEAR CHRIS, hello. It is 3:17 a.m.

  LXXXII

  my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we discuss the code

  of the west

  The red block dream of Hans Hofmann keeps going away and

  coming back to me

  my dream a crumpled horn

  my dream DEAR CHRIS, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

  The academy of my dreams is opening its doors

  Ford Madox Ford is not a dream.

  The only travelled sea that I still dream of is a cold black pond

  where once on a fragrant evening fraught with sadness

  I launched a boat frail as a butterfly

  Southwest los
t doubloons rest, no comforts drift on dream smoke

  down the sooted fog ravine

  My dream a drink with Richard Gallup we discuss the code of

  the west

  my dream a drink with Henry Miller

  “The Poems” is not a dream.

  Vast orange dreams wed to wakefulness: icy girls finger thighs

  bellies apples in my dream the big gunfire sequence for

  the Jay Kenneth Koch movie, Phooey!

  My dream a drink with Ira Hayes we discuss the code of the west

  LXXXIII

  Woman is singing the song and summer

  Only to others, meaning poems. Because everything

  Sorry about West Point. But where else was one to go,

  Southwest lost doubloons rest, no comforts drift on dream smoke

  Against whose griefs I would most assuage

  (A cast-off emotion) A hard core is “formed.”

  Musick strides through these poems just as it strides thru me

  my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we discuss the code of

  the west

  After Ticonderoga. Beware of Benjamin Franklin, he is

  totally lacking in grace

  What else. Because he tended to think of truth as “The King’s

  Birthday List”

  This is called “Black Nausea” by seers.

  My dream DEAR CHRIS hello. It is 3:17 a.m.

  Your name is now a household name, as is mine. And in any case,

  although I failed, now we need never be rivals

  LXXXIV

  Dear Ron: hello. Your name is now a household name,

  As is mine. We, too, suffer black spells. This is called

  “Black Nausea” by seers, only to others, meaning poems.

  In every way now we are equal. Except one.

  Ford Madox Ford is not a dream. (my dream a drink

  with Henry Miller) we discuss the code of the west.

  He is not “The Poems.”

  “He Shot Me” was once my favorite

  Cast-off emotion. Now I rage in a blue shirt at a brown desk

  In a bright room. In Tulsa Chris has said goodbye to Bernie.

  I never beat people up. The academy of my dreams

  is opening its doors / a fat black woman is singing a song and

  Summer is the subject matter. Next to her his nose couldn’t grow

  Even if it does choke you up, and these marvelous tears

  keep appearing

  LXXXV

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

  Cowboys and banging on my sorrow with books

  No lady dream around in any bad exposure

  The dust fissure drains the gay dance

  Joyful ants nest in the roof of my tree

  absence of passion, principles, love. She murmurs

  is not genuine. it shines forth from the faces

  And each sleeping son is broke-backed and dumb.

  Davy Crockett was nothing like Jesse James

  The most elegant present I could get!

  But blood is still blood and tall as a mountain blood

  Go to the sea, the lake, the tree

  dazzling slim and badly loved

  You are asleep. A lovely light is singing to itself

  LXXXVII

  Beware of Benjamin Franklin, he is totally lacking in grace

  This is called “Black Nausea” by seers. (They basted his caption

  on top of the fat sheriff )

  These sonnets are a homage to

  King Ubu.

  Fasten your crimson garter around his servile heart

  With which he pours forth interminably

  The poem of these states scanning the long selves of

  the shore and “gift gift”

  Great black rat packs were running amuck amidst the murk

  of these states Outside my room

  These sonnets are a homage to myself

  absence of passion, principles, love

  The most elegant present I could get! (This is called

  “Black Nausea” by seers)

  LXXXVIII

  A Final Sonnet

  FOR CHRIS

  How strange to be gone in a minute! A man

  Signs a shovel and so he digs Everything

  Turns into writing a name for a day

  Someone

  is having a birthday and someone is getting

  married and someone is telling a joke my dream

  a white tree I dream of the code of the west

  But this rough magic I here abjure and

  When I have required some heavenly music which even now

  I do to work mine end upon their senses

  That this aery charm is for I’ll break

  My staff bury it certain fathoms in the earth

  And deeper than did ever plummet sound

  I’ll drown my book.

  It is 5:15 a.m. Dear Chris, hello.

  Great Stories of the Chair

  THE SECRET LIFE OF FORD MADOX FORD

  1.

  STOP STOP SIX

  Livid sweet undies drawl

  Elevate

  So do we squeal sporty ritual

  Once a great kiss sin tells

  Dance is night

  Later away training melodies dances rues

  Latent traveler on light

  Lays tense all day silky past far deportment

  Says your songs tombs surely rail

  You arrest my faculties, you person knees descend

  On her part

  Like rain occurs missing the whole point so he tired

  She would say her little ditty of soul yes

  She would say that her circuitous panties descend their

  first voyage

  Her rear less a dress

  This I can’t defeat This stone slays me

  I go and do that to her

  Her lap opens kisses its tune foils this hurt

  Dance of energy

  They did bounce her

  Her rule was grand it twists like a boulevard

  2.

  REELING MIDNIGHT

  Impasses come, dear beasts

  Who require these looney airs so long gone from you all

  O all gone to one surly, rude, humiliated

  Let’s shovel out a song and dance all knew it

  Let’s mosey past them fondled brutes

  Shove a dream of it up our regular day devourings

  I’ll fondle you on home and hang a kiss on yours

  Shall we raise our dead hams

  (Her tranquil nose is a noble dancing vine)

  Don’t hurt it

  Don’t hit it either

  Saying what’s so damn sweet

  I am on trains they’re all choo-choos

  Ack! The Vampire! Some debut!

  Lower your dress dammit!

  In this tent I’ll untrack or take down some undies

  Anguish I’ll sink thru key naps a defense

  To be learned one essential day

  Like seals I’m indifferent

  Eat a potato she said you sober All-American

  3.

  FAUNA TIME

  Liquor troops in deshabillé from blondes a lonely song

  Laming a lean m’sieu like a vessel

  This man hates his aunt so he licks her feet

  Laughing at her brilliant comas of goo

  When addict comforts real

  One sunk leper’s more real

  Lesions are early they fume on her

  In her beastly sleep

  Some Plague! Heavens! plagues offer

  Loathsome murder kill her for me

  Says a weak hero completely wrong his meat leaping around

  Liquor is her price when she sashays she gouged me a long

  time with fins

  Like in the movies

  One man lassoed her leg’s inner lotus

  Laughing at the dumb blue aches so
thick in her metal disc passage

  Slipping her a harangue

  She really has some rashes!

  And her cheek hays me off!

  Gruesome rash ate such sweet arms and legs;

  Who gashed her liver?

  Leprosy ate her mouth turning into her news

  4.

  ON HIS OWN

  I’m not saying

  She’s a creep

  A wreck

  Loving you phew hooray its fini

  The reef ’s an injun bum

  Lewd

  Keep on O playful

  One cent exploding cigar

  Count the ends toot the lonely ear

  Open the door let me in

  The orbs say no

  Lets sashay up the scene

  And strangle the beans

  A sick kid passed on a prairie new meat

  The sore oozes vomit up in the ear shut the drum

  Shut the earache

  Mah mumbles mope an’ dumplin

  Unless she tells me “ ’s too dumb”

  The jello ouch I love may shoot all the martinis

  My main ruse is in the mope

  When the pill before we bleat lets us glow

  The song blurs soda pop yea boo fah!

  Uncle Nakee’s dead again

  We mash and detash geese and their mothers

  Untie the russkies nookies from their loins

  Go boot them in the lung my turn

  Sell out the taint Oologah the stinky-poo undies my cookie

  ain’t on time

  Tear down your undies let me see some lunch

  5.

  THE DANCE OF THE BROKEN BOMB

  It’s a cute tune possibly by Camus

  The gentle Brigadoon stands here

  He sends his years to her

  To pass the two birds ta-ta you pass them

  To be complete just kiss him and you swish through the air

  six seconds ago

  To attempt your bra must come off poor Marie

  Never “poor”

  Enjoy each other

  You’ll never walk alone you’ll pee indoors

  I peed Saturday

  You’re the best of them all men are such beasts they want you

  He’ll caress it from time to time

  The best one is in the parlor you sew all night poor neighbor