Written by
Etheridge Knight |
Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews.
They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk.
I know
their dark eyes, they know mine.
I know their style,
they know mine.
I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.
I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins.
I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece
(she sends me letters in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).
I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle.
The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say).
He's discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space.
My father's mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him.
There is no
place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown.
"
|
Written by
Vladimir Mayakovsky |
I'd tear
like a wolf
at bureaucracy.
For mandates
my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself
I'd chuck without mercy
every red-taped paper.
But this .
.
.
Down the long front
of coupés and cabins
File the officials
politely.
They gather up passports
and I give in
My own vermilion booklet.
For one kind of passport -
smiling lips part
For others -
an attitude scornful.
They take
with respect, for instance,
the passport
From a sleeping-car
English Lionel.
The good fellows eyes
almost slip like pips
when,
bowing as low as men can,
they take,
as if they were taking a tip,
the passport
from an American.
At the Polish,
they dolefully blink and wheeze
in dumb
police elephantism -
where are they from,
and what are these
geographical novelties?
And without a turn
of their cabbage heads,
their feelings
hidden in lower regions,
they take without blinking,
the passports from Swedes
and various
old Norwegians.
Then sudden
as if their mouths were
aquake
those gentlemen almost
whine
Those very official gentlemen
take
that red-skinned passport
of mine.
Take-
like a bomb
take - like a hedgehog,
like a razor
double-edge stropped,
take -
like a rattlesnake huge and long
with at least
20 fangs
poison-tipped.
The porter's eyes
give a significant flick
(I'll carry your baggage
for nix,
mon ami.
.
.
)
The gendarmes enquiringly
look at the tec,
the tec, -
at the gendarmerie.
With what delight
that gendarme caste
would have me
strung-up and whipped raw
because I hold
in my hands
hammered-fast
sickle-clasped
my red Soviet passport.
I'd tear
like a wolf
at bureaucracy.
For mandates
my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself
I'd chuck
without mercy
every red-taped paper,
But this .
.
.
I pull out
of my wide trouser-pockets
duplicate
of a priceless cargo.
You now:
read this
and envy,
I'm a citizen
of the Soviet Socialist Union!
Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
had a song
wound up inside her
she'd had it taped
on a silken spool
this was the song
she sang as a rule
o little fly
come be my friend
i have fly's gold
for you to spend
i'll wrap you in silks
to make you pretty
if you refuse
then more's the pity
the silk-voice warbled
through the wood
the best bird-song
didn't seem so good
but no flies came
they were too fly
looking through the song
to the web's black eye
o schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
passed through hunger
to the edge of death
the wood stopped growing
and held its breath
one day the silken
web was still
and curious flies
came to find how ill
the spider was – but
becoming too daring
many got stuck
in the silken snaring
but schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
presented thus
with a feast of flies
cried weakly in anger
i despise i despise
such dull victims
that have no ear
for the silken song
i keep in here
but when in silence
this web is wrapped
stupid and nosey
they all get trapped
and the web grew slack
in the dying wood
the poor flies wriggled
but it did no good
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wrapped up inside her
spun into herself
to disappear
he was lost to the world
for many a year
but whether she meant it
or it was a fearful tangle
she came out one night
in the african jungle
she was in a tree
quite close to the sun
in the topmost branch
her web was spun
its silken strands
in the sun's gold rays
dazzled her neighbours
into fulsome praise
and soon the jungle
was wrapt in a sound
(as the bouncing spider's
song unwound)
whose piercing beauty
brought dew to the eyes
of every creature
but the jungle flies
no one could tell
what the song might mean
the song and the web
made so rare a screen
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
wove her sad magic
both day and night
the moon and the sun
never shone so bright
and after the rains
had moistened the jungle
it wore the spider
like a jewelled bangle
the jungle flies though
soon went mad
unable to hear
a song so sad
they buzzed and bashed
uncontrollably
every tree bore signs
of their mortality
it couldn't be guessed
on what the spider fed
no victim was lured
into the sparkling web
yet schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
never stopped singing
and the jungle grows
to this very day
in the song's sad throes
but don't go looking
for the bouncing spider
who has a song
wound up inside her
what you can't see
you can always dream
what's song to one
is another's scream
and each one is born
with a touch of fly
that can't tell beauty
from a spit in the eye
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who has a song
wound up inside her
with intolerable sheen
puts the price too high
love me or fear me
be enchanted or die
|
Written by
John Berryman |
Henry is old, old; for Henry remembers
Mr Deeds' tuba, & the Cameo,
& the race in Ben Hur,—The Lost World, with sound,
& The Man from Blankey's, which he did not dig,
nor did he understand one caption of,
bewildered Henry, while the Big Ones laughed.
Now Henry is unmistakably a Big One.
Fúnnee; he don't féel so.
He just stuck around.
The German & the Russian films into
Italian & Japanese films turned, while many
were prevented from making it.
He wishing he could squirm again where Hoot
is just ahead of rustlers, where William S
forgoes some deep advantage, & moves on,
where Hashknife Hartley having the matter taped
the rats are flying.
For the rats
have moved in, mostly, and this is for real.
|