The black hardrubber bathtub stopper at the Parker house.
Robert LowellThe slick bare tar, the same suburban station.
Robert LowellDearest, I cannot loiter here
in lather like a polar bear.
Tockytock, tockytock
clumped our Alpine, Edwardian cuckoo clock,
slung with strangled, wooden game.
One universe, one body...in this urn
the animal night sweats of the spirit burn
The Poet"
His teeth splayed in a way he'd notice and pity
in his closest enemies or friends.
Youth held his eye; he blinked at passing beauties,
birds of passage that could not close the gap.
His wife was high-blooded, he counted on her living--
she lived, past sixty, then lived on in him,
and often when he plotted lines, she breathed
her acrid sweetness past his imaginings.
She was still a magnificent handle of a woman--
did she have her lover as a novelist wished her?
No--hating someone nearer, she found her voice--
no wife so loved; though Hardy, home from cycling,
was glad to climb unnoticed to his study
by a circling outside staircase, his own design.
Buttercups"
When we were children our papas were stout
And colorless as seaweed or the floats
At anchor off New Bedford. We were shut
In gardens where our brassy sailor coats
Made us like black-eyed susans bending out
Into the ocean, Then my teeth were cut:
A levelled broom-pole butt
Was pushed into my thin
And up-turned chin--
There were shod hoofs behind the horseplay. But
I played Napoleon in my attic cell
Until my shouldered broom
Bobbed down the room
With horse and neighing shell.
Recall the shadows the doll-curtains veined
On ancrem Winslow's ponderous plate from blue
China, the breaking of time's haggard tide
On the huge cobwebbed print of Waterloo,
With a cracked smile across the glass. I cried
To see the Emperor's sabered eagle slide
From the clutching grenadier
Staff-officer
With the gold leaf cascading down his side--
A red dragoon, his plough-horse rearing, swayed
Back on his reins to crop
The buttercup
Bursting upon the braid
Children"
Years back here we were children
and at the stage of running
in gangs about the meadows--
here to this one, there to that one.
Where we picked up violets
on lucky days,
you can now see cattle gadding about.
I still remember hunching
ankle deep in violets,
squabbling over which bunches were fairest.
Our childishness was obvious--
we ran dancing rounds,
we wore new green wreaths.
So time passes.
Here we ran swilling strawberries from oak to pine
through hedges, through turnstiles--
as long as day was burning down.
Once a gardener
rushed from an arbor:
"O.K. now, children, run home."
We came out in spots
those yesterdays, when we stuffed on strawberries;
it was just a childish game to us.
Often we heard
the herdsman
hooing and warning us:
"Children, the woods are alive with snakes."
And one of the children breaking
through the sharp grass, grew white
and shouted, "Children, a snake
ran in there. He got our pony.
She'll never get well.
I wish that snake
would go to hell!"
"Well then, get out of the woods!
If you don't hurry away quickly,
I'll tell you what will happen--
if you don't leave the forest behind you by daylight,
you'll lose yourselves;
your pleasure will end in bawling."
Do you know how five virgins
dawdled in the meadow,
till the king slammed his dining-room door?
Their shouting and shame were outrageous:
their jailor tore everything off them,
down to their skins
they stood like milk cows without any clothes.
In the American Grain"
"Ninth grade, and bicycling the Jersey highways:
I am a writer. I was half-wasp already,
I changed my shirt and trousers twice a day.
My poems came back...often rejected, though never
forgotten in New York, this Jewish state
with insomniac minorities.
I am sick of the enlightenment:
what Wall Street prints, the mafia distributes;
when talent starves in a garret, they buy the garret.
Bill Williams made less than Band-Aids on his writing,
he could never write the King's English of The New Yorker.
I am not William Carlos Williams. He
knew the germ on every flower, and saw
the snake is a petty, rather pathetic creature.
Salem"
In salem seasick spindrift drifts or skips
to the canvas flapping on the seaward panes
until the knitting sailor stabs at ships
nosing like sheep of Morpheus through his brain's
asylum. Seaman, seaman, how the draft
lashes the oily slick about your head,
beating up whitecaps! Seaman, Charon's raft
dumps its damned goods into the harbor-bed,--
There sewage sickens the rebellious seas.
Remember, seaman, Salem fisherman
Once hung their nimble fleets on the Great Banks.
Where was it that New England bred the men
who quartered the Leviathan's fat flanks
and fought the British Lion to his knees?
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