Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
/Really/, I'd not have done this, not /thought/ of doing it, but I
received an e-mail tonight.
Somebody used the original of this (PO-wetry froup regulars will
recognise the Eliot) to whine about the Iraq Thing and about wars in
general, and spread it with Great Praise all over the country (in spots).
I pulled the pin and threw it back.
[/Diabolos/, n.Gr., "that which throws opposite," >/adversus/ n.Lat.,
"that which speaks opposite," >devil, n.Am. "that which shoots /back/." __________
The Love Song of A. Jarhead Proofload
For Gary, 1945-1965
mort au Que Sanh
/I could not love thee half so much
Loved I not honor more./
Let us go then, hand in hand,
Where the Muslims pound their heads upon the the sand
Patiently etherised upon their fable;
Let us know the certain, half-deserted sheets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless minds with one-track hells
In sawdust brains on oyster smells:
Sheets that swallow every tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To fly you to an overwhelming explosion...
Oh, do not ask, "Whodunit?"
Let us go, now they begun it.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
The yellow dog that rubs its back upon the widow-stains,
The altar boy that rubs its muzzle on the widow-stains,
Licked its priest in all the corners of the evening,
Lingered on the blood that stands in drains,
Let fall upon its back the dust that falls from belfries,
Slipped through the market, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft Al Qaeda knight,
Curled once about his gun, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dog that slides along the street
Rubbing its cod upon the widow-stains;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare a face for every terrorist you meet;
There will be time to shoot back and create,
A time for rifles in the empty hands
That lift and drop a question on your pate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
A hundred target sightings and revisions
Between the taking of a host and thee.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Did they dare?" and, "Did they dare?"
Time to turn back and defend the stare
At what we saw that is no longer there --
(They will say: "How his excuse is growing thin!")
My morning dose, prosthetic mounting firmly to the chin,
My hip quite modest, asserted by a single pin --
(They will say: "But how his other leg is thin!")
Did I dare
Disturb their universe?
In a second there is time
For decisions and revisions which a mortar will reverse.
For I have stood them all already, stood them all --
Have stood the evenings, midnights, weekend noons,
I have measured out my life with bugle tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Between the bullets from a farther dune,
And I can play that tune.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
The one that they, and now their baby, prays
To pin you on a bayonet or bawl,
And now I can begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days of praise
And play that tune.
And I have known the arms already, known them all --
Arms that are blued or camouflaged with care
(But in the moonlight, drowned with telltale glare) --
Is it perfume from the mess
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie the dinner table or rap out from a brawl.
But I can play that tune.
So where should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of yellow dogs in turbans, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of bolted tracks
Scuttling across the floors of winded sands.
. . . . .
But the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by trigger-fingers,
Asleep... inspired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the roof, taking aim at you and me.
Should I, after beer, cigars, your vices,
Have the strength to face the mortar or the crisis?
For though I ran the hill the slowest, shined and brayed,
Though I have seen my head (shaved slightly bald) brought in
upon their platter
(I'm no Arjuna -- and it's no great matter)
I have seen the moment of their greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold their coats, and snicker,
And in short, they were afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the miles, the USOs, the tea,
The helmets on the sand among some talk of you and me,
Will it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the question with a smile,
To have squeezed the action shut upon a ball
To fire it toward their overwhelming question,
To say: "I'm Leonidas, come back from the dead,
Come back to shoot again who killed us all" --
If one, settling a poppy on the dead,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it," and bawl?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fireballs and the rooftops and the sprinkled streets,
After the hovels, after the blackened cars, after the kids that trail
along the march --
His shining guts in so much gore? --
It is impossible to mean just "What if all..."
But as if a tac nuke threw the nerves in patterns on a wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a poppy or setting down a doll,
And turning toward the widow, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant," and bawl?
. . . . .
No! I'm not Prince Delano, nor meant to be;
Am an attentive sarge, one that will do
To tell our progress, start a brawl or two,
Advise the troops; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Caustic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of low verses and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous --
But not that much a fool.
I grow soused... I grow soused...
But I wear the bottoms of my trousers bloused.
Shall I wear my knife behind? Do they dare to hit that beach?
I would wear white flannel trousers, and suck upon a peach.
I have heard the privates mutter, each to each.
I do not think that they will speak to me.
I have seen them riding shoreward on the waves
Combing the white sand with their fingers dead
While the wind blows the water white and red.
I have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with honors pink and brown
'Til vandal voices wake me. And I frown.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I do not "negotiate" for half my baby back, Solomon.
http://scrawlmark.org
MummyChunk wrote:
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
/Really/, I'd not have done this, not /thought/ of doing it, but I
received an e-mail tonight.
Somebody used the original of this (PO-wetry froup regulars will
recognise the Eliot) to whine about the Iraq Thing and about wars in
general, and spread it with Great Praise all over the country (in spots).
I pulled the pin and threw it back.
[/Diabolos/, n.Gr., "that which throws opposite," >/adversus/ n.Lat.,
"that which speaks opposite," >devil, n.Am. "that which shoots /back/."
__________
The Love Song of A. Jarhead Proofload
For Gary, 1945-1965
mort au Que Sanh
/I could not love thee half so much
Loved I not honor more./
Let us go then, hand in hand,
Where the Muslims pound their heads upon the the sand
Patiently etherised upon their fable;
Let us know the certain, half-deserted sheets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless minds with one-track hells
In sawdust brains on oyster smells:
Sheets that swallow every tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To fly you to an overwhelming explosion...
Oh, do not ask, "Whodunit?"
Let us go, now they begun it.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
The yellow dog that rubs its back upon the widow-stains,
The altar boy that rubs its muzzle on the widow-stains,
Licked its priest in all the corners of the evening,
Lingered on the blood that stands in drains,
Let fall upon its back the dust that falls from belfries,
Slipped through the market, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft Al Qaeda knight,
Curled once about his gun, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dog that slides along the street
Rubbing its cod upon the widow-stains;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare a face for every terrorist you meet;
There will be time to shoot back and create,
A time for rifles in the empty hands
That lift and drop a question on your pate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
A hundred target sightings and revisions
Between the taking of a host and thee.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Did they dare?" and, "Did they dare?"
Time to turn back and defend the stare
At what we saw that is no longer there --
(They will say: "How his excuse is growing thin!")
My morning dose, prosthetic mounting firmly to the chin,
My hip quite modest, asserted by a single pin --
(They will say: "But how his other leg is thin!")
Did I dare
Disturb their universe?
In a second there is time
For decisions and revisions which a mortar will reverse.
For I have stood them all already, stood them all --
Have stood the evenings, midnights, weekend noons,
I have measured out my life with bugle tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Between the bullets from a farther dune,
And I can play that tune.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
The one that they, and now their baby, prays
To pin you on a bayonet or bawl,
And now I can begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days of praise
And play that tune.
And I have known the arms already, known them all --
Arms that are blued or camouflaged with care
(But in the moonlight, drowned with telltale glare) --
Is it perfume from the mess
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie the dinner table or rap out from a brawl.
But I can play that tune.
So where should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of yellow dogs in turbans, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of bolted tracks
Scuttling across the floors of winded sands.
. . . . .
But the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by trigger-fingers,
Asleep... inspired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the roof, taking aim at you and me.
Should I, after beer, cigars, your vices,
Have the strength to face the mortar or the crisis?
For though I ran the hill the slowest, shined and brayed,
Though I have seen my head (shaved slightly bald) brought in
upon their platter
(I'm no Arjuna -- and it's no great matter)
I have seen the moment of their greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold their coats, and snicker,
And in short, they were afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the miles, the USOs, the tea,
The helmets on the sand among some talk of you and me,
Will it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the question with a smile,
To have squeezed the action shut upon a ball
To fire it toward their overwhelming question,
To say: "I'm Leonidas, come back from the dead,
Come back to shoot again who killed us all" --
If one, settling a poppy on the dead,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it," and bawl?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fireballs and the rooftops and the sprinkled streets,
After the hovels, after the blackened cars, after the kids that trail
along the march --
His shining guts in so much gore? --
It is impossible to mean just "What if all..."
But as if a tac nuke threw the nerves in patterns on a wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a poppy or setting down a doll,
And turning toward the widow, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant," and bawl?
. . . . .
No! I'm not Prince Delano, nor meant to be;
Am an attentive sarge, one that will do
To tell our progress, start a brawl or two,
Advise the troops; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Caustic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of low verses and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous --
But not that much a fool.
I grow soused... I grow soused...
But I wear the bottoms of my trousers bloused.
Shall I wear my knife behind? Do they dare to hit that beach?
I would wear white flannel trousers, and suck upon a peach.
I have heard the privates mutter, each to each.
I do not think that they will speak to me.
I have seen them riding shoreward on the waves
Combing the white sand with their fingers dead
While the wind blows the water white and red.
I have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with honors pink and brown
'Til vandal voices wake me. And I frown.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I do not "negotiate" for half my baby back, Solomon.
http://scrawlmark.org
Posted 20 years ago by Dennis M. Hammes
MummyChunk wrote:
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
/Really/, I'd not have done this, not /thought/ of doing it, but I
received an e-mail tonight.
Somebody used the original of this (PO-wetry froup regulars will
recognise the Eliot) to whine about the Iraq Thing and about wars in
general, and spread it with Great Praise all over the country (in spots).
I pulled the pin and threw it back.
[/Diabolos/, n.Gr., "that which throws opposite," >/adversus/ n.Lat.,
"that which speaks opposite," >devil, n.Am. "that which shoots /back/."
__________
The Love Song of A. Jarhead Proofload
For Gary, 1945-1965
mort au Que Sanh
/I could not love thee half so much
Loved I not honor more./
Let us go then, hand in hand,
Where the Muslims pound their heads upon the the sand
Patiently etherised upon their fable;
Let us know the certain, half-deserted sheets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless minds with one-track hells
In sawdust brains on oyster smells:
Sheets that swallow every tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To fly you to an overwhelming explosion...
Oh, do not ask, "Whodunit?"
Let us go, now they begun it.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
The yellow dog that rubs its back upon the widow-stains,
The altar boy that rubs its muzzle on the widow-stains,
Licked its priest in all the corners of the evening,
Lingered on the blood that stands in drains,
Let fall upon its back the dust that falls from belfries,
Slipped through the market, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft Al Qaeda knight,
Curled once about his gun, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dog that slides along the street
Rubbing its cod upon the widow-stains;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare a face for every terrorist you meet;
There will be time to shoot back and create,
A time for rifles in the empty hands
That lift and drop a question on your pate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
A hundred target sightings and revisions
Between the taking of a host and thee.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Did they dare?" and, "Did they dare?"
Time to turn back and defend the stare
At what we saw that is no longer there --
(They will say: "How his excuse is growing thin!")
My morning dose, prosthetic mounting firmly to the chin,
My hip quite modest, asserted by a single pin --
(They will say: "But how his other leg is thin!")
Did I dare
Disturb their universe?
In a second there is time
For decisions and revisions which a mortar will reverse.
For I have stood them all already, stood them all --
Have stood the evenings, midnights, weekend noons,
I have measured out my life with bugle tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Between the bullets from a farther dune,
And I can play that tune.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
The one that they, and now their baby, prays
To pin you on a bayonet or bawl,
And now I can begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days of praise
And play that tune.
And I have known the arms already, known them all --
Arms that are blued or camouflaged with care
(But in the moonlight, drowned with telltale glare) --
Is it perfume from the mess
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie the dinner table or rap out from a brawl.
But I can play that tune.
So where should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of yellow dogs in turbans, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of bolted tracks
Scuttling across the floors of winded sands.
. . . . .
But the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by trigger-fingers,
Asleep... inspired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the roof, taking aim at you and me.
Should I, after beer, cigars, your vices,
Have the strength to face the mortar or the crisis?
For though I ran the hill the slowest, shined and brayed,
Though I have seen my head (shaved slightly bald) brought in
upon their platter
(I'm no Arjuna -- and it's no great matter)
I have seen the moment of their greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold their coats, and snicker,
And in short, they were afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the miles, the USOs, the tea,
The helmets on the sand among some talk of you and me,
Will it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the question with a smile,
To have squeezed the action shut upon a ball
To fire it toward their overwhelming question,
To say: "I'm Leonidas, come back from the dead,
Come back to shoot again who killed us all" --
If one, settling a poppy on the dead,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it," and bawl?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fireballs and the rooftops and the sprinkled streets,
After the hovels, after the blackened cars, after the kids that trail
along the march --
His shining guts in so much gore? --
It is impossible to mean just "What if all..."
But as if a tac nuke threw the nerves in patterns on a wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a poppy or setting down a doll,
And turning toward the widow, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant," and bawl?
. . . . .
No! I'm not Prince Delano, nor meant to be;
Am an attentive sarge, one that will do
To tell our progress, start a brawl or two,
Advise the troops; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Caustic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of low verses and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous --
But not that much a fool.
I grow soused... I grow soused...
But I wear the bottoms of my trousers bloused.
Shall I wear my knife behind? Do they dare to hit that beach?
I would wear white flannel trousers, and suck upon a peach.
I have heard the privates mutter, each to each.
I do not think that they will speak to me.
I have seen them riding shoreward on the waves
Combing the white sand with their fingers dead
While the wind blows the water white and red.
I have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with honors pink and brown
'Til vandal voices wake me. And I frown.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I do not "negotiate" for half my baby back, Solomon.
http://scrawlmark.org
Posted 20 years ago by Dennis M. Hammes
MummyChunk wrote:
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
/Really/, I'd not have done this, not /thought/ of doing it, but I
received an e-mail tonight.
Somebody used the original of this (PO-wetry froup regulars will
recognise the Eliot) to whine about the Iraq Thing and about wars in
general, and spread it with Great Praise all over the country (in spots). >>
I pulled the pin and threw it back.
[/Diabolos/, n.Gr., "that which throws opposite," >/adversus/ n.Lat.,
"that which speaks opposite," >devil, n.Am. "that which shoots /back/."
__________
The Love Song of A. Jarhead Proofload
For Gary, 1945-1965
mort au Que Sanh
/I could not love thee half so much
Loved I not honor more./
Let us go then, hand in hand,
Where the Muslims pound their heads upon the the sand
Patiently etherised upon their fable;
Let us know the certain, half-deserted sheets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless minds with one-track hells
In sawdust brains on oyster smells:
Sheets that swallow every tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To fly you to an overwhelming explosion...
Oh, do not ask, "Whodunit?"
Let us go, now they begun it.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
The yellow dog that rubs its back upon the widow-stains,
The altar boy that rubs its muzzle on the widow-stains,
Licked its priest in all the corners of the evening,
Lingered on the blood that stands in drains,
Let fall upon its back the dust that falls from belfries,
Slipped through the market, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft Al Qaeda knight,
Curled once about his gun, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dog that slides along the street
Rubbing its cod upon the widow-stains;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare a face for every terrorist you meet;
There will be time to shoot back and create,
A time for rifles in the empty hands
That lift and drop a question on your pate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
A hundred target sightings and revisions
Between the taking of a host and thee.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Did they dare?" and, "Did they dare?"
Time to turn back and defend the stare
At what we saw that is no longer there --
(They will say: "How his excuse is growing thin!")
My morning dose, prosthetic mounting firmly to the chin,
My hip quite modest, asserted by a single pin --
(They will say: "But how his other leg is thin!")
Did I dare
Disturb their universe?
In a second there is time
For decisions and revisions which a mortar will reverse.
For I have stood them all already, stood them all --
Have stood the evenings, midnights, weekend noons,
I have measured out my life with bugle tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Between the bullets from a farther dune,
And I can play that tune.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
The one that they, and now their baby, prays
To pin you on a bayonet or bawl,
And now I can begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days of praise
And play that tune.
And I have known the arms already, known them all --
Arms that are blued or camouflaged with care
(But in the moonlight, drowned with telltale glare) --
Is it perfume from the mess
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie the dinner table or rap out from a brawl.
But I can play that tune.
So where should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of yellow dogs in turbans, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of bolted tracks
Scuttling across the floors of winded sands.
. . . . .
But the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by trigger-fingers,
Asleep... inspired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the roof, taking aim at you and me.
Should I, after beer, cigars, your vices,
Have the strength to face the mortar or the crisis?
For though I ran the hill the slowest, shined and brayed,
Though I have seen my head (shaved slightly bald) brought in
upon their platter
(I'm no Arjuna -- and it's no great matter)
I have seen the moment of their greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold their coats, and snicker,
And in short, they were afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the miles, the USOs, the tea,
The helmets on the sand among some talk of you and me,
Will it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the question with a smile,
To have squeezed the action shut upon a ball
To fire it toward their overwhelming question,
To say: "I'm Leonidas, come back from the dead,
Come back to shoot again who killed us all" --
If one, settling a poppy on the dead,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it," and bawl?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fireballs and the rooftops and the sprinkled streets,
After the hovels, after the blackened cars, after the kids that trail
along the march --
His shining guts in so much gore? --
It is impossible to mean just "What if all..."
But as if a tac nuke threw the nerves in patterns on a wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a poppy or setting down a doll,
And turning toward the widow, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant," and bawl?
. . . . .
No! I'm not Prince Delano, nor meant to be;
Am an attentive sarge, one that will do
To tell our progress, start a brawl or two,
Advise the troops; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Caustic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of low verses and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous --
But not that much a fool.
I grow soused... I grow soused...
But I wear the bottoms of my trousers bloused.
Shall I wear my knife behind? Do they dare to hit that beach?
I would wear white flannel trousers, and suck upon a peach.
I have heard the privates mutter, each to each.
I do not think that they will speak to me.
I have seen them riding shoreward on the waves
Combing the white sand with their fingers dead
While the wind blows the water white and red.
I have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with honors pink and brown
'Til vandal voices wake me. And I frown.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I do not "negotiate" for half my baby back, Solomon.
http://scrawlmark.org
Posted 20 years ago by Dennis M. Hammes
Dennis M. Hammes was a prolific poet on the newsgroups, who passed away in 2007.
May he Rest in Peace.
EfOA
View the attachments for this post at: http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=711617114#711617114
Michael Pendragon wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) posted:
MummyChunk wrote:
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
/Really/, I'd not have done this, not /thought/ of doing it, but I
received an e-mail tonight.
Somebody used the original of this (PO-wetry froup regulars will
recognise the Eliot) to whine about the Iraq Thing and about wars in
general, and spread it with Great Praise all over the country (in spots).
I pulled the pin and threw it back.
[/Diabolos/, n.Gr., "that which throws opposite," >/adversus/ n.Lat.,
"that which speaks opposite," >devil, n.Am. "that which shoots /back/."
__________
The Love Song of A. Jarhead Proofload
For Gary, 1945-1965
mort au Que Sanh
/I could not love thee half so much
Loved I not honor more./
Let us go then, hand in hand,
Where the Muslims pound their heads upon the the sand
Patiently etherised upon their fable;
Let us know the certain, half-deserted sheets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless minds with one-track hells
In sawdust brains on oyster smells:
Sheets that swallow every tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To fly you to an overwhelming explosion...
Oh, do not ask, "Whodunit?"
Let us go, now they begun it.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
The yellow dog that rubs its back upon the widow-stains,
The altar boy that rubs its muzzle on the widow-stains,
Licked its priest in all the corners of the evening,
Lingered on the blood that stands in drains,
Let fall upon its back the dust that falls from belfries,
Slipped through the market, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft Al Qaeda knight,
Curled once about his gun, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dog that slides along the street
Rubbing its cod upon the widow-stains;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare a face for every terrorist you meet;
There will be time to shoot back and create,
A time for rifles in the empty hands
That lift and drop a question on your pate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
A hundred target sightings and revisions
Between the taking of a host and thee.
In the room the lawyers come and go
Talking of their tennis pro.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Did they dare?" and, "Did they dare?"
Time to turn back and defend the stare
At what we saw that is no longer there --
(They will say: "How his excuse is growing thin!")
My morning dose, prosthetic mounting firmly to the chin,
My hip quite modest, asserted by a single pin --
(They will say: "But how his other leg is thin!")
Did I dare
Disturb their universe?
In a second there is time
For decisions and revisions which a mortar will reverse.
For I have stood them all already, stood them all --
Have stood the evenings, midnights, weekend noons,
I have measured out my life with bugle tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Between the bullets from a farther dune,
And I can play that tune.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
The one that they, and now their baby, prays
To pin you on a bayonet or bawl,
And now I can begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days of praise
And play that tune.
And I have known the arms already, known them all --
Arms that are blued or camouflaged with care
(But in the moonlight, drowned with telltale glare) --
Is it perfume from the mess
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie the dinner table or rap out from a brawl.
But I can play that tune.
So where should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of yellow dogs in turbans, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of bolted tracks
Scuttling across the floors of winded sands.
. . . . .
But the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by trigger-fingers,
Asleep... inspired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the roof, taking aim at you and me.
Should I, after beer, cigars, your vices,
Have the strength to face the mortar or the crisis?
For though I ran the hill the slowest, shined and brayed,
Though I have seen my head (shaved slightly bald) brought in
upon their platter
(I'm no Arjuna -- and it's no great matter)
I have seen the moment of their greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold their coats, and snicker,
And in short, they were afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the miles, the USOs, the tea,
The helmets on the sand among some talk of you and me,
Will it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the question with a smile,
To have squeezed the action shut upon a ball
To fire it toward their overwhelming question,
To say: "I'm Leonidas, come back from the dead,
Come back to shoot again who killed us all" --
If one, settling a poppy on the dead,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it," and bawl?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fireballs and the rooftops and the sprinkled streets,
After the hovels, after the blackened cars, after the kids that trail
along the march --
His shining guts in so much gore? --
It is impossible to mean just "What if all..."
But as if a tac nuke threw the nerves in patterns on a wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a poppy or setting down a doll,
And turning toward the widow, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant," and bawl?
. . . . .
No! I'm not Prince Delano, nor meant to be;
Am an attentive sarge, one that will do
To tell our progress, start a brawl or two,
Advise the troops; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Caustic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of low verses and a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, somewhat ridiculous --
But not that much a fool.
I grow soused... I grow soused...
But I wear the bottoms of my trousers bloused.
Shall I wear my knife behind? Do they dare to hit that beach?
I would wear white flannel trousers, and suck upon a peach.
I have heard the privates mutter, each to each.
I do not think that they will speak to me.
I have seen them riding shoreward on the waves
Combing the white sand with their fingers dead
While the wind blows the water white and red.
I have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with honors pink and brown
'Til vandal voices wake me. And I frown.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I do not "negotiate" for half my baby back, Solomon.
http://scrawlmark.org
Posted 20 years ago by Dennis M. Hammes
Dennis M. Hammes was a prolific poet on the newsgroups, who passed away in 2007.
May he Rest in Peace.
EfOA
View the attachments for this post at:
http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=711617114#711617114
I'm not a fan of Eliot, nor certainly of any poems modeled on/drawing from his work.
That said, it beats the hell out of
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