Reynolds & Midway 70

Telephond in from God, the teacher sd,

Leonard, when talking Beethoven mit Max

@ the piano, talking melody

& harmony—his agile fingers making music

out of the black & white, the on & off,

& that 1st symphony by Rachmaninoff

was gorgeous, inexplicably beautiful—

we switcht around, clickt here & there to list

to this & that, Brahms, Schumann, Mendelssohn,

saving Schubert for a time perceived

like glossolalia in a dream of gardens

where Keats & Severn arm in arm wld join us

in green, red & yellow leaves, for joyous

Bacchanalian revels, seeing him stand tiptoe

upon a little hill and name each flower

he saw & smell the queen's handwaving leaves

of oaks or maples ? willows ? that's never a willow

hearkening back to Monty always Python

in the skullcage rattling round & woody tinny

words & music violins & violence

of scrambling atoms subatomic particles

of Offenbach Rachmaninoff & Rachinoff

& Onandnoff, concerti for the clarinet,

bassoon, french horn & harp & flute & tuba

too. 

      Too much! he says & stands & leaves

the auditorium, there oughta be a

moratorium on woody tinny fluty

music. All this longhair stuff is stuffy as

a new tuxedo, bowtie strangling, how they do it?

bowing sawing tuning breathing piping

blowing!

7.16.16

Reynolds & Midway 69

Must it be us & ampersands? he sd

& swishd & swiveld amid the booted girls

that throngd in leggy thongy fleshiness

& selfie-taking phone distracted clutches

all about him in the ailses of boxes—

goods squared up & shined to draw the eye

that some say came by accident & some

say was designed, like clocks & Swiss wristwatches—

Yes, it must be, by the mustard jars

which minds me of those mustard scansions I

could never grok nor reckon writ by Crane

Not Stephen but the other one, that Hart

who leapt into the sea to still his heart

& made those bridges clearer in our heads

for why & wherefore who knows only Who

wich is to cap the double you to say

we mean the Big Guy (Note the capital G).

in any case we hope that Hart found rest

& also John who jumpt, & Sylvia

who breathd her last to gain euphoria

oblivion or quiddity & Ann

who suckd death from an engine was it, sounds

easy, for I'm not one to cut or dive, I want

a bloodless slipping into being nothing,

or hell or heaven, who knows. Only One

wich is to say not witch nor majik— note

the tres chic ultra-modern spelling—but

One Only, whither wheresoever He

Or She may be has been discussd aforetime

& by much smarter creatures—let it be known

that there is nothing new under the sun

& everything that ever could be done's

been done a thousand times a million x

a trillion, also there is nothing written

that has not heretofore been written better

& brighter than our brightest, list to Pound's

Kung to his pupils in that brilliant canto

or to the horse's mouth, in ancient x

& all around the world was wisdom won

in heads of men & women thinking things

& dreaming, sossd or sober, in their tents

wigwams igloos clayhuts, caves & ditches.

5.10.16

Reynolds & Midway 67

We're almost there he sd, which means to make

Him supple again, wich means to flesh Him out,

Extend? perhaps Baruch would say & take

some soup or toke, for we had heard about

his fancy for a puff & liked his pipe.

It's something in this thing of one & aught,

some ancient, primal, irreducible pip

at the beginning, wich wld be a point.

But could it be that all we have is hope,

the truth of faith, the struggle for a hint

from Him, to whom we pray and raise a roof

and say it's a temple? Now, Midway ain't no saint

sd Reynolds, that's for sure, and if you want proof

just look him over, he's sick & thin & white,

and if there's any smoother, silkier calf

than his, I'm Lincoln's grandfather. That's right,

I says, & let me tell you all about it,

like Tuco, who had felt the rope pull tight,

& as for yr ass, you cld feel the devil bite it!

We're coming closer to the devil's tower

whan the 19 seventees became excited

w visions of alien & other than our

intelligence & machinery, whan dark invaders

walked our skies and workd w unseen power

& used the Force to stump the silly raiders

of Cosmos who had gone to the other side

& dumbly swung for Chaos 'gainst the Creator's

will. This Davies' 9th's no joke, than Midway sd

but hath a certain twang of Richard Strauss

leastways at's how it struck me in the head.

3.15.16

θεωρία iii.

ELOUNTU

ran wither his own heart

to which he listend led,

as one & yet a part,

apart but interbred.

& where he put his foot

was made, yet up to him,

untrammeld, absolute,

as ancient cherubim

that God Himself had made

w purpose point & skill

when also He had sd,

w joy be multiple,

& sd, let there be light—

right, wrong; black, white; day, night.

10215

θεωρία ii.

GENI NOTU

scrambled up the hill   rocks

knees fleckd w earth

shifted one foot   other foot

tunic pushd

at her left hand

when she stood

point to point

a wibble in the gait

slithe? A word. Wobbled

under delicate teardropt

contour prickd   lifted

w/o shame she climbd

bay & silken   safe

watchd

10115

θεωρία i.

AOOUN

In the begining steppt barefoot upon

the green, & was but she a lass alone

& comely, gray, of silver was the lash

& gemmd w black like beads; & in a slush

of dew & grass went wayward, where she was

w wing enclosed who watchd when over us

he made his print, & when he did she watchd

& saw the mark whereon his hand had touchd

but softly, gentle as a swish of wind.
So on she went, in summer violind,

the distance shelterd with its shimmer, brown

bay umber music blent w cinnamon,

& wither went she it is written, dark

on white, eternal emblems of her mark.

92815

Note again

Reynolds & Midway 66 has been reverted to draft for privacy reasons.

Reynolds & Midway 65

I wanted, rekkin, to rite a ditty for Anne C

but baild on at, for whither wld that get me

question mark. Return to Ezraversity,

wherefrom I baild in late teens & late 20s

took up put down took up put down again

for we are monotongued, sd Midway, sitting,

pecking, dreaming. How many tongues had he?

Heard six, heard nine, now how is 1 to no?

O Tower of Babel, mark it well, remember.

It want for nothing men wrote write to left

in them days, patient, learnèd men, not all

'em bronzeage herders: That is ignorance,

stupidity at large, broadcasted loud

in academia, and on social media.

Read, and teach yr young to read, then

read. Don't speak. Shut up. Button yr lip.

Be quiet. Listen. Meditate in silence.

Go find a quiet place, out of the noise,

and listen. Move yr eyes across the page

and keep yr lips closed. In that silence cometh

a knowing, if yr lucky a shewing (sic). O

-pen yr heart and let Him in, O let Him in,

for now it's party time in the Tower of Babel ,

time for inking & another prick,

another bit of metal through the nose,

the tongue, the ear, another barbd eyebrow,

another fuck-you finger, another sneer,

another primal scream. The darkness calls

and we go running. I go too, we all go

down the black & misty spiral stairwell

into the green & purple life from death,

down to King Rat, down the rabbit hole,

again, againe. Apart we are, unWhole,

but fleety flex & ittybitty bits

cast in avoid, like whan we were a childe

not Harold we wld blow the dandelion

hither & thither, yon & over hill

and over dale, and whan we dreamd we saw

the stars come form a wheel and whirl, and we

were Moses was it, w a writhy staff

a serpent, magic, Cassavetes calld

down magic from the sky, a Tempest, Greek,

& w his glasses he sd, show me , tempting

God Who shant be tempted. Unto Julian

He shewed, and He will choose to whom He shows

until then listen, wait, for those who sit

or stand & wait are also serving, sd

Iohannes Milton who was blind & able

to justify the ways of God to man

in order serviceable.

9.11.15

Note

R&M 63 has been reverted to draft for privacy reasons.

Reynolds & Midway 64

& so my ejumacation

    pro seedeth pop eye

sd as oui rose from the

    dirty chambre pot

reeding Pound's usura

    canto no punning memo

he hated that as ewe

    hate Billy Billy charming

fucking Billy dont be a

    fucking hero charming

Billy goats gruff did roughly

    snuff the troll quho

under the bridge did hyde

    & the grass was always

Red Sea parted spaceships

    billows pillars of cloud

jets jetengines? Manna

    machine for desert trekking

sandals so hot hard sun Sol

    so hot blazing water

for my people go my people

    let me allow me O

Lord put words in my

    mouth behind my broken

tooth, a prophecy? a warning

    ? perhaps a recipe

for shitcake? was it, fuel,

    the dung was for the fire

not the mixture? Ezekiel:

    vasty vividly-colord

plazas buildings temples

    striped and colonnades

marquees & tabernacles

    passd and days of future

passed and Yes and closer

    to the Edge O Van der

Whoozitz 'round the Hague

    or thereabouts, anyone

followin' me? get out yr

    pencil nay yr stylus poke

2 find the answer goog 'll

    bing U information

oracle machinery base 8 base

    10 der little lambkins

baaing  bowing down the

    tunnelly bloody abattoir

au revoir & adios amigos down

    we go we go we egos

going going going

    going gone

8.19.15

Reynolds & Midway 62

°

O Lord? For we cannot decide—wait. What?

< that sh*t annoys me, for it's everywhere,

that forum where our fingers flew, elsewhere,

all social media, medium? Once we tried

to learn some Latin, as we did whan young

and poring over Dante: bought a book—

Italian/English dictionary—in

the naive hope we'd learn enough to grok

the lefthand page, but ended up in tears.

^That much is true, God bless my infant spirit,

gifted? but ignorant of that small voice

I heard at all times. < That is also true,

you, reader, ages hence, if ought there be,

so mark it down. ¶ I happen on, in books

I relishd whan in high school, pages bent,

passages marked with this*, or bracketed,

that tell my older & much wiser spirit

that he was listening than, tho' far more oft'

his mind wld wander while his eyes criss-crossd,

likely to girls who struck his boyish fancy,

and thus to secret thoughts we still think up

but won't relate—for what wld be the point—

the point!  as Julian of Norwich sd

was God, and we believe, the Genesis,

the Alpha & Omega: One wee point,

from wich that still small voice. Around it, what?

Nothing. But what is nothing? Nothing naughts

itself, a letterd signal, utterance

so trivial it wastes the time it takes

to speak or write it. < All of that was known

in ancient times, for there is nothing new—

(aha! ) Then, Lord, what would You have us do?°

Repeat in newer fashion, make again

in other form what has been sd & sd

and sd again? Repeat, reiterate,

—the opening of the throat— the primal ॐ ,

the aum of consciousness? No, Midway. Work

is what we're here for, for there's virtue in't,

as Robert may have written: not that Robt

of whom we speak at times whan steepd in sin,

but one that was committed to the Word

in heart & mind, so gifted he cld spin

1,000 lines as we might spin a sonnet;

late-bloomer, who left home at 34,

the lucky son of loving parents. Love,

the message of our Lord, Who knew the Word

and was the Word in flesh, Who walkd the world

and gave us truth in every word He spoke,

Who taught the rich & poor, the young & old,

crippled & kings, lectors & lepers, all

who stoppd and gave an ear. Now listen—

7.30.15

A Conversation Between Robert Browning & Wallace Stevens

A fancy restaurant, circa 1925.

B: Huzzah! My friend, what thinkst thou of my poem

Sordello?

S:          That Sordello of whom, or which,

Pound mentioned in his canto?

B:                                  That's the same.

Zooks, what's the hubbub there? Those waiters swivel

and swerve like dancers in Le Sacre du

Printemps. Hast seen it, Wallace? As a spirit

that lurk'd unseen, my keen unsubtanced eye

partook at—Paris, was it, or Verona?— Grr,

the memory fuddles e'en in afterlife!

S: Stravinsky's? Yes, but let's talk of Sordello.

I read the book, but like Lord Alfred, read

but two lines that seemed lucid, and the rest

mere huff and hum, a hullabaloo of words

put on the page to make poor widows wince

and scholars' fingers rush to dusty tomes

in search of fact and date.

B:                            Mere huff and hum

thou sayst? A hullabaloo of words!

Grr, Stevens, I had thought thee better read

than wincing widows. 'Zounds! that racket! Where's

my wine? But of Sordello, of my book

that critics found unworthy; my poor book

that left bluestockings and great men befuddled!

Zooks! Lizzy understood the thing, and more,

but what is that? The world is none the wiser

albeit a touch less patriarchal.

S:                                Hah!

Sweet Robert, have you found the time to look

at my Comedian as the Letter C?

Of all the scribblers come to Kingdom Come

I fancy you would find it to your taste.

B: What? Did you speak? Hoorah! The wine at last!

But hold, good sir, what's this? I said your best

chianti, in the bottle!  Take the glass

and bring a bottle ;  but make sure, thou knave,

the cork is stuck! If not, I'll have thy hide!

Lo! there he scampers. I'd not have his hide,

poor scamp, for I have yet a heart in me.

S: Forget it, Bob. Now where's that menu? Ah!

B: Zooks!  Look!

S:                  These prices! Ho! Harrumph. Harrumph.

7.30.15

Reynolds & Midway 61

Reynolds & I went walking once

over a hill & field to chance

  upon an ancient tree

so old & broad we couldn't hug,

and there we took a jolly tug

  of tasty Wild-Eye.

We didn't wipe upon a sleeve

  to dry the tacky top,

nor say a single by-your-leave

  but tippd the bottle up.

    The wind blew; our skin thro'

      was bumpd & bitter cold.

    We sippd some, & quipt some,

      like lambs slipt from the fold.

While far away the hills were green,

the trees were few & far between,

  the ground was hard & white;

and in that wide & stony field

long brown & yellow locks reveald

  two young men in plain sight.

And so he put the bottle back

  inside his padded jacket,

and we walked on. My teeth a' clack,

  each fist stufft in its pocket,

    I yelld then, "We're dead men,

      this fuckin' wind will freeze us!"

    But Reynolds laughd, his cheek chaffd,

      "Then say a prayer to Jesus!"

We made it to the winterd wood

wherein the slender birch trees stood

  whose bark was ashen, flaked;

out of the wind we stoppd again,

and, like a twain of tender men

  in whom scant conscience waked,

we opend up the Wild-Eye

  and took a second swallow,

and squinted off into the sky,

  assured a third wld follow.

    The birds yelld, for they held

      in there the honord claim.

    The sun flew; and we, too,

      returnd from whence we came.

7.29.15

Reynolds & Midway 60

     "The nest is full of nothing when the bird has flown." - I.A.

I see kiniggits pricking on the plain,

the crosses on their breasts, the horses' nostrils

steaming, and the stamping clopping hooves

with iron shod, I see the clumps of earth

fly up, and in the distance from a square

cut in the stone I see a rope, a braid

of maidenhair, say chestnut? Lethian,

or some rapunzeled girl, trapped in a cell

twain storeys high, of smooth wood and baroque,

fine carven, swirling stuff, and on the mantles

many vials, vases, polished mirrors,

porphyrian oddments, or of whiter work,

blue filigreed marble, flakier sandstone, veined

we should have said, for he was thinking deltas

deep inlaid, and Pound had come again

with some new brighter stuff, can someone list?

Can someone come along with us, O come

ye blousy spirits, there be avatars

in me and many, may we be possessed

of thee, but soft, for there beyond the door,

beyond the gate, be darkling things that cry

and wait and lie, that gibber in unjoy,

ungainly in ungrace, not far afield

but close and clustered, toady moist and gaunt,

or in an ungallumphing gravid mass—

Then pray upon the Cross, and say, O Christ,

for Thou art with me, I shall fear no evil:

None shall taloned tear me limb from limb,

O Lord, for I have with my rubbing thumb

upon Thy body, narrow on the Cross,

thanked Thee with gratitude, and anxious love,

and unaccosted laid me down to dream.

7.21.15

Reynolds & Midway 59

O let the briddes in tha greenie bours

pip & preen and lolligagging flutter

up & over happie one another

hoppynge beakèd thro' the dais longe hrs

& hrs of ioy; than wettend in them shours

that clap & bang i' th' welkin's darklynge wether

where Artymis, that hath the sea in tether,

silver-sickled ghostly bluely lours

whan even mingles light & dark and bringeth

nighte, who w her sable coverlette,

ouer the sleepynge villages she slingeth

gently, whan that Jewès harpe doth twang

and John of Birmingham dost croonynge sing

of cockerels crying whan the sunne is sette.

O let us run now many marathons

and race ahead to when the letters come

in proper order and the under drum—

its pitter patter in continuance—

remains, but in a subtle variance,

as Keats sd softly: Let it vary some,

her foot be sweetly sandald, nor by thrum

of rote be measured, yet shun violence

that want of fixd attention needs must bring,

the clash and clutter of the lack of Love,

the dearth of passion, and the paucity

of pulsing blood, and that still more dread thing

that kills her, which we shall not speak here of,

but bear in mind, for our posterity.

O let us open up our throats and sing

as Vachel did who thru America's towns

like Bertram, Cino, spoken of by Pound's

poems, troubadouring, minstreling,

cried poetry and did a wonder thing

w pockets full betimes, who made his rounds

as one be-loved by God & Christ Who crowns

w laurel all who sing in gude faith. King,

O Abba, Father, in Gethsemane

whan Jesus kneeld & prayd, and whan he sd

they set Him traps, then floodgates ope in me

and come the tears, here come the tears, this head,

O Lord, too full. Our overrunning cup

we raise to Thee. For aye O lift us up!

7.15-7.16 2015