Words That Burn

How To Dress Like A Scary Dyke, by Jane Barnes (1943-)

She said, Wear my leather jacket, a looser
sweater.  Take off that lipstick,
don’t fuss with your hair.  Wear
jeans and boots. That ought to do it.

I still had stockings stuffed like
seaweed in packages, and nylon pants
that made my crotch itch
without desire.

I still had black high heels
I bought to make me look all business,
but I couldn’t get to to the business
of not dressing for men.

She told me what they’d like,
those scary dykes.
I took these notes.
Wanted to learn real bad.

The Sorrows of Werther, by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

Werther had a love for Charlotte

such as words could never utter

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

 

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther,

And for all the wealth of Indies,

Would do nothing for to hurt her

 

And he sigh’d and pined and ogled,

And his passion boil’d and bubbled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

 

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person,

Went on cutting bread and butter.

 

NOTE:
Mr Thackeray is much more famous as a novelist, best known for writing the adventures of Becky Sharpe in Vanity Fair. However, this story of young Werther was originally written as a novel by Johan Wolfgang von Goethe.  For another view of The Sorrows of Young Werther, type this address —>http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=228 <—

This will bring you to a cartoon by Kate Beaton about the natural consequences of writing drippy romantic tragedies, specifically the fans that come knocking at your door.  Also Beatniks.  You might also consider actually reading The Sorrows of Young Werther in one of the several English translations.

 

Let the Boat Go…, by Kostes Hatzopoulos (1869-1920)

Let the boat go where it will on the wave,

let the breeze steer rudder and sail.

Spread the wings wide, the earth has no end;

unknown shores are always beautiful.

Life is a dew-drop, a wave, let the breeze

carry the boat where it will, where it knows.

 

Let prairie scenes turn to forests and rocks,

let towers, the smoke of the hunt pass before you.

Whether nature spreads a laughing idyll before you,

or heaven hangs out its thunder or storms,

do not think you can hold the sail fast to the course–

you will anchor with the wave, wherever it wills.

 

Do you yourself now what you want and are seeking?

Have you ever caught what you ahve hunted?

Do you not reap ill for the good that you sow?

Do you not stumble even phrasing a a query?

Is yours the cunning, is yours the ffort

that has led you astray, that has cheated you?

 

Then let the wave break where it will,

let dizziness lead your heart blindly,

and though clouds may gather, though winds may moan,

the sun on some shore must be smiling

and if bitter tears spray your heart,

know that somewhere a hidden joy awaits it.

 

(Trans. by Rae Dalven)

To a Baked Fish, by Carolyn Wells (1862-1942)

Preserve a respectful demeanor

When you are brought into the room;

Don’t stare at the guests while they’re eating

No matter how much they consume.

A Further View, by E. L. (Edward Leslie) Mayo (1904-1979)

There is no giggling in this classroom,

Whispering, shuffling of books and papers, I’m

Alone at my desk in front of empty chairs

Where I have been for almost thirty years,

Though there were times I thought a class attended.

Now, thinking back, I know better, having amended

The earlier, more charitable view:

I know it was myself I talked to.

Now this is very strange, for my discourse

I salted with little jokes (quite mild, of course,)

And simple illustrations (all concrete)

As though a wafted snore from a back seat

Had warned me people here with grades to get

Must stay awake for twenty minutes yet.

And so I have arrived by fits and starts

At a philosophy of style — of sorts.

It adds to this: But never, never

Say simply what you really feel;  be clever:

Use indirection and make crystal clear

hat you don’t mean to people who aren’t there.

Girl at Sixteen with Lightning, by Gilbert Sorrentino (1929-2006)

The flash of lightning and we see enameled

sitting in a chair her knees together

Joanna Fulmine from Academy St. Clare

shy and perfect in her uniform

 

O the despair of adolescent boys is mammoth

can she know they worship her in navy blue

they saute themselves in blasphemy in envy

of enameled Jesus at her dazzling throat

 

The austerities of Latin and geometry

have not made her angular or cold

the sound her silk knees make in crossing them

the softness and sweetness of gelato

 

The brief clarity of lightning does her justice

she is cut from blue silk in white light

in the dark untouched by its sudden dazzle

despairing boys implore St. Clare

 

It is her thoughtless grace moons of her fingernails

the body enameled to perfection in its blue

how that serge touches her cool knees

as shyly perfect she pulls down her hem.

 

O the way she holds her ice-cream cone

the way the cream enamels her silk lips

A Ruin, by P. J. (Phillip James) Bailey (1816-1902)

In a cot-studded, fruity, green deep dale,

There grows the ruin of an abbey old;

And on the hillside, cut in rock, behold

A sainted hermit’s cell; so goes the tale.

What of that ruin? There is nothing left

Save one sky-framing window arch, which climbs

Up to its top point, single-stoned, bereft

Of prop or load. And this strange thing sublimes

The scene. For the fair great house, vowed to God,

Is hurled down and unhallowed; and we tread

Over buried graves which have devoured their dead;

While over all springs up the green-lifed sod,

And arch, so light and lofty in its span–

So frail, and yet so lasting–’tis like man.

Sestina for Three Voices, by Rosellen Brown (1939-)

He said, “We do not love by word alone,”

And pulled the silence down around his voice

As though a sound could hurt him.  Since those words

Became their own perverse, inviting promise,

She had to smile: “Then what is left to say

That you will listen to, except a kiss?”

 

He asked, “What thrives on silence like a kiss?”

But she retreated: “When I’m here alone,

I dream your voice.”  (The clock beat on to say

“Now it is real.”) “But that is my own voice,

Reverberating through the room the promise

That you shall come to win me with those words.

 

“Well, you are here.  You haven’t any words

But you have brought me some kind of speech — that kiss.”

The room was swirled in darkness like a promise,

A room in which one should not be alone

With ticking silences and gaping chairs.  But her voice

Untangled shadows, cooled what warmth could say,

 

And froze his fingers to a fist.  “Then say

Those prayers again if you like the sound of words,”

He answered weakly, in a grudging voice

That still preferred conversing in a kiss.

Back to the wall, he watched her stand alone

And dangerous with demands, the promise

 

Of arms as lure.   He sighed: “What shall I promise?”

She had not quite imagined him to say

His line so stumblingly when she alone

Rehearsed then — these simplicities of words

Were faded in their force.  “Upon this kiss,

I swear I love you.” The thinness of his voice!

 

The clock took up his whisper in a voice

Mockingly steady.  Like its own great promise,

It spoke the hour as she received his kiss,

A shadowy bell, whose echo seemed to say,

“I swear I love. I love. I love.”  The words

Were huge.  She said, “Now I am not alone.”

 

The new hour held no promise but to say

This rote of words and leave his way alone.

Shame muted anger: his kiss had lost its voice.

 

The Bell Bird, by Neil Shepard (1951-)

(Matari Bay, New Zealand)

 

I smell lemon everywhere,

lemon-air and lemon-earth and lemon-tees

and long-leafed eucalyptus. When I arrive

at the canyon’s rim and peer down a thousand

 

feet to the dusk-silent canopy of trees,

suddenly the Bell Bird sings.

Its song is almost human, a glissando

across the empty space. It wavers

 

on the edge of sunset, circling

along the rim or far down

in the gloom or far above

in the temperate air — it’s impossible

to tell where the song comes from.

 

In the moment that lasts

until I am done hearing it,

the song goes on, solitary,

varied, with an uncertain refrain.

 

Time begins again when the song ends.

I record it faithfully, whistle

the first few phrases that will compose

themselves into a human tone.

 

They will rise and fall through the staves,

through the plaintive air, the opening

notes whistled by a voice not yet

a voice, a bell rung in the throat

of something that would be wild.

While Watching “Young and Innocent” I Think Of My Mother, by Ira Sadoff (1945-)

Pull down the shades.  Those waifs

and waitresses of the forties movies

remind me of you.  Stood up again!

So where was he now? Out on the town

 

with some hussy while you waited

by the window in your nightgown, smoking

and cursing in that old stuffed chair —

waiting was what you did best.

 

The table was always set for three:

you and me and the father, the angel

of absence.  Did he take off his shoes

at the door, hoping to pass invisible?

 

Was there lipstick on his cheek?

In those days there was theater

in every motion, every emotion.

The handsome man with thinning hair

 

couldn’t keep his hands off women,

could he?  Thank the lord it’s over now.

I want to know: What sight did the window

hold?  A neighbor slamming a door,

 

the filmy blossoms of the pear tree

and its fallen fruit.  Always left alone.

Impossible to take it seriously, to bear

the weight.  Now you’re far away, I conjure

 

this image up.  In the movie, you’re the brunette

stood up under a streetlight, your shadow

etched in fog and smoke.  Light up

another cigarette. Lighten up those memories.

 

The man you wanted won’t be coming home tonight.