Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers. I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me. They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides. Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky. Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. I do not think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen. The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end. The only thing to come now is the sea. From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me, Slapping its phantom laundry in my face. These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt. I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

The old maid in the gable cries all day: Never try to trick me with a kiss. Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis. . The singing birds pack up and fly away. The suave eternal serpents promise bliss To mortal children longing to be gay. The dying man will scoff and scorn at this. Our noble doctor claims the pain is his. Sooner or later something goes amiss. A stone can masquerade where no heart is And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay: Never try to trick me with a kiss. While stricken patients let him have his say. So never try to trick me with a kiss: The dying man will scoff and scorn at this. The dying man will scoff and scorn at this. The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.Never try to trick me with a kiss Never try to trick me with a kiss Pretending that the birds are here to stay.

) God topples from the sky. But I grow old and I forget your name. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head. kissed me quite insane. At least when spring comes they roar back again.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead. hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head. And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck.)" .Mad Girl's Love Song "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red. I fancied you'd return the way you said. (I think I made you up inside my head.

in the infinitesimal light of the stars. . Tonight. And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: Then the trees may touch me for once. lying down. but more startling. And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring. and the flowers have time for me. Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping I must most perfectly resemble them-Thoughts gone dim. but none of them are noticing. I walk among them. It is more natural to me. Then the sky and I are in open conversation. Unknowing I must soon unpetal. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf. Compared with me.I Am Vertical But I would rather be horizontal. Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted. The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors. a tree is immortal And a flower-head not tall.

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions. like classical gods. sticky with dreams. sleeplessness Stretching its fine. blue --How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while. He is immune to pills: red. behind all things. drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives. Are riding to work in rows. as if recently brainwashed. Now the pills are worn-out and silly. or damaged instruments. his white disease. He lives without privacy in a lidless room. alternately stern and tearful. The city is a map of cheerful twitters now. Over and over the old. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good. The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations. like death. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors. and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end. A garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. . with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light. eyes mica-silver and blank. Blueblack. Parental faces on tall stalks. granular movie Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow. peephole after peephole --A bonewhite light. And the sweet. purple. in the granite yard. Nightlong. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. And everywhere people.Insomniac The night is only a sort of carbon paper. invisible cats Have been howling like women. irritating sand in all directions. Already he can feel daylight.

I want to be looking at them when they come Picking among the dumb minerals. star-distance faces. I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit! My mirror is clouding over --A few more breaths. They will wonder if I was important. and a face on it Round as the moon. to stare up. I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes. The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet. they will store my heart Under my feet in a neat parcel. I do not trust the spirit. I shall hardly know myself. It escapes like steam In dreams. Things aren't like that. They will roll me up in bandages. They almost purr. The blue eye of my turquoise will comfort me. their little particular lusters Warmed by much handling. like the first gods. They stay. they are not even babies. I imagine them without fathers or mothers. Let me have my copper cooking pots. One day it won't come back. . Now they are nothing. It will be dark. When the soles of my feet grow cold. let my rouge pots Bloom about me like night flowers. I can't stop it. And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar. the roots. I see them already--the pale. through mouth-hole or eye-hole. and it will reflect nothing at all.Last Words I do not want a plain box. with a good smell.

Monologue at 3 AM Better that every fiber crack and fury make head. than to sit mute. great magnanimous fool. twitching so under prickling stars. thus wrenched from my one kingdom. trains let go. with curse blackening the time goodbyes were said. with stare. blood drenching vivid couch. floor and the snake-figured almanac vouching you are a million green counties from here. carpet. . and I.

Like a diver on a lofty spar of land Atop the flight of stairs I stand.Family Reunion Outside in the street I hear A car door slam. The youngest nephew gives a fretful whine And drools at the reception line. A greasy smack on every cheek From Aunt Elizabeth. The dull drums of my pulses beat Against a silence wearing thin. hear the clash of people meeting --The laughter and the screams of greeting : Fat always. The doorbell rends the noonday heat With copper claws. While rough as splintered wood Across them all Rasps the jarring baritone of Uncle Paul. pleased squeak Of Cousin Jane. The door now opens from within. voices coming near. and out of breath. A second's pause. Incoherent scraps of talk And high heels clicking up the walk. out spinster with The faded eyes And hands like nervous butterflies. A whirlpool leers at me. Oh. I cast off my identity And make the fatal plunge. . There. that's the pink.

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