MY PAPA’S WALTZ

 

I. MY PAPA’S WALTZ

(a) The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy.

(b) We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother’s countenance Could not unfrown itself.

(c) The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle.

(d) You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

II. PICKLE BELT

(a) The fruit rolled by all day. They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep.

(b) Whatever he smelled was good: The fruit and flesh, smells mixed. There beside him she stood,— And he, perplexed;

(c) He, in his shrunken britches, Eyes rimmed with purple dust, Prickling with all the itches Of sixteen-year-old lust.

III. DOLOR

(a) I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils, Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight, All the misery of manila folders and mucilage, Desolation in immaculate public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard, The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher, Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma, Endless duplication of lives and objects. And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions, Finer than flour, alive more dangerous than silica, Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium, Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows, Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

IV. THE LOST SON

1. The Flight

(a) At Woodlawn I heard the dead cry: I was lulled by the slamming of iron, A slow drip over stones, Toads brading wells. All the leaves stuck out their tongues; I shook the softening chalk of my bones.

(b) This way! This way! The wren’s throat shimmered, Either to other, The blossoms sang.

(c) The stones sang, The little ones did, And flowers jumped Like small goats.

(d) A ragged fringe Of daisies waved; I wasn’t alone In a grove of apples.

(e) Far in the wood A nestling sighed; The dew loosened Its morning smells.

(f) I came where the river Ran over stones: My ears knew An early joy.

(g) And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

V. THE WAKING

(a) I strolled across An open field; The sun was out; Heat was happy.

(b) Dogs of the grain Barked and howled, The sun was against me, The moon would not have me.

(c) The weeds whispered, The snakes cried, The cows and briars Said to me: Die.

(d) What a small song. What slow clouds. What dark water. Hath the rain a father? All the caves are iced. Only the snow is here. I’m cold. I’m cold all over. Rub me in father and mother. Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.

(e) What gliding shape Beckoning through halls, Stood poised on the stair, Fell dreamily down?

(f) From the mouths of jugs Perched on many shelves, I saw a substance flowing That cold morning.

(g) Like a slither of eels That watery cheek As my own tongue kissed My lips awake.

(h) Is this the storm’s heart? The ground is unsettling itself. My veins are running nowhere. Do the bones cast out their fires? Is the seed leaving the old bed? These birds are live as bullets. Where, where are the tears of the world? Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher’s palm; Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided. All the windows are burning! What is left of my life?

I. MY PAPA’S WALTZ

(a) The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy.

(b) We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother’s countenance Could not unfrown itself.

(c) The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle.

(d) You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

II. PICKLE BELT

(a) The fruit rolled by all day. They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep.

(b) Whatever he smelled was good: The fruit and flesh, smells mixed. There beside him she stood,— And he, perplexed;

(c) He, in his shrunken britches, Eyes rimmed with purple dust, Prickling with all the itches Of sixteen-year-old lust.

III. DOLOR

(a) I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils, Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight, All the misery of manila folders and mucilage, Desolation in immaculate public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard, The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher, Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma, Endless duplication of lives and objects. And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions, Finer than flour, alive more dangerous than silica, Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium, Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows, Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

IV. THE LOST SON

1. The Flight

(a) At Woodlawn I heard the dead cry: I was lulled by the slamming of iron, A slow drip over stones, Toads brading wells. All the leaves stuck out their tongues; I shook the softening chalk of my bones.

(b) This way! This way! The wren’s throat shimmered, Either to other, The blossoms sang.

(c) The stones sang, The little ones did, And flowers jumped Like small goats.

(d) A ragged fringe Of daisies waved; I wasn’t alone In a grove of apples.

(e) Far in the wood A nestling sighed; The dew loosened Its morning smells.

(f) I came where the river Ran over stones: My ears knew An early joy.

(g) And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

V. THE WAKING

(a) I strolled across An open field; The sun was out; Heat was happy.

(b) Dogs of the grain Barked and howled, The sun was against me, The moon would not have me.

(c) The weeds whispered, The snakes cried, The cows and briars Said to me: Die.

(d) What a small song. What slow clouds. What dark water. Hath the rain a father? All the caves are iced. Only the snow is here. I’m cold. I’m cold all over. Rub me in father and mother. Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.

(e) What gliding shape Beckoning through halls, Stood poised on the stair, Fell dreamily down?

(f) From the mouths of jugs Perched on many shelves, I saw a substance flowing That cold morning.

(g) Like a slither of eels That watery cheek As my own tongue kissed My lips awake.

(h) Is this the storm’s heart? The ground is unsettling itself. My veins are running nowhere. Do the bones cast out their fires? Is the seed leaving the old bed? These birds are live as bullets. Where, where are the tears of the world? Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher’s palm; Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided. All the windows are burning! What is left of my life?

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