Collecte Works

by Lorine Niedecker

  with quadrangular shoots—

  the boots

  of the people

  wet inside: they must swim

  to church thru the floods

  or be taxed—the blossoms

  from the bosoms

  of the leaves

  Fog-thick morning—

  I see only

  where I now walk. I carry

  my clarity

  with me.

  Hear

  where her snow-grave is

  the You

  ah you

  of mourning doves

  Cricket-song—

  What's in The Times—

  your name!

  Fame

  here

  on my doorstep

  —an evening seedy

  quiet thing.

  It rings

  a little.

  Musical Toys

  for a blind child

  Do you see?—

  sharp spires—

  you could be hurt

  by the church.

  Better

  this dog

  tinkling

  three nice

  mice

  blind.

  I fear this war

  will be long and painful

  and who

  pursue

  it

  Van Gogh could see

  twenty-seven varieties

  of black

  in capitalism.

  No matter where you are

  you are alone

  and in danger—well

  to hell

  with it.

  How white the gulls

  in grey weather

  Soon April

  the little

  yellows

  Springtime's wide

  water-

  yield

  but the field

  will return

  White

  among the green pads—

  which

  a dead fish

  or a lily?

  Dusk—

  He's spearing from a boat—

  How slippery is man

  in spring

  when the small fish

  spawn

  Beautiful girl—

  pushes food onto her fork

  with her fingers—

  will throw the switches

  of deadly rockets?

  New-sawed

  clean-smelling house

  sweet cedar pink

  flesh tint

  I love you

  My friend tree

  I sawed you down

  but I must attend

  an older friend

  the sun

  1960–1964

  In Leonardo's light

  we questioned

  the sun does not love

  My hat

  attained

  the weight falls

  I am at rest

  You too

  hold a doctorate

  in Warmth

  You are my friend—

  you bring me peaches

  and the high bush cranberry

  you carry

  my fishpole

  you water my worms

  you patch my boot

  with your mending kit

  nothing in it

  but my hand

  Come In

  Glen Ellyn

  Education, kindness

  live here

  whose dog does not impose

  her long nose

  and barks quietly.

  Serious wags its tail

  —they see us—

  from curtain tie-backs

  no knick-knacks

  between us.

  The men leave the car

  to bring us green-white lilies

  by woods

  These men are our woods

  yet I grieve

  I'm swamp

  as against a large pine-spread—

  his clear No marriage

  no marriage

  friend

  The wild and wavy event

  now chintz at the window

  was revolution…

  Adams

  to Miss Abigail Smith:

  You have faults

  You hang your head down

  like a bulrush

  you read, you write, you think

  but I drink Madeira

  to you

  and you cross your Leggs

  while sitting.

  (Later:)

  How are the children?

  If in danger run to the woods.

  Evergreen o evergreen

  how faithful are your branches

  FLORIDA

  1

  Always north of him

  1 see

  he's close

  to orange, flower

  roseate bird

  soft air

  the state

  I'm in

  2

  Henry James

  St. Augustine

  they overplayed

  its Spanish story

  yet was this romance

  that most solicited

  him

  3

  Cape Canaveral

  Space shot off

  man appears normal

  4

  Flocks

  of headkerchiefs

  the plumed flamingo

  gone

  the vanity of women

  slacked

  My life is hung up

  in the flood

  a wave-blurred

  portrait

  Don't fall in love

  with this face—

  it no longer exists

  in water

  we cannot fish

  Easter

  A robin stood by my porch

  and side-eyed

  raised up

  a worm

  Get a load

  of April's

  fabulous

  frog rattle—

  lowland freight cars

  in the night

  Poet's work

  Grandfather

  advised me:

  Learn a trade

  I learned

  to sit at desk

  and condense

  No layoff

  from this

  condensery

  Property is poverty—

  I've foreclosed.

  I own again

  these walls thin

  as the back

  of my writing tablet.

  And more:

  all who live here—

  card table to eat on,

  broken bed—

  sacrifice for less

  than art.

  Now in one year

  a book published

  and plumbing—

  took a lifetime

  to weep

  a deep

  trickle

  River-marsh-drowse

  and in flood

  moonlight

  gives sight

  of no land.

  They fish, a man

  takes his wife to town

  with his rowboat's 10-horse

  ships his voice

  to the herons.

  Sure they drink

  —full foamy folk—

  till asleep.

  The place is asleep

  on one leg in the weeds.

  Club 26

  Our talk, our books

  riled the shore like bullheads

  at the roots of the luscious

  large water lily

  Then we entered the lily

  built white on a red carpet

  the circular quiet

  cool bar

  glass stems to caress

  We stayed till the stamens trembled

  To foreclose

  or not

  on property

  and prose

  or care a kite

  if the p-p

  be yellow, black

  or white
/>
  To my small

  electric pump

  To sense

  and sound

  this world

  look to

  your snifter

  valve

  take oil

  and hum

  T. E. Lawrence

  How impossible it is

  to be alone

  the one thing humanity

  has never really

  moved towards

  As I paint the street

  I melt the houses

  to point up the turreted cupola

  I make hoopla

  of the low tavern's neon cross—

  very like a cross from here—

  I honor the huge blue distant dome

  valid somehow to the fellow falling high

  Art Center

  Glass

  and wide seaview

  Race that walks

  from there

  you are lovely

  You have seen

  Homemade/Handmade Poems

  Consider at the outset:

  to be thin for thought

  or thick cream blossomy

  Many things are better

  flavored with bacon

  Sweet Life, My love:

  didn't you ever try

  this delicacy—the marrow

  in the bone?

  And don't be afraid

  to pour wine over cabbage

  Ah your face

  but it's whether

  you can keep me warm

  Alcoholic dream

  that ran him

  out from home

  to return

  leaning

  like the house

  in this old part

  of town leaves him

  grieving:

  why

  do I hurt you

  whom I love?

  Your ear

  is cold!—here,

  drink

  To my pres-

  sure pump

  I've been free

  with less

  and clean

  I plumbed for principles

  Now I'm jet-bound

  by faucet shower

  heater valve

  ring seal service

  cost to my little

  humming

  water

  bird

  Laundromat

  Casual, sudsy

  social love

  at the tubs

  After all, ecstasy

  can't be constant

  March

  Bird feeder's

  snow-cap

  sliding

  off

  Something in the water

  like a flower

  will devour

  water

  flower

  Santayana's

  For heaven's sake, dear Cory,

  poetry?—I like somewhat

  the putrid Petrarch

  and the miserable Milton.

  I don't have books,

  don't meet important persons

  only an occasional stray student

  or an old Boston lady.

  If only my friend

  would return

  and remove the leaves

  from my eaves

  troughs

  Frog noise

  suddenly stops

  Listen!

  They turned off

  their lights

  In the transcendence

  of convalescence

  the translation

  of Bash

  …

  I lay down

  with brilliance

  I saw a star whistle

  across the sky

  before dropping off

  To whom

  can I leave

  Audubon's Avocet

  on green sportsman's cloth

  wide oak framed

  above the warm polished

  copper-braced sweet-smelling

  cedar box

  when I must leave

  this flyway

  Margaret Fuller

  She carried books

  and chrysanthemums

  to Boston

  into a cold storm

  Watching dancers on skates

  Ten thousand women

  and I

  the only one

  in boots

  Life's dance:

  they meet

  he holds her leg

  up

  Hospital Kitchen

  Return

  the night women's

  gravy

  to the cleaned

  stove

  Chicory flower

  on campus

  Open-field

  blue-wheeled

  gone by hot noon

  to revolve

  earth-evolved

  mind-city

  Fall

  Early morning corn

  shock quick river

  edge ice crack duck

  talk

  Grasses' dry membranous

  breaks tick-tack tiny

  wind strips

  LZ's

  As you know mind

  aint what attracts me

  nor the wingspread

  of Renaissance man

  but what was sensed

  by them guys

  and their minds still carry

  the sensing

  Letter from Ian

  Aye sure

  a castle on a rock

  in the middle of Edinburgh

  They floodlight it—

  big show up there

  with pipe bands

  and all

  Down here along the road

  open your door

  to a posse of poets

  Some float off on chocolate bars

  and some on drink

  Harmless, happy, soft of heart

  This bottle may breed

  a new race

  no war

  and let birds live

  Myself, I gripped my melting container

  the night I heard the wild

  wet rat, muskrat

  grind his frogs and mice

  the other side of a thin door

  in the flood

  I knew a clean man

  but he was not for me.

  Now I sew green aprons

  over covered seats. He

  wades the muddy water fishing,

  falls in, dries his last pay-check

  in the sun, smooths it out

  in Leaves of Grass. He's

  the one for me.

  Scythe

  Spite

  spit

  loud

  sound:

  where is my scy'?

  Why

  by your nose—

  so close

  a snake

  would've bit

  So he said

  on radio

  I have to fly

  wit Venus arms

  I found fishing

  to Greece

  then back to Univers of Wis

  where they got stront. 90

  to determ if same marble

  as my arms

  I visit

  the graves

  Greatgrandfather

  under wild flowers sons

  sons here now I

  eye

  of us all

  but sonless

  see no

  hop

  clover boy to stop

  before me

  For best work

  you ought to put forth

  some effort

  to stand

  in north woods

  among birch

  The obliteration

  of the world

  his dinner speech

  tonight I beseech

  you

  eat

  the recommended melon

  before the fruit flies

  rise

  from it

  Spring

  stood there

>   all body

  Head

  blown off

  (war)

  showed up

  downstream

  October

  is the head

  of spring

  Birch, sumac

  before

  the blast

  The park

  “a darling walk

  for the mind”

  A sense

  of starlings musing

  on robins

  Green statue—

  Burns!

  near abandoned

  steepled

  railroad station

  lakeshore silence

  glass box mushroom

  with stairway stem

  art museum

  and townward

  the taverns

  Who was Mary Shelley?

  What was her name

  before she married?

  She eloped with this Shelley

  she rode a donkey

  till the donkey had to be carried.

  Mary was Frankenstein's creator

  his yellow eye

  before her husband was to drown

  Created the monster nights

  after Byron, Shelley

  talked the candle down.

  Who was Mary Shelley?

  She read Greek, Italian

  She bore a child

  Who died

  and yet another child

  who died.

  Wild strawberries

  Ruskin's consolation