Collecte Works Read Online Free PDF Page A

said lying on the ground
    how am I to grow?
     

     
    When do we live again Ann,
    when dirt flies high
    in wheeling time
    and the lights of their eyes see ours.
    For if it's true
    we're the dung of the earth
    and they the flowers
    from stock that's running out
    they need to be planted over.
    They'll never know
    the weeping diff'rence, Ann,
    when the whole world laughs again.
     

     
    Missus Dorra
    came to town
    to buy some silkalene.
    The clerk said Oh
    my dear Mrs. Morra
    is it in style ageen?
    All these years
    I saved and saved
    and saved my silkalene
    and yesterday
    I threw it away—
    how would taffeta be?
    No, taffeta
    cracks from hanging, besides
    it's not being worn.
    Mrs. Porra my dear
    if you're going to be hung
    won't crêpe do as weel?
     

     
    No retiring summer stroke
    nor the dangerous parasol
    on the following sands,
    no earth under fire flood lava forecast,
    not the pop play of tax, borrow or inflate
    but the radiant, tight energy
    boring from within
    communizing fear
    into strike,
    work.
     

     
    To war they kept
                    us going
    but when the garden
                    bloomed
    I let them know
                    my death.
    With time war
                    is splendid
    and the rainbow
                    sword,
    they do not break
                    my rest.
     

     
    Petrou his name was sorrow
    and little did he know
    they called him Tomorrow
    and Today let him go.
     

     
    The eleventh of progressional
    the make-believe of prayer,
    too many dunderoos
    and everybody there.
    If you stay at home
    loving in the light
    you'll always get an answer
    wrong or right.
     

     
    Young girl to marry,
    winds the washing harry.
     

     
    I spent my money
    by the ocean
    and have not any
    to fill a tooth.
     

     
    Trees over the roof
    and I was down
    when the night
    came in.
     

     

New Goose
    Don't shoot the rail!
    Let your grandfather rest!
    Tho he sees your wild eyes
    he's falling asleep,
    his long-billed pipe
    on his red-brown vest.
     

     
    Bombings
    You could go to the Underground's platform
    for a three half-penny tube fare;
    safe vaults of the Bank of England
    you couldn't go there.
    The sheltered slept
    under eiderdown,
    Lady Diana and the Lord himself
    in apartments deep in the ground.
     

     
    Hop press
                   and conveyor for a hearse,
    Newall Carpenter Senior's
                             two patented works.
     
    …
    Kilbourne. Eighteen sixty-eight.
    Twelve hundred women and boys hopped.
    When the market raced down to a dime a pound
    from sixty-five cents, planters who'd staked
    all they had, stopped.
     

     
    Ash woods, willow, close to shore,
    gentle overflow each spring,
    here he lived to be eighty-four
    then left everything.
    Heirs rush in—lay one tree bare
    claiming a birdhouse, leave
    wornout roof hanging there
    nothing underneath.
    If he could come back and see his place
    fought over that he'd held apart
    he'd say: all my life I saved
    now twitter, my heart.
    He owned these woods, every board,
    till he lost his spring and fall;
    if he could say: trees craved for—
    overflow to all.
     

     
    The music, lady,
    you demand—
    the brass
    breaks my hand.
     

     
    For sun and moon and radio
    farmers pay dearly;
    their natural resource: turn
    the world off early.
     

     
    She had tumult of the brain
    and I had rats in the rain
    and she and I and the furlined man
    were out for gain.
     

     
    My coat threadbare
    over and down Capital Hill
    fashions mornings after.
    In this Eternal Category's
    land of rigmarole
    see thru the laughter.
     

     
    Mr. Van Ess bought 14 washcloths?
    Fourteen washrags, Ed Van Ess?
    Must be going to give em
    to the church, I guess.
    He drinks, you know. The day we moved
    he came into the kitchen stewed,
    mixed things up for my sister Grace—
    put the spices in the wrong place.
     

     
    Not feeling well, my wood