Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems Read Online Free PDF Page A

the killing, healing,
    thrilling thing
    was in nothing resembling a hurry:
    came, just before the cops came,
    and was long gone,
    baby,
    out of
that
park,
    while the cops were writing down Terry’s name.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Well.
    Birds do it.
    Bees endlessly do it.
    Cats leap jungles
    cages and ages
    to keep on doing it
    and even survive
overheated apartments
and canned cat-food
    doing it to each other
    all day long.
It is one of the many forms of love,
    and, even in the cat kingdom,
    of survival:
but Wanda never looked
and Terry didn’t think he was a cat
and he was right about that.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Enter Ziggy, the Zap,
    having taken the rap
    for a friend,
    fearing he was facing the end,
    but very cool about it,
    he thought,
    selling
    what others bought
    (he thought).
    Â Â Â Â Â Â But Wanda had left the bazaar
    tricked by a tricky star.
She knew nothing of distance,
less of light,
the star vanished
and down came night.
    Wanda thought this progression natural.
    Refusing to moan,
    she began to drink
    far too alone
    to dare to think.
    I watch her open door.
    She thinks that she wishes
    to be a whore.
    But whoredom is hard work,
    stinks far too much of the real,
    is as ruthless as a turning wheel,
    and who knows more
    of this
    than I do?
    Oh,
and Ziggy, the Zap,
who took the rap,
raps on
    to his fellow prisoners
    in the cell he never left
    and will never leave.
    You’d best believe
    it’s cold outside.
    Nobody
wants to go where
nothing is everything
and everything adds up
to nothing.
    Better to slide
    into the night
    cling to the memory
    of the shameful rock
    which watched as the shameful act occurred
    yet spoke no warning
    said not a word.
    And who knows more
    of shame, and rocks
,
    than I do?
    Oh,
    and Wanda, the wan,
    will never forgive her sky.
    That’s why the old folks say
    (and who knows better than I?)
    we will understand it
    better
    by and by.
    My Lord.
    I understand it,
    now:
    the why is not the how.
    My Lord,
    Author of the whirlwind,
    and the rainbow,
    Co-author of death,
    giver and taker of breath
    (Yes, every knee must bow),
    I understand it
    now:
    the why is not the how.

Le sporting-club de Monte Carlo (for Lena Horne)
    The lady is a tramp
    a camp
    a lamp
    The lady is a sight
    a might
    a light
    the lady devastated
    an alley or two
    reverberated through the valley
    which leads to me, and you
    the lady is the apple
    of God’s eye:
    He’s cool enough about it
    but He tends to strut a little
    when she passes by
    the lady is a wonder
    daughter of the thunder
    smashing cages
    legislating rages
    with the voice of ages
    singing us through.

Some days (for Paula)
    1
    Some days worry
    some days glad
    some days
    more than make you
    mad.
    Some days,
    some days, more than
    shine:
    when you see what’s coming
    on down the line!
    2
    Some days you say,
    oh, not me never—!
    Some days you say
    bless God forever.
    Some days, you say,
    curse God, and die
    and the day comes when you wrestle
    with that lie.
    Some days tussle
    then some days groan
    and some days
    don’t even leave a bone.
    Some days you hassle
    all alone.
    3
    I don’t know, sister,
    what I’m saying,
    nor do no man,
    if he don’t be praying.
    I know that love is the only answer
    and the tight-rope lover
    the only dancer.
    When the lover come off the rope
    today,
    the net which holds him
    is how we pray,
    and not to God’s unknown,
    but to each other—:
    the falling mortal is our brother!
    4
    Some days leave
    some days grieve
    some days you almost don’t believe.
    Some days believe you,
    some days don’t,
    some days believe you
    and you won’t.
    Some days worry
    some days mad
    some days more than make you
    glad.
    Some days, some days,
    more than shine,
    witnesses,
    coming on down the line!

Conundrum (on my birthday) (for Rico)
    Between holding on,
    and letting go,
    I wonder
    how you know
    the difference.
    It must be something like
    the difference
    between heaven and