Poetry and Images

And what of this world?

What will it become when you leave it?

    Nothing, nothing at all like its present appearance.

- Arthur Rimbaud, from-‘Youth’, trans. Paul Schmidt

Joseph Cornell, Soap Bubble Set, 1936.

In my exile here, I have a stage where I can play

The sweeping tragedies of all literatures.

I will show you unheard of riches. I watch the history

Of the treasures you have found. I can see what will follow!

But my wisdom is as much ignored as chaos.

What is my nonbeing, compared with the stupor which awaits you?

-Arthur Rimbaud, from - ‘Lives’, trans. Paul Schmidt

and to think, after I’m gone,

there will be more days for others, other days,

other nights.

dogs walking, trees shaking in

the wind.

I won’t be leaving much.

Something to read, maybe.

A wild onion in the gutted

road.

Paris in the dark.

-       Charles Bukowski,  ‘A New War’

Duanne Michals - photograph of Joseph Cornell , 1970.

Poem

The eager note on my door said “Call me,   

call when you get in!” so I quickly threw   

a few tangerines into my overnight bag,   

straightened my eyelids and shoulders, and

headed straight for the door. It was autumn   

by the time I got around the corner, oh all

unwilling to be either pertinent or bemused, but   

the leaves were brighter than grass on the sidewalk!

Funny, I thought, that the lights are on this late   

and the hall door open; still up at this hour, a   

champion jai-alai player like himself? Oh fie!   

for shame! What a host, so zealous! And he was

there in the hall, flat on a sheet of blood that

ran down the stairs. I did appreciate it. There are few   

hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest   

only casually invited, and that several months ago.

- Frank O’Hara

Francis Bacon, three studies for a self portrait (1967)

Francis Bacon, Three Studies for a Crucifixion

What is the poet for, if not to scream

himself into a hernia of admiration for all

paradoxical integuments: the kiss, the

bomb, cathedrals and the zeppelin anchored

to the hill of dreams? Oh be not silent

on this distressing holiday whose week

has been a chute of sand down which no

factories or castles tumbled: only my

petulant two-fisted heart. You, dear poet,

who addressed yourself to flowers, Electra,

and photographs on less painful occasions,

must save me from the void's eternal noise.

-       Frank O’Hara, from - ‘Ashes On Saturday Afternoon’

Jan Svankmajer, a still from the film 'The Flat' (1968)

Thing Language

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises

Tougher than anything.

No one listens to poetry. The ocean

Does not mean to be listened to. A drop

Or crash of water. It means

Nothing.

It

Is bread and butter

Pepper and salt. The death

That young men hope for. Aimlessly

It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No

One listens to poetry.

- Jack Spicer

I

For what as easy

For what though small

For what is well

Because between

To you simply

From me I mean.

Who goes with who

The bedclothes say

And I and you

Go kissed away

The data gives

The senses even.

Fate is not late

Nor the ghost houseless

Nor the speech re-written

Nor the tongue listless

Nor the word forgotten

Said at the start

About heart

By heart, for heart.

- W. H. Auden, dated October 1931.

Max Ernst, La Femme de 100 Tetes (collage)