These poems, watercolor portraits with words, were written on the occasion of viewing the exhibition The Hand of The Poet: Original Manuscripts by 100 Masters at the New York Public Library in April 1996 & Januray 1997
William Blake I stuck my head in between pages of a poetic spirit engraved a woman in a long robe cries, burying her face in her palms above, an angel angels, or some sort a dream reoccurs not to pull anyone down but to help one breathe a bit lighter
Henry David Thoreau looking at the pencil he made split-half with a granite river running right down the middle I thought of his woods he did not follow his father’s path rather he wrote poems & burnt them all
Ezra Pound it is November 29, 1949 “Respect” is a kind of intelligence the vegetal power that enables cherry stone to make cherry-trees – he explains in order to write “G-d-damned” he uses 2 extra d’s, 2 extra a’s & 4 extra m’s all in capitals something flees downward irregularly when he closes his letter
D.H. Lawrence in a poem titled “Erotic” there is a line (that) says – “I strife a cry of despair” the letter C of Cry curls up as if it were a whirl of passion connected to the cosmos closing a poem titled “Grief ” he signs his given name “Herbert” followed by a devotionally painful explanation (that) says – “Son of Arthur John Lawrence wrote this poem” at the bottom of paper there is the sun, rising or setting with two, a man & a woman bending their heads down
Emily Dickinson her hand writing looks like morse code or short hand by a capable & well-organized secretary. when I examine them more closely, they are like arabic letters written & sent by an oracle who lived secretly alone in the casbah, somewhere, such as, say, Morocco.
William Carlos Williams Dr. Williams glazed his poem of the Red Wheel Barrow with his name, a dignified wisdom & innocence he was very sick then he passed away in less than two months
Walt Whitman there must have been something done by you but I walked through the field in one breath as if I were swimming somewhere full of wavelets of familiar voices I missed you when I realized that I did not see you or your souvenir in the room I felt sinful & melancholic for a short second but I did not get trapped in my emotions instead I walked out of the map proudly & declared my limitless-ness for the first time in my life
John Berryman things do change “I” crossed out becomes “We” “a” & “m” apart from each other get connected & make a proud claim “I am” in the same manner “what we” turns to “Henry’s” that’s how things go – so, anyone who is too alone has a clear right to close the door behind with admiration & ancient affections love, go on & strain naturalness will come later we don’t have much snow this year, I am aware but, don’t wait for it like a fool that’s crazy
Sylvia Plath her smile was too bright it was a danger – I saw in it none & all little & gentle overlapped, circled in her light & killed each other in a memorandum words ripple & echo in some massacred manner apparition appearance awful eight weight “let my leg underlined my book is a dancing rose please, turn the next page!� she pleads
Anne Sexton her mind crosses zig-zaggy all over the field when she tries to let her friends know that she is simply fine I’m not drunk it is this silly type writer – she swears parting from her hands a postcard travels from one place to another with a mystery of Spanish roses & a crucified Jesus stamped
Delmore Schwartz as he settled words down on a sheet of paper their colors changed as he reached the line that said “While History is forgotten” everything flared up in red “God’s bow : Beauty, all its color” he sighed then he looked at the mirror to duel with the self while being seduced so effortlessly by his own sensual lips & their silence later he tried to erase some words from memory with his fingertips but he stopped instead he drew a big even horizontal simple line to describe the end January 22, 1944
Vladimir Nabokov here we are – we are all wrongly shaped butterflies with admirable angel wings flying in Snow River & in Luray how poor & god-like we are following a paramount path to sleep in glassine paper envelopes as paraphernalia with notes attached to explain who we are
Robert Lowell I am happy a cat, a dog, a child – all are with me & I am sitting in a very comfortable chair I am breathing an arrow in & out to insert an accuracy into already existing emotions & to direct waves & lines to cross out a fog masculine feminine are both born out of the same parents if you fall – hurry lay your heart out & swallow a pen & write a poem I advise you in a cordial sympathy
Charles Olson a box within a box time within time out in an after-the-rain light an old man in a small boy stands with his hat on there is a monolith in the house behind him as he gets clearer his handwriting has gotten better it has become almost too good to read that is the reason why he never forgets to start with “my dear� even when he is addressing a letter to an anonymous someone whom he has never met
Robert Creeley when the midday sun shadows a clay wall he calls us he weighs himself on fire for it delights itself in its own form he wears flat shoes with or without his 1st name we know who he is we say hello to him but he shies away & points at the air all around him
Frank O’Hara 8:00 pm 1:00 pm 2:30 pm 5:00 pm not too many appointments before noon he keeps his engagement book very neat in order he is a modern dandy who can spatter “I dunno” in such a way “Love will bring little freedom home” he never stops loving Eros’ aftertaste when the curtain falls he crosses 3 kisses as he departs he rarely forgets to say “Thanx” occasionally when he is all alone he cries “Help! Please look this over!”
Gary Snyder a flute is best heard in a bare wooden open house when it is played by someone with bare feet numbers added multiplied a wrong address is like a floating bear it’s nothing
Jack Kerouac the world is so real that he sketches everything he sees, hears, tastes & thinks in a rainbow tablet in assorted colors what where why in 48th chorus what where why in 2nd chorus “Good men who love have karmas of dove� he proudly heralds the coming of an October sky Justice Tower High Priestess Fool Lovers Devil & Moon
“The world is a primordial mystery. Rest & be kind – Bah!” to end a tragic sonnet he explains why he has to keep his address secret
Allen Ginsberg poetry reading & mantra chanting poetry reading & mantra chanting a father & a son stand next to each other with the door open behind them look how they resemble each other look at the way they keep their hands in pockets in winter-spring air
Kenneth Koch his poet/friend calls him “Kenny” with an exclamation mark followed & “Kenny” answers him with laughter nobody looks as good as Kenny in passport photos – a look of well-plowed earth, serious fun “It’s your poem! do what you want!” he laughs again when a man shines with fun he is a sun a bin, a pun “why soot turns blue??” he asks with 2 question marks
Ted Berrigan Gobble! Gobble! Yak! Yak! in a journal of poetry he points out a poem-machine should be an equal-to-machine not a truth machine a doorway a maple leaf love the sea what am I? what is it? I weep I bend I break I wonder Yak! Yak! that’s enough
Ron Padgett it’s very easy – just follow the map to get to Wallace Stevens’ house from downtown Hartford you get off the train & walk west for approx. 2 mins. take one side of the forked road & go up a few more blocks to find X
James Schuyler he rarely dreams – but this was one of the images he dreamt the other night “even with lightning tearing the desert sky apart surrounded by cactus flowers blooming a woman never forgets to smile to talk to the parrot on her knee.” some vast light filters through vegetation’s veins pouring over his head, shoulders & neck touching the mess accurately scattered all over his room he is alone – but he is totally indifferent to his own solitude
Dylan Thomas a long silent breath after saying “then” then “at last” he adds a school boy’s writing to describe a madman’s drawing when he says “Darling” a cry & a groan make a certain timbre “How is your wonderful city?” “Is your son home?” “Will you write soon?” he is in love with an austere grace, a grave demeanor, chaste & aloof, something similar to the soul of a weather-beaten fisherman if you see him in White Horse Tavern say hello to him he will welcome you easily returning the greeting saying “Yes! Have a drink with me!”
Stanley Kunitz Krills’ eyes are red even in a specimen jar filled with pure alcohol or maybe more so because of the fact that they have become a part of Natural History a choice of tools, pen, pencil, typewriter or felt-tip pen, a poem will breathe its own life if it has one
Adrienne Rich don’t pay attention to my beautiful portrait pay attention to crossed out, stained pages of my poetry notice the title & the meaning of it try to think outside of your framework imagine a winter-landscape if you want but choose the one with no snow remember poison & passion share many letters in common pay further attention to the doorbell ask yourself sometimes “did the messenger arrive?�
W.H. Auden it is very hard to read – he does not complete the forms of the alphabet if you resign yourself to these conditions you will hear a silent piano as you turn pages of a yellowed family photo album
e.e. cummings Dear Edward Estlin thank you for a heart-shaped elephant although an elephant is not my favorite animal I will cherish it for ever