The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (15 page)

turned me back on.

69

What moves me most, I guess

of a sunlit morning

is being alone

with everyone I love

crossing 6th and 1st

at ice-cold 6 a.m.

from where I come home

with two French donuts, Pepsi and

the New York Times.

70

Joy is what I like,

That, and love.

OCT. 1965–JAN. 1966

Dreamy-eyed is how you get

when you need something strong

“in some cup of your own”

The gift of coffee is an act of love

unless it costs you

Love came into my room

I mean my life

the shape of a Tomato

it took over everything

later:

Forgive me, René Magritte

I meant “a rose”

You have a contemporary nature

in these here coffee alps

I dreamt that December 27th, 1965

while sleeping with Linda Schjeldahl

in a dream

FOR CHRISTINA GALLUP

It’s not exciting to have a bar of soap

in your right breast pocket

it’s not boring either

it’s just what’s happening in America, in 1965

If there is no Peace in the world

it’s because there is no Peace

in the minds of men. You’d be surprised, however

at how much difference

a really good cup of coffee & a few pills can make

in your day

I would like to get hold of

the owner’s manual

for a 1965 model “
DREAM
”

(Catalogue number CA-77)

I am far from the unluckiest woman in the world

I am far from a woman

An elephant is tramping in my heart

Alka-Seltzer       Palmolive         Pepsodent          Fab

Chemical New York

There is nothing worse than elephant love

Still, there is some Peace in the world. It is

night. You are asleep. So I must be at peace

The barometer at 29.58 and wandering

But who are you?

For god’s sake, is there anyone out there listening?

If so, Peace.

TO GEORGE SCHNEEMAN

New York’s lovely weather

hurts my forehead

in praise of thee

the? white dead

whose eyes know:

what are they

of the tiny cloud my brain:

The City’s tough red buttons:

O Mars, red, angry planet, candy

bar, with sky on top,

“why, it’s young Leander hurrying to his death”

what? what time is it in New York            in these here alps

City of lovely tender hate

and beauty making beautiful

old rhymes?

I ran away from you

when you needed something strong

then I leand against the toilet bowl (ack)

Malcolm X

I love my brain

it all mine now is

saved not knowing

that &

that (happily)

being that:

“wee kill our selves to propagate our kinde”

John Donne

yes, that’s true

the hair on yr nuts & my

big blood-filled cock are a part in that

too

PART
2

Mister Robert Dylan doesn’t feel well today

That’s bad

This picture doesn’t show that

It’s not bad, too

it’s very ritzy in fact

here I stand I can’t stand

to be thing

I don’t use                       atop

the empire state

building

& so sauntered out that door

That reminds me of the time

I wrote that long piece about a gangster name of “Jr.”

O Harry James! had eyes to wander but lacked tongue to praise

so later peed under his art

paused only to lay a sneeze

on Jack Dempsey

asleep with his favorite Horse

That reminds me of I buzz

on & off Miró pop

in & out a Castro convertible

minute by minute                                                
GENEROSITY
!

Yes now that the seasons totter in their walk

I do a lot of wondering about Life in praise of ladies dead of

& Time plaza(s), Bryant Park by the Public                   eye of brow

Library, Smith Bros. black boxes, Times

Square

Pirogi Houses

with long skinny rivers thru them

they lead the weary away

off! hey!

I’m no sailor

off a ship

at sea      
I’M HERE

& “The living is easy”

It’s
“HIGH TIME”

& I’m in shapes

of shadow, they

certainly can warm, can’t they?

Have you ever seen one?                                   
NO
!

of those long skinny Rivers

So well hung, in New York City

NO
!         in fact

I’m the Wonderer

& as yr train goes by                       forgive me, René!                 ‘just oncet’

I woke up in Heaven

He woke, and wondered more; how many angels

on this train huh?             snore

for there she lay

on sheets that mock lust              done that 7 times

been caught

and brought back

to a peach nobody.

To Continue:

Ron Padgett & Ted Berrigan

hates yr brain

my dears

amidst the many other little buzzes

& like, Today, as Ron Padgett might say

is

“A tub of vodka”

“in the morning”

she might reply

and that keeps it up

past icy poles

where angels beg fr doom then zip

ping in-and-out, joining the army

wondering about Life

by the Public Library of

Life

No Greater Thrill!

(I wonder)

Now that the earth is changing I wonder what time it’s getting to be

sitting on this New York Times Square

that actually very ritzy, Lauren        it’s made of yellow wood or

I don’t know something           maybe

This man was my                           it’s been fluffed up

friend

He had a sense for the

vast                                   doesn’t he?

Awake my Angel! give thyself

to the lovely hours          Don’t cheat

The victory is not always to the sweet.

I mean that.

Now this picture is pretty good here

Though it once got demerits from the lunatic Arthur Cravan

He wasn’t feeling good that day

Maybe because he had nothing on

paint-wise I mean

PART
3

I wrote that

about what is

this empty room                   without a heart

now in three parts

a white flower

came home wet & drunk             2 Pepsis

and smashed my fist thru her window

in the nude

As the hand zips you see

Old Masters, you can see

well hung in New York                 they grow fast here

Conflicting, yet purposeful

yet with outcry vain!

PART
4

Praising, that’s it!

you string a sonnet around yr fat gut

and falling on your knees

you invent the shoe

for a horse. It brings you luck

while sleeping

“You have it seems a workshop nature”

Have you                                      “Good Lord!”

Some folks is wood

seen them?                                           Ron Padgett wd say

amidst the many other little buzzes

past the neon on & off

night & day        
STEAK SANDWICH

Have you ever tried one Anne?           
SURE
!

“I wonder what time ‘its’?”

as I sit on this new Doctor

NO
     I only look at buildings they’re in

as you and he, I mean he & you & I buzz past

in yellow ties   I call that gold

THE HOTEL BUCKINGHAM

(facade) is black, and taller than last time

is looming over lunch     naked     high time     poem        & I, equal in

perfection & desire

is looming        two eyes       over coffee-cup (white) nature

and man:        both hell on poetry.

Art is art and life is

“A monograph on Infidelity”

Oh. Forgive me stench of sandwich

O pneumonia in American Poetry

Do we have time?                        well look at Burroughs

7 times been caught and brought back to Mars

& eaten.

“Art is art & Life

is home,” Fairfield Porter said that

turning himself in

Tonight arrives again in red

some go on     even in Colorado                              on the run

the forests shake

meaning:

coffee            the cheerfulness of this poor

fellow is terrible, hidden in

the fringes of the eyelids

blue mysteries’ (
I
’
M THE SKY
)

The sky is bleeding now

onto 57th Street

of the 20th Century &

HORN
&
HARDART
’
S

Right Here. That’s
PART
5

I’m not some sailor off a ship at sea

I’m the wanderer                                                      (age 4)

& now everyone is dead

sinking bewildered of hand, of foot, of lip

nude, thinking

laughter burnished brighter than hate

goodbye.

André Breton said that

what a shit!

Now he’s gone!

up bubbles all his amorous breath

& Monograph on Infidelity entitled

The Living Dream

I never again played

I dreamt that December 27th, 1965

all in the blazon of sweet beauty’s breast

I mean     “a rose”                Do you understand that?

Do you?

The rock&roll songs of this earth

commingling absolute joy
AND

incontrovertible joy of intelligence

certainly can warm

can’t they?       
YES
!

and they do.

Keeping eternal whisperings around

(Mr. Macadams writes in

the nude: no that’s not

(we want to take the underground        me that: then zips in &

revolution to Harvard!)             out the boring taxis, refusing

to join the army

and yet this girl has             asleep “on the springs”

so much grace              of red
GENEROSITY
)

I wonder!

Were all their praises simply prophecies

of this

the time!           
NO GREATER THRILL

my friends

But I quickly forget them, those other times, for what are they

but parts in the silver lining of the tiny cloud my brain

drifting up into smoke the city’s tough blue top:

I think a picture always

leads you gently to someone else

Don’t you? like when you ask to leave the room

& go to the moon.

what sky

out there is between the ailanthuses

a 17th century prison an aardvark

a photograph of Mussolini and

a personal letter from Isak Dinesen

written after eating

can be succeeded by a calm evaluation

of the “intense inane” that surrounds

him:

it is cool

I am high

and happy

as it turns

on the earth

tangles me

in the air

and between these two passages (from

the long poem ‘Biotherm’) occurs a mediating

line which might stand to characterize

all of Mr. O’Hara’s art:

I am guarding it from mess and message.

TO DICK GALLUP

It’s a great pleasure to

wake “up”

mid-afternoon

2 o’clock

and if thy stomach think not

no matter . . .

because

the living

“it’s easy”

you splash the face &

back of the neck

swig Pepsi

& drape the bent frame in something

“blue for going out”

•    •   •

you might smoke a little pot, even

or take a pill

or two pills

•

(the pleasures of prosperity

tho they are only bonuses

really

and neither necessary nor not)

•

& then:

POOF
!

•    •   •

Puerto-Rican girls are terrific!

you have to smile but you don’t

touch, you haven’t eaten

yet, & you’re too young

to die . . .

•

No, I’m only kidding!

Who on earth would kill

for love? (Who wouldn’t?)

•

Joanne & Jack

will feed you

today

because

Anne & Lewis are

“on the wing” as

but not like

always . . .

•   •

Michael is driving a hard bargain

himself

to San Francisco . . .

•

&

Pete & Linda

& Katie and George,

Emilio, Elio and Paul

have gone to Maine . . .

•   •  •

Everyone, it seems, is somewhere else.

None are lost, tho. At least,

we aren’t!

(
GEM
’
S SPA
: corner of 2nd Avenue &

Saint Mark’s Place)

•

I’m right here

sunlight opening up the sidewalk,

opening up today’s first black&white,

& I’m about to be