The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan (64 page)

High School, at various jobs, thru one

semester at Catholic Providence College, then

3 years in the Army, Korea, and return

to College in Tulsa, Oklahoma (1957) right

up to about 1960, no matter where I

was, in what situation, with the exception of

on the football playground, in card games, and at

home, reading, I didn’t

know the language and I didn’t know

the rules; and naturally I didn’t

know what it was I didn’t know, nor,

therefore, what was it I did know, because

I did know
something
. In the

army I began to learn about knowing

the rules, and so about myself and rules.

Back in College, while easing

into knowing the rules & what to do with that,

I evidently had begun
hearing
the language. In

1960, & from then on, I got hit by that special

useful sense that one could, easily, anytime or where,

pick up, & so “know” the language
and
the rules. It

all had to do with Surface, and it didn’t have

to be shallow.

I took that self to New York City, into

poetry, to Art News, into Readings, thru marriage, into

teaching and then into not teaching, and in and out of

small-time crime. Now, there’s a new, further

place, whose name I didn’t quite catch, and, therefore,

whose language & rules I can barely discern as

up ahead
, let alone “what” they might be. It’s

1979. I’m 44.

AFTER PHILIP WHALEN

Lady, why will you insist on

Coming back into my life only when

It’s too late, I’ve just this moment

Ago stepped out the backdoor

Of my body, gone ahead into Relativity,

Am looking down over 300 years

Past, Present & Future of my people,

Whom shall be known hereafter as

The White Mountain. They act like

You are with
them
, each & every

One of the big dumb-bells, & so

They drink and fuck and throw pots

And pick up the children at school

Or Write seventeen poems a week, ad-

Dressing You in the familiar, but I,

I don’t mind at all, now that I’m simply

Air, a large hunk of see-through molecules,

A benevolent smile, & at night a closeness,

Cooling one hemisphere at a time, my bumps

Glittering over & above everyone are perceived

As stars, & friends drink wine far below where

I am grinning & don’t care. I mean, not heavily.

But now you return, and so, I have too,

Into my ashy beard & dusty head, my pink baby’s torso

And you are laughing, and I am once again

Lying in the world, and I’m holding my own, and I’m

Chuckling like Father Christmas to keep from crying.

And it’s all right, my dear, I’m glad you came back. No,

Please stay. Honestly, I’m not dying. Not

For a long time, yet. I’m only just lying.

“it”    means   “this”.

I myself now

“know”

that. so,

“it” is true.

i.e., as a matter of course, all

knowing

being

self-evident:

(knowledge):

“it”   and    “that”,

here & there &

vice-versa

constellate reality.

It made, all systems

“Go”.

Just talk.

I am thinking of my old houses

369 Smith Street & 249 Potters Avenue

and the communicability

of houses—and that a house

can’t be just a home, and I

tore up my oldish poem, “Hello, Goodbye”

and

another even older one, “One View / 1960”

and started on this new one, “Dogtown.”

Now I’m across the street I crossed

when at last I came to it—and

beginning

getting down to it.

FOR LEWIS WARSH

I had a really sad childhood, lived mostly alone,

like everyone else did. Adolescence

Was murder, & weird; but I could dig it.

Manhood was
far out
—and also, during it,

I paid back one hundred times over each & every son-of-a-bitch

male & female, dog, lizard & insect

Who’d fluffed up my lonely sad childhood with Absolute Terror

or whatever it was that eventually grew up to be this blind, seething

Rage, still & always rising up from out those tiny “unforgettable moments”

we are all all of us the cause of, tho Time

Excuses due to mitigating circumstances but

never forgets; and guilt is always freely given,

Freely received, come rain or come shine, or

haven’t you noticed? You will, believe me.

Now old, or at least more often, I spend much

of each day

Contriving these, my dumb born songs, my memoirs. And to no

purpose; rather, quite simply, this is what one

Has been given. I was born in the Bronx, one hot November 9th,

in 1944. Having reached 5 December, 1980, this cold

Saturday afternoon, I’m almost finished reading to the serious

Manhattan hodgepodge of my current fans & friends,

The large aged husbands & the matronly sexpot wives, with

their daughters at my feet & their sons at the breast,

While they guzzle the bourbons & beers that lighten up today.

These are my companions for life, & they love me. But you pay

and you pay and you pay.

FOR STEVE CAREY

Reality is the totality of all things possessing Actuality

Existence, or Essence. Ergo, nowhere one goes

Will one ever be away enough

From wherever one was. The tracks lead uphill.

Power sits heavily for us on those we’ve grown up with.

However,

Uphill tracks usually offer good views, after a while,

While the answer to what’s new is, often, an

Indictment of an intolerable situation.

HOGS SIZE DISTURBS SYCAMORES. BRUINS

DEVOUR MAPLE LEAFS. STEEL CURTAIN FALLS ON HOUSTON.

COWBOY DUO RIDES RAMS INTO SUNSET. Quality tells.

Absolute quality tells absolutely nothing.

FOR GEORGE SCHNEEMAN

I’d like to show you something. Please look at it.

I get blamed for everything that goes wrong. I’m always left holding the bag.

I’m sorry I threw away the notes I took in High School. I should have been nicer to them.

If you’re not sure about how to spell a word, how can you look it up in the dictionary.

Please take these things off my desk. They’re breaking my heart.

If there aren’t enough workers at the factory, production will be fucked up.

He’ll read the speech over before delivering it. He wants to enliven it with mistakes.

He’s a very successful young man. He’s really getting off.

He didn’t tell us the entire truth. He was afraid something smelled.

I found out he was lying by standing around in his background.

The two men wanted to fight, but their friends shouted them down.

Because of rain the game was wet for several hours.

Before the Vice-President can make a decision, he has to lock up the President.

Before handing in your test, check it out for mistakes.

The woman disliked the hotel, so she didn’t pay.

She felt tired, so she went to the doctor for a speed prescription.

She spent her money so fast that now she doesn’t hold it back.

She’s been in a bad mood for days. Why does she get a kick out of it.

I finally told him what I thought of him. I took charge of him.

Jesse James was a famous outlaw, who ran out of banks and trains.

Don’t forget to write to us soon. Look up to us. Take us into account.

That’s really beautiful!
‘thin breast doom.’ How’d
ya ever think of that?
PHILIP WHALEN

I have these great dreams, like

Sailing up on a lift, & then riding a bicycle

Down through a flaming basket. I have the dream at night

& the sailing in the dream is exactly what

I would be doing the next day. “Fuck, I’m never

Going to make my way.” Right. But it’s a beautiful feeling

To outdo your own misjudgements in the air.

That’s what happens to people who died.

It slows things down instead of making them hectic

& frantic. “I’m not going to be careful anymore.”

I can see all my people flow by so slowly. But

I’m still addicted to consciousness, tho I’ve probably

Only been conscious once in the last six years. But

I am conscious, that’s for sure. Plus, Purity.

Purity means that you have something up

Your sleeve besides a right or a left arm. My

Arms are shot but my something is not. Because

It’s something I learned when I was in a state.

I may have been in a state, but it was my state,

I even gave it a name: New York. Most people are in other

York, they aren’t even in Old York yet, let alone York.

If your new light is intact, your vision is in the tunnel

& your decay has got to keep moving when it’s near the abyss

(move your head). The world sucks, & everything is fucked up

But just do your best within without and you try to get along

Because in impure light things are coming apart because

You have something to move toward and you are in a state:

Don’t get rich

Don’t understand through the heart

Don’t strain your music with verbal skill

but when you hear certain counterpoint

Don’t try to fool the fist that’s tightening

right beneath your heart

Don’t lay back, look pretty, & strike a pose

Don’t be a fool; be Showbiz naturally, &

Give everyone a chance to regroup. Use your bag of tricks.

Generosity is easy, that doesn’t mean it’s bad. But

Don’t show up all substance & polish unless you can stop, look,

listen, & then take off

Taking at least one image away. Everyone has a right to be

judged by their best.

Be dumb enough to actually like it. Don’t worry about Nuclear

War. You won’t get killed.

Mistress isn’t used much in poetry these days.

Comrade isn’t used much in poetry these days.

Moxie isn’t used much in poetry these days.

The Spring Monsoons isn’t used much in poetry these days,

which is a shame.

Doubloons isn’t used much in poetry these days.

I’m not blue, I’m just feeling a little bit lonesome for some

love again, isn’t used much in poetry these days.

O Ghost Who walks, Boom-lay, Boom-lay, Boomly, Boom! isn’t used

much in poetry these days.

&, I will gather stars, out of the blue, for you, isn’t used much

in poetry these days.

Now, “I’ve got a guy” isn’t used much in poetry these days

And, “Tweet-tweet!” isn’t used much in poetry these days, at least

not at all in its code meaning, which was, “Eat my Birdie!”

Me & Brother Bill Went Hunting isn’t used much in poetry

these days,

& Uijongbu sure isn’t used much in poetry these days (sigh!).

Oh well, Mary McGinnis isn’t used much in poetry these days,

just like, & I have to say it,

“Brigadoon” isn’t used much in poetry these days.

FOR DOBE CAREY

My Grandfather was a Hasidic scholar,

he had his picture in LIFE Magazine, swaying

slightly from side to side, his voice with its

characteristic quaver gently raised in sing-song pitch,

engaged in high concentration in the now all but lost art

of
pilpul
. Last year

two Swiss scientists coined a new word,
punding
, now the name

for obsessive behavior due to amphetamine abuse. Hah!

The woman, now that I could see her,

was wearing a plain but expensive summer print,

no jewelry, her hair was dark & showed gray,

it was neither short nor long. She was as grand as

Stella Adler, as regal & tough as Bette Davis, a

saltier Mary Worth, all at once or each in turn.

Just what a semi-brokendown 44 year old Private Eye

really needed.

He lived in Cranston, near the city line, next-door to

The Riviera Cafe. She

used to work in Chicago, not in a Department Store. They

are survived beautifully, that unlikely pair, by

their daughter Peg,

an indomitable beauty, who has herself survived

these past 21 years

her own husband, Ed, that enigmatic man,

whose son each passing year makes more clear I am.

Crossing Western Europe on an Eastbound train

I had these half-thoughts & know well they will fade & remain.