TEN POEMS

MITRAIGLIATRICEThe mills of the gods grind slowly;But this millChatters in mechanical staccato.Ugly short infantry of the mind,Advancing over difficult terrain,Make this CoronaTheir mitrailleuse.

The mills of the gods grind slowly;But this millChatters in mechanical staccato.Ugly short infantry of the mind,Advancing over difficult terrain,Make this CoronaTheir mitrailleuse.

The mills of the gods grind slowly;

But this mill

Chatters in mechanical staccato.

Ugly short infantry of the mind,

Advancing over difficult terrain,

Make this Corona

Their mitrailleuse.

OKLAHOMAAll of the Indians are dead(a good Indian is a dead Indian)Or riding in motor cars—(the oil lands, you know, they’re all rich)Smoke smarts my eyes,Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dungSmoke grey in the teepee—(or is it myopic trachoma)The prairies are long,The moon rises,PoniesDrag at their pickets.The grass has gone brown in the summer—(or is it the hay crop failing)Pull an arrow out:If you break itThe wound closes.Salt is good tooAnd wood ashes.Pounding it throbs in the night—(or is it the gonorrhea)

All of the Indians are dead(a good Indian is a dead Indian)Or riding in motor cars—(the oil lands, you know, they’re all rich)Smoke smarts my eyes,Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dungSmoke grey in the teepee—(or is it myopic trachoma)The prairies are long,The moon rises,PoniesDrag at their pickets.The grass has gone brown in the summer—(or is it the hay crop failing)Pull an arrow out:If you break itThe wound closes.Salt is good tooAnd wood ashes.Pounding it throbs in the night—(or is it the gonorrhea)

All of the Indians are dead

(a good Indian is a dead Indian)

Or riding in motor cars—

(the oil lands, you know, they’re all rich)

Smoke smarts my eyes,

Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dung

Smoke grey in the teepee—

(or is it myopic trachoma)

The prairies are long,The moon rises,PoniesDrag at their pickets.The grass has gone brown in the summer—(or is it the hay crop failing)

The prairies are long,

The moon rises,

Ponies

Drag at their pickets.

The grass has gone brown in the summer—

(or is it the hay crop failing)

Pull an arrow out:If you break itThe wound closes.Salt is good tooAnd wood ashes.Pounding it throbs in the night—(or is it the gonorrhea)

Pull an arrow out:

If you break it

The wound closes.

Salt is good too

And wood ashes.

Pounding it throbs in the night—

(or is it the gonorrhea)

OILY WEATHERThe sea desires deep hulls—It swells and rolls.The screw churns a throb—Driving, throbbing, progressing.The sea rolls with loveSurging, caressing,Undulating its great loving belly.The sea is big and old—Throbbing ships scorn it.

The sea desires deep hulls—It swells and rolls.The screw churns a throb—Driving, throbbing, progressing.The sea rolls with loveSurging, caressing,Undulating its great loving belly.The sea is big and old—Throbbing ships scorn it.

The sea desires deep hulls—

It swells and rolls.

The screw churns a throb—

Driving, throbbing, progressing.

The sea rolls with love

Surging, caressing,

Undulating its great loving belly.

The sea is big and old—

Throbbing ships scorn it.

ROOSEVELTWorkingmen believedHe busted trusts,And put his picture in their windows.“What he’d have done in France!”They said.Perhaps he would—He could have diedPerhaps,Though generals rarely die except in bed,As he did finally.And all the legends that he started in his lifeLive on and prosper,Unhampered now by his existence.

Workingmen believedHe busted trusts,And put his picture in their windows.“What he’d have done in France!”They said.Perhaps he would—He could have diedPerhaps,Though generals rarely die except in bed,As he did finally.And all the legends that he started in his lifeLive on and prosper,Unhampered now by his existence.

Workingmen believed

He busted trusts,

And put his picture in their windows.

“What he’d have done in France!”

They said.

Perhaps he would—

He could have died

Perhaps,

Though generals rarely die except in bed,

As he did finally.

And all the legends that he started in his life

Live on and prosper,

Unhampered now by his existence.

CAPTIVESSome came in chainsUnrepentent but tired.Too tired but to stumble.Thinking and hating were finishedThinking and fighting were finishedRetreating and hoping were finished.Cures thus a long campaign,Making death easy.

Some came in chainsUnrepentent but tired.Too tired but to stumble.Thinking and hating were finishedThinking and fighting were finishedRetreating and hoping were finished.Cures thus a long campaign,Making death easy.

Some came in chains

Unrepentent but tired.

Too tired but to stumble.

Thinking and hating were finished

Thinking and fighting were finished

Retreating and hoping were finished.

Cures thus a long campaign,

Making death easy.

CHAMPS D’HONNEURSoldiers never do die well;Crosses mark the places—Wooden crosses where they fell,Stuck above their faces.Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—All the world roars red and black;Soldiers smother in a ditch,Choking through the whole attack.

Soldiers never do die well;Crosses mark the places—Wooden crosses where they fell,Stuck above their faces.Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—All the world roars red and black;Soldiers smother in a ditch,Choking through the whole attack.

Soldiers never do die well;

Crosses mark the places—

Wooden crosses where they fell,

Stuck above their faces.

Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—

All the world roars red and black;

Soldiers smother in a ditch,

Choking through the whole attack.

RIPARTO D’ASSALTODrummed their boots on the camion floor,Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.Sergeants stiff,Corporals sore.Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore—Warm and soft and sleepy whore,Cozy, warm and lovely whore;Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride,Winding road up the Grappa side.Arditi on benches stiff and cold,Pride of their country stiff and cold,Bristly faces, dirty hides—Infantry marches, Arditi rides.Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride—To splintered pines on the Grappa sideAt Asalone, where the truck-load died.

Drummed their boots on the camion floor,Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.Sergeants stiff,Corporals sore.Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore—Warm and soft and sleepy whore,Cozy, warm and lovely whore;Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride,Winding road up the Grappa side.Arditi on benches stiff and cold,Pride of their country stiff and cold,Bristly faces, dirty hides—Infantry marches, Arditi rides.Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride—To splintered pines on the Grappa sideAt Asalone, where the truck-load died.

Drummed their boots on the camion floor,

Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.

Sergeants stiff,

Corporals sore.

Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore—

Warm and soft and sleepy whore,

Cozy, warm and lovely whore;

Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride,

Winding road up the Grappa side.

Arditi on benches stiff and cold,

Pride of their country stiff and cold,

Bristly faces, dirty hides—

Infantry marches, Arditi rides.

Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride—

To splintered pines on the Grappa side

At Asalone, where the truck-load died.

MONTPARNASSEThere are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knowsNo successful suicides.A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)They find a model deadalone in bed and very dead.(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap sudsand stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knowsNo successful suicides.A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)They find a model deadalone in bed and very dead.(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap sudsand stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows

No successful suicides.

A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.

(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)

A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.

(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)

They find a model dead

alone in bed and very dead.

(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)

Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds

and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.

Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.

ALONG WITH YOUTHA porcupine skin,Stiff with bad tanning,It must have ended somewhere.Stuffed horned owlPompousYellow eyed;Chuck-wills-widow on a biassed twigSooted with dust.Piles of old magazines,Drawers of boy’s lettersAnd the line of loveThey must have ended somewhere.Yesterday’s Tribune is goneAlong with youthAnd the canoe that went to pieces on the beachThe year of the big stormWhen the hotel burned downAt Seney, Michigan.

A porcupine skin,Stiff with bad tanning,It must have ended somewhere.Stuffed horned owlPompousYellow eyed;Chuck-wills-widow on a biassed twigSooted with dust.Piles of old magazines,Drawers of boy’s lettersAnd the line of loveThey must have ended somewhere.Yesterday’s Tribune is goneAlong with youthAnd the canoe that went to pieces on the beachThe year of the big stormWhen the hotel burned downAt Seney, Michigan.

A porcupine skin,

Stiff with bad tanning,

It must have ended somewhere.

Stuffed horned owl

Pompous

Yellow eyed;

Chuck-wills-widow on a biassed twig

Sooted with dust.

Piles of old magazines,

Drawers of boy’s letters

And the line of love

They must have ended somewhere.

Yesterday’s Tribune is gone

Along with youth

And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach

The year of the big storm

When the hotel burned down

At Seney, Michigan.

CHAPTER HEADINGFor we have thought the longer thoughtsAnd gone the shorter way.And we have danced to devils’ tunes,Shivering home to pray;To serve one master in the night,Another in the day.

For we have thought the longer thoughtsAnd gone the shorter way.And we have danced to devils’ tunes,Shivering home to pray;To serve one master in the night,Another in the day.

For we have thought the longer thoughts

And gone the shorter way.

And we have danced to devils’ tunes,

Shivering home to pray;

To serve one master in the night,

Another in the day.

PRINTED AT DIJONBYMAURICE DARANTIEREM. CM. XXIII

PRINTED AT DIJON

MAURICE DARANTIERE

M. CM. XXIII

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