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245 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1968
If I had a shining head
and people turned to stare at me
in the streetcars;
and I could stretch my body
through the bright water
and keep abreast of fish and water snakes;
if I could ruin my feathers
in flight before the sun;
do you think that I would remain in this room,
reciting poems to you,
and making outrageous dreams
with the smallest movements of your mouth?- These Heroics, pg. 8
* * *
I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.
If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips
it is because I hear a man climb stairs
and clear his throat outside our door.- Poem, pg. 16
A kite is a victim you are sure of.
You love it because it pulls
gentle enough to call you master,
strong enough to call you fool;
because it lives
like a desperate trained falcon
in the high sweet air,
and you can always haul it down
to tame it in your drawer.
A kite is a fish you have already caught
in a pool where no fish come,
so you play him carefully and long,
and hope he won't give up,
or the wind die down.
A kite is the last poem you've written,
so you five it to the wind,
but you don't let it go
until someone finds you
something else to do.
A kite is a contract of glory
that must be made with the sun,
so you make friends with the field
the river and the wind,
then you pray the whole cold night before,
under the travelling cordless moon,
to make you worthy and lyric and pure.- A Kite Is A Victim, pg. 21
* * *
When you kneel below me
and in both your hands
hold my manhood like a sceptre,
When you wrap your tongue
about the amber jewel
and urge the blessing,
I understand those Roman girls
who dances around a shaft of stone
and kissed it till the stone was warm.
Kneel, love, a thousand feet below me,
so far I can barely see your mouth and hands
perform the ceremony,
Kneel till I topple to your back
with a groan, like those gods on the roof
that Samson pulled down.- Celebration, pg. 36
I do not know if the world had lied
I have lied
I do not know i the world has conspired against love
I have conspired against love
The atmosphere of torture is no comfort
I have tortured
Even without the mushroom cloud
still I would have hated
Listen
I would have done the same things
even if there were no death
I will not be held like a drunkard
under the cold tap of facts
I refuse the universal alibi
Like an empty telephone booth passed at night
and remembered
like mirrors in a movie palace lobby consulted
only on the way out
like a nymphomaniac who binds a thousand
into strange brotherhood
I wait
for each one of your to confess- What I'm Doing Here, pg. 43
* * *
The pain-monger came home
from a hard day's torture.
He came home with his tongs.
He put down his black bag.
His wife hit him with an open nerve
and a cry the trade never heard.
He watched her real-life Dachau,
knew his career was ruined.
Was there anything else to do?
He sold his bag and tongs,
went to pieces. A man got to be able
to bring his wife something.- The Failure of a Secular Life, pg. 53
Snow is falling.
There is a nude in my room.
She surveys the wine-coloured carpet.
She is eighteen.
She has straight hair.
She speaks no Montreal language.
She doesn't feel like sitting down.
She shows no gooseflesh.
We can hear the storm.
She is lighting a cigarette
from the gas range.
She hold back her long hair.- Snow Is Falling, pg. 75
* * *
This morning I was dressed by the wind.
The sky said, close your eyes and run
this happy face into a sundrift.
The forest said, never mind, I am as old
as an emerald, walk into me gossiping.
The village said, I am perfect and intricate,
would you like to start right away?
My darling said, I am washing my hair in the water
we caught last year, it tasted of stone.
This morning I was dressed by the wind,
it was the middle of September in 1965.- This Morning I Was Dressed by the Wind, pg. 80
The reason I write
is to make something
as beautiful as you are
When I'm with you
I want to be the kind of hero
I wanted to be
when I was seven years old
a perfect man
who kills- The Reason I Write, pg. 86
* * *
Do not forget old friends
you knew long before I met you
the times I know nothing about
being someone
who lives by himself
and only visits you on a raid- Do Not Forget Old Friends, pg. 91