Mid-Term BreakI sat all morning in the college sick bayCounting bells knelling classes to a close.At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.In the porch I met my father crying ”He had always taken funerals in his stride ”And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pramWhen I came in, and I was embarrassedBy old men standing up to shake my handAnd tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'.Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,Away at school, as my mother held my handIn hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.At ten o'clock the ambulance arrivedWith the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.Next morning I went up into the room. SnowdropsAnd candles soothed the bedside; I saw himFor the first time in six weeks. Paler now,Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot.No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.A four-foot box, a foot for every year.Seamus Heaney

I have a picture of us- there s not many leftfrom my birthdayand it s a bit forcedand a bit awkwardbut it s still you and meI m clearly cheesing - a thousand grins - a thousand memories - both lacking in a little hearti'm keeping whatever s on my minddown long enoughto smileBut you . . . I dunnothere s something too quietin your complexioncontent to cover up the fright - as if you were afraid to speak your mindI keep staring into your eyeslooking for a sign of love, warmthand I ve never been happier to sayI can t find a single trace

friend sent me this:Sam, what do you know ofMy precise length orAny other details of my Love-making parts. Like, c'mon.which is just fantastic.

One For Old SnaggletoothBy Charles BukowskiI know a womanwho keeps buying puzzleschinesepuzzlesblockswirespieces that finally fitinto some order.she works it outmathematicallyshe solves all herpuzzleslives down by the seaputs sugar out for the antsand believesultimatelyin a better world.her hair is whiteshe seldom combs ither teeth are snaggledand she wears loose shapelesscoveralls over a body mostwomen would wish they had.for many years she irritated mewith what I consider hereccentricities -like soaking eggshells in water(to feed the plants so thatthey'd get calcium).but finally when I think of herlifeand compare it to other livesmore dazzling, originaland beautifulI realize that she has hurt fewerpeople than anybody I know(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).she has had some terrible times,times when maybe I should havehelped her morefor she is the mother of my onlychildand we were once great lovers,but she has come throughlike I saidshe has hurt fewer people thananybody I know,and if you look at it like that,well,she has created a better world.she has won.Frances, this poem is foryou.

When you were youngYou were afraidFear beside youWherever you wentA companion AcceptedAnd embracedNow this fearHas grown to inhabit usBecoming normalLetting us thinkWe have the advantageAll distinctions vanish Between master And servant

There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet, In seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, World without end, are drowned. His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away. There flowers no balm to sain him From east of earth to west That s lost for everlasting The heart out of his breast. Here by the labouring highway With empty hands I stroll: Sea-deep, till doomsday morning, Lie lost my heart and soul.

D.H. Lawrence has been doing me right.How Beastly the Bourgeois IsHow beastly the bourgeois isespecially the male of the species--Presentable, eminently presentable--shall I make you a present of him?Isn t he handsome? Isn t he healthy? Isn t he a fine specimen?Doesn t he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?Isn t it God s own image? tramping his thirty miles a dayafter partridges, or a little rubber ball?wouldn t you like to be like that, well off, and quite the thingOh, but wait!Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another man s need,let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life face him with a new demand on his understandingand then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new demand on his intelligence,a new life-demand.How beastly the bourgeois isespecially the male of the species--Nicely groomed, like a mushroomstanding there so sleek and erect and eyeable--and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone lifesucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own.And even so, he s stale, he s been there too long.Touch him, and you ll find he s all gone insidejust like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollowunder a smooth skin and an upright appearance.Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelingsrather nasty--How beastly the bourgeois is!Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp Englandwhat a pity they can t all be kicked overlike sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftlyinto the soil of England.

Lee Upton's poem in The New Yorker grabbed me. The ApologyTonight outside the plate glasseach insect is made of a long tube of wood,as if the insect had become a treeto give the tree a voice.And these pink spatters,these crumbled parlor doilies,these milkweed blossomsfade as if antique,and the milkweed does not report on the condition of its leaves,the height of its flowers,its life without bureaucracy,nor does the lilac filtering the mentholated air,or the bee drowsing on the sillafter straining through the broken window screenlike Rilke wheedling his way into a palace.Or the brook that runs by the cabintalking nonsense.Or the willow that slouches as if it were in a classroomwhere the teacher bores it.So forgive me please already.I am sorry for speaking for nature.But it was asking for it.

The FrogsThey celebrate themselves and sing themselvesFor hours, I guess, all day a tireless chorus,And there I stand, rapt audience of one.Perhaps each sings her true self,the song that stands apart.In such a case I'd act wise:My separate self receivesEach croak the same, as each the mass.But then perhaps they're right. Perhaps.A difference my ears, too crude to hear,creates a harmony I feel (for harmonyproceeds from difference). Perhaps.Hear me! That's it. It's certainto be a call that does not wait,that seeks no response, if by that we mean the complement, the piece that fits so snugly with our own.It is a glorious waste, a gorgeousscattering of seed on the air,vibrations calling forth vibrations,and sympathy an ear raised to the wind.

I love it and I wrote it. It makes more sense if you have seen the movie White Zombie. White Zombie Sugar MillAs they turn the sugar mill roundThe workers there all dead and dumbThey make such a rhythmic soundInto where the sugar s ground A zombie falls into the drumAs they turn the sugar mill roundThe body will never be foundNo pained cries, the workers numbThey make such a rhythmic soundThey don t even slow down!Steady squeak and throbbing humAs they turn the sugar mill roundProducing sugar, pound after poundIn an even, pulsing, steady thrumThey make such a rhythmic soundTo what table is this sugar bound?Have you, perhaps, already had some?As they turn the sugar mill roundThey make such a rhythmic sound