“Sit Tibi Terra Levis,” “To Li Po,” and “Dilly Dali”

But it won't be;

gravis, gravis, gravis,

be sure of that.

The good books tell us

feed the hungry

be kind and loving

to kith and kin

help them all

and when you're finally

in that coffin

going underground forever

in a moment

they'll be gone, dispersed

collecting their grief

and scattering your fond memory

to the winds.

A thought, a gesture, a story of yours

dimly recalled on the fly

and over the years diminished;

nothing much left of you

that is real or even feigned.

Really and truly

in this barbarous bustling world

the living have little time

and less patience to waste

raising the dead;

let them lie under stones,

monuments, ashes in a crypt;

hic jacet and be done with it.

Bright day, robin speaks,

sky stars, black night

grey loon dancing

moon fading, morning

then noon, then night.

I eat plain porridge by my hearth

satisfied you see;

this poor hut, the passing hours

enough for me.

Become a bird, become a goat

raise the rafters

rough up an old dog's coat.

Better yet

stay in your suburb

become a master gardener

frighten the farmers coming to town

with your tomatoes, tomatoes

big as pumpkins, gigantic potatoes

lined up in your garden stand.

Shout about your bumper crop

all day long

hog the life of the town

with your boasting.

In the countryside

Miss Lightfoot salesgirl

rings the doorbell,

selling fabulous fertilizer

she says,

with her bountiful

breasts, talking it up

to some middle-aged

country farmer;

yes sir, Mr. Smith,

primo guano processed

our secret formula way

fresh and stinking

in faraway Chile, she says,

good as gold for crops

she says,

vital as the sun and the rain.

His wife disapproves,

in no uncertain terms

lets him know,

watching from the porch.

Thwarted, Miss Lightfoot

and her sumptuous balcony

depart.

Going to school on Clytemnestra

her raging husband

casts the remnant

of an old crop net

over his overfed despised wife;

in sudden surmise

caught to her wattles in the mesh

she realizes he's bound on killing her.

Fortunately or not,

regardless of the wiles

of an ancient legend,

the husband comes to his senses

looses the net; the wife lives

and man and wife

live unhappily ever after;

put a bow on it.

Basta!

Let's let go of this

misdirected foolery,

glancing mythology,

bury the story

and bring back

the same refrain;

become a beetle, become a grouse;

better yet,

aspiring up the chain

become prime minister

of a Balkan state,

portly Roman prelate

or hey diddle diddle

lazy princess

of the land of Cockaigne.

Become, become, become,

for God's sake, become something!

Become anything!

At long last, you poor prisoners

of no invention,

no patience for breaks

in order or sense

or the seeming face of reality;

give it up!

At long last, bestir yourselves

you inert hostages

of Lady Fortune;

rise up,

revolt, fire, fire in the lake!

Raise the banners,

storm the barricades

shake your irons off!