VANITY FAIR

You wake up, out of nowhere, in a carny county fair,
And everything's for sale, and you are poor.

Like most, you pay for the right to pay more and more
For less and less: cracked kewpie doll, torn teddy bear,

Grease-soaked corn-dog that turns to glue in the throat,
And a chance to gawk at the two-headed man
And the woman with the legs of a goat.

Your head whirls till flat earth's a tilted carrousel,
And you stagger among the enameled saddles,

A child bedazzled by every flashing, twirling thing,
You lurch to the hysterical calliope,
You lunge for the flying brass ring.


_______________________________
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(UNTITLED)

The conclusion that I have not been able to avoid is that none of the passers-by sees either this pool or me. No one ever seems to stop by the low round curb; nobody, as far as I can tell, even glances this way.

One can't blame them--it's not the sort of thing that calls attention to itself; it is, one would almost say, nondescript. Neither large nor small (although its width does not permit one to reach across it), apparently it is not wide enough to allow the formation of ripples; none is ever seen.

Within the low circle of its rim, the water is almost as invisible as if the pool were empty. No light is reflected from the surface; nor, when I lean over it, do I ever see my own reflection. It reflects nothing.

I don't know how deep it is, or where the water comes from--if, after all, the liquid in the pool be water. It is not unlike ether or alcohol in its lack of density, except that it has no properties or effects, not even that of annulling sensations. It is perfectly colorless, absolutely odorless and tasteless.

I do not wish to be here, but I cannot move away; I cannot stop dipping my hand to drink, never feeling either thirsty or satisfied.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackboard

(Moments in the life of an English teacher, with a nod to Wallace Stevens)

Notice: Part of this poem includes a parody of the offensive language characteristic of "gangsta rappers" and similar performers, people with names like Enema, Puff Adder and Sniff Doggie Doo. The term "gangsta rapper" is not a racial but an "artistic" label, and therefore the parody of "gangsta" language is not a racial slur but a criticism of its sociopathic content. In part the poem satirizes not only the sex/gender slurs made by such people but also their degradation of the English language. It was written several years before the radio personality Don Imus broadcast his troublesome and over-publicized gaffe. Wallace Stevens's "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" has been parodied and imitated a number of times, and in different ways.


1

Among twenty snowy pages
The only cutting thing
Was the eye of the parody.


2

I was of three minds,
Like a book
In which there are three parodies.


3

The parody slipped in among the editor's papers;
It was a small sabot in the machine.


4

A chalk and a blackboard
Are one.
A chalk and a blackboard and an instructor are one
Huge parody.


5

I do not know which to prefer,
The parody of inflections
Or the inflections of parody:
The writing,
Or the whistling after.


6

Lines of cathartic broken prose filled the long page
With barbaric gas.
The shadow of a parody
Crossed and re-crossed my mind.
The mood
Traced in the parody
An inexplicable snicker.


7

Yo, gangsta rappers, hip-hoppers and wanna-be's,
Why yo ice-cracks showz?
Dont-cha see, da pa-ro-dee
Dissin ya durdy hoze?


8

I know the sober, stately cadences of standard English,
Its friendliness to earthy, concrete words;
But I know, too,
That the parody is involved....


9

When the parody was circulating,
It went around and around,
Cutting many circles.


10

At the counterpoint of the parody's
Open scoring on the page,
The hawkers of cacophony
Would gasp, aghast.


11

They overrode the country
In a million DJ vans;
They had no fears, no cares!
They never suspected
The parody would overtake them.


12

The crowd is streaming overhead,
The Mall slides by.
Somewhere a parody is hatching.


13

This Twilight has been a Dark Age
For ages.
An Ice Age has descended,
Colder than glaciers.
A parody poises itself
Among the pages.
_

From THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF EMILY DICKINSON

1

I've run to welcome—Absence—
To greet—a closing Door—
And followed after—Echoes—
Footsteps—
Still recede—before—

A Mountain or a Desert—
Were easier—to arrest—
Than embrace a—Flickering—
As it vanishes—

To try to apprehend a—Phantom
Exacts exhausting Toil—
Nature abhors a Vacuum—I'll
Avoid—a Void


2

Christ must love you—I must not—
My white Calvary—be—
Perfect like That—without the Spot
Of sad Carnality—

Lepers—God enjoins—in Love—
Law casts out—Unclean—
"Vox Populi Vox Dei"
Festers in Irony— 

3

Before—a Plank between two Cliffs—

Below—revolves the Abyss—

Behind me—Clouds—that mourn and lower—

Into Eternities—

Horizons of wide Silence—List—
As—less than Decimal—
I feel the Universe—lean down—
To watch—when I shall fall—