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«Jeg tænker paa kvelder som denne, jeg ikke faa lov til at leve —
paa modne marker, som bruser af korn, uten mig!
Paa rørende, lette smaating: Aks, som knækkes,
veier i sjøen, bleke seil derute,
bølger, som strømmer mot stranden uten mig!
Hverdagen, ven, som mildt blir ved bak graven,
tænker jeg paa, og alle de dype, blaa,
kommende kvelder her i sommerhaven,
uten mit sind mot dit, tænker jeg paa!

Inni er øynene dine vinduer
mot et land der jeg står i klarhet.

Ingen elsker meg og ingen har
svingt lampen over mitt lik.

Skallen, det hemmelige hjertet,
blodets baner, som jeg ikke ser
drømmens, denne Proteus' tunneler,
innvollene, nakken, skjelettet.
Jeg er disse ting. Utrolig nok
er jeg også minnet om et sverd
og om en ensom sol lavt i vest
som spres til gull, til skygge, til intet.
Jeg er den som fra havnen ser stevner;
jeg er de sjeldne bøker, de sjeldne
gravyrer slitt ned av tiden;
jeg er den som misunner de som alt er døde.
Merkeligst å være mannen som fletter
ord i et rom i et hus.

Elva er som min smerte
Den renner og tørker ikke ut
Og når er uka ferdig?

I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection –
We shall get ourselves rather disliked.

A man who wanted to look better
But not younger is red
Swells of raw.
Later they will remove the staples.

Ten weeks later
They are younger.
They pull over
Their head a sock of skin.

The white cannibals in cowboy boots
Return to the bush
And the darkness of the brutes.

Meat-eating seagulls shout their little cries myanmar myanmar above the airport,
Dropping razor clams on the runway to break them open.
Hard is soft inside.
The big jet has soft people inside for the ride.

Le fleuve est pareil à ma peine
Il s'écoule et ne tarit pas
Quand donc finira la semaine

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman -
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root -
Let there be commerce between us.

You can crab over the morning paper and kick the shins of the guy in the next seat at the movies and feel mean and discouraged and sneer at the politicians but there are a lot of nice people in the world just the same.

President Bush the younger is making ice cream.
Ice cream for dessert
Is what Iraq is, without the courses that normally come before.

What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage

As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.