Muezzin Before light’s encroaching Beams, across wavelengths Of glints, in between yawning Protocols of waking, The cocks strike a redundant Note. Choked by their own sensitve Yodelling spree, muted by Spittle of outstretched, moaning Clouds, frayed and piqued by The lusts of flying machines, Hours stretch on rubber’s speed. The rain is a common spiv, holding On the crests of soaking waves Upon night’s purloined Sleep. On the roof, the rain pelts With energy, hunting the Fire-caked degree of heat, Insufferable to the dictates Of yelling protests. Faint mirrors of earliness hang Loose on frescoes of heaven, peeking Through serrated drapes above Window panes. And these, like neighing, Spavined horses, wake Memories of puking slumber... And the hours of dimmed contours Stretched. And the lilt from the Pluvial melody humbles the Insomnia monody, drummed Into the silence of fastened hedonism. No sunrise within the grey Patterns of veiled clouds... Cocks’ crows, subsumed within This muffled protocols, become Distant trumpets of varieties, Preening themselves of the usage Of establishing culture. Allah, Allah, Allah! ! ! The presence became fixed! At the very hour of the cocks’ choir, When piddling gathers the froth of First waking with the grogginess Of drunken dreams, the muezzin Reads out the laws.... From the jungle chambers, elated Spirits from pricked ears and Rising furs soothe the voice, Arched, raised and powered Even to the birth of essences and Dehiscing of inscrutable Energies of efflorescences. Allah, Allah, Allah!
Category: Not My Poetry
Caveat: El río invierte el curso de su corriente
El río invierte el curso de su corriente. El agua de las cascadas sube. La gente empieza a caminar retrocediendo. Los caballos caminan hacia atrás. Los militares deshacen lo desfilado. Las balas salen de las carnes. Las balas entran en los cañones. Los oficiales enfundan sus pistolas. La corriente se devuelve por los cables. La corriente penetra por los enchufes. Los torturados dejan de agitarse. Los torturados cierran sus bocas. Los campos de concentración se vacían. Aparecen los desaparecidos. Los muertos salen de sus tumbas. Los aviones vuelan hacia atrás. Los “rockets” suben hacia los aviones. Allende dispara. Las llamas se apagan. Se saca el casco. La Moneda se reconstituye íntegra. Su cráneo se recompone. Sale a un balcón. Allende retrocede hasta Tomás Moro. Los detenidos salen de espalda de los estadios. 11 de Septiembre. Regresan aviones con refugiados. Chile es un país democrático. Las fuerzas armadas respetan la constitución. Los militares vuelven a sus cuarteles. Renace Neruda. Vuelve en una ambulancia a Isla Negra. Le duele la próstata. Escribe. Víctor Jara toca la guitarra. Canta. Los discursos entran en las bocas. El tirano abraza a Prat. Desaparece. Prat revive. Los cesantes son recontratados. Los obreros desfilan cantando ¡Venceremos!
– extracto del poema-libro “La Ciudad” de Gonzalo Millán (poeta chileno, 1947-2006)
Hace 50 años hoy, Pinochet – con aprobación de la CIA estadounidense – hizo su golpe en contra del legítimo presidente de Chile, Salvador Allende.
Caveat: lavez votre cerveau
Chanson dada I La chanson d’un dadaïste qui avait dada au cœur fatiguait trop son moteur qui avait dada au cœur l’ascenceur portait un roi lourd fragile autonome il coupa son grand bras droit l’envoya au pape à rome c’est pourquoi l’ascenceur n’avait plus dada au cœur mangez du chocolat lavez votre cerveau dada dada buvez de l’eau II la chanson d’un dadaïste qui n’était ni gai ni triste et aimait une bicycliste qui n’était ni gaie ni triste mais l’époux le jour de l’an savait tout et dans une crise envoya au vatican leur deux corps en trois valises ni amant ni cyciste n’étaient plus ni gais ni tristes mangez de bons cerveaux lavez votre soldat dada dada buvez de l’eau III la chanson d’un bicycliste qui était dada de cœur qui était donc dadaïste comme tous les dadas de cœur un serpent portait des gants il ferma vite la soupape mit des gants en peau d’serpent et vint embrasser le pape c’est touchant ventre en fleur n’avait plus dada au cœur buvez du lait d’oiseaux lavez vos chocolats dada dada mangez du veau - Tristan Tzara (Romanian-French poet, 1896-1963)
Caveat: and all the birds are suspended in flight
The End
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
Caveat: Whatever that means
Cloud Marauder He is the cloud marauder, whatever that means. He said he was, and if it's less than true, what else could he be? He said he was the cloud marauder, marauds clouds. It's good enough for me. - James Tate (American poet, 1943-2015)
Caveat: A wakeful brain / Elaborates pain
The Bench of Boors In bed I muse on Tenier’s boors, Embrowned and beery losels all: A wakeful brain Elaborates pain: Within low doors the slugs of boors Laze and yawn and doze again. In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors, Their hazy hovel warm and small: Thought’s ampler bound But chill is found: Within low doors the basking boors Snugly hug the ember-mound. Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall: Thought’s eager sight Aches—overbright! Within low doors the boozy boors Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light. - Herman Melville (American novelist and poet, 1819-1891)
Caveat: por las calles de este mundo
Exilios Madre, todo ha cambiado. Hasta el otoño es un soplo ruinoso que abate el bosquecillo. Ya nada nos protege contra el agua y la noche. Todo ha cambiado ya. La quemadura del aire entra en mis ojos y en los tuyos, y aquel niño que oías correr desde la oscura sala, ya no ríe. Ahora todo ha cambiado. Abre puertas y armarios para que estalle lejos esa infancia apaleada en el aire calino; para que nunca veas el viejo y pedregoso camino de mis manos, para que no sientas deambular por las calles de este mundo ni descubras la casa vacía de hojas y de hombres donde el mismo de ayer sigue buscando soledades, anhelos. - Heberto Padilla (poeta cubano, 1932-2000)
Caveat: The reader became the book
The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought. The house was quiet because it had to be. The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind: The access of perfection to the page. And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world, In which there is no other meaning, itself Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself Is the reader leaning late and reading there. - Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
Caveat: summer’s blood was in it
Blackberry-Picking for Philip Hobsbaum Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. - Seamus Heaney (Irish poet, 1939-2013)
Caveat: me deba entonces a los manicomios
EL GRAN DESPECHO País mío no existes sólo eres una mala silueta mía una palabra que le creí al enemigo antes creía que solamente eras muy chico que no alcanzabas a tener de una vez Norte y Sur pero ahora sé que no existes y que además parece que nadie te necesita no se oye hablar a ninguna madre de tí Ello me alegra porque prueba que me inventé un país aunque me deba entonces a los manicomios soy pues un diocesillo a tu costa (Quiero decir: por expatriado yo tú eres ex patria) - Roque Dalton (poeta salvadoreño, 1935-1975)
Caveat: suddenly what the trees try
Some Trees These are amazing: each Joining a neighbor, as though speech Were a still performance. Arranging by chance To meet as far this morning From the world as agreeing With it, you and I Are suddenly what the trees try To tell us we are: That their merely being there Means something; that soon We may touch, love, explain. And glad not to have invented Such comeliness, we are surrounded: A silence already filled with noises, A canvas on which emerges A chorus of smiles, a winter morning. Placed in a puzzling light, and moving, Our days put on such reticence These accents seem their own defense. - John Ashbery (American poet, 1927-2017)
Caveat: 35 segundos
Destino Lo sabéis amigos no volveremos más. La virtud de la lluvia se aniquila en los soles y el viento entre las flores se sumerge en la sangre de los toros. Sólo los viejos vagabundos al morir pueden saber quizá el secreto de la hora derramada y el porqué de la mujer húmeda en estío. Pero nosotros no. No podemos volver. Es imposible calavera mariposa el tiempo entre la niebla seducido. Somos nosotros mismos el ritmo pereciente y nuestro gesto la invisible caracola de la muerte primavera pura aniquilada en incesantes mundos destruidos. Nada más. Tan sólo eso. Un levantar baldío de los brazos para recoger el mar que se nos huye pletórico de ahogados y de olvidos. Un lamento también y un querer crear agujeros en el agua mansa de los recién nacidos. Mientras os alejáis cantando juventudes yo permanezco aquí mudo y atónito como un muerto inmortal soñando vida inmensa y una antigua e inconcebible libertad. No volveremos más. Es cierto amigos. Atardece. La estatua el árbol la hormiga y esta pena mía tan hermosa se confunden en la mente ignorada de las manos. 35 segundos han pasado en mi reloj de Pulsera. - Miguel Labordeta (poeta español, 1921-1969)
Caveat: Con pececillos
Caracola Me han traído una caracola. Dentro le canta un mar de mapa. Mi corazón se llena de agua con pececillos de sombra y plata. Me han traído una caracola. - Federico García Lorca (poeta español, 1898-1936)
Caveat: And vast compassion curving like the skies
To the Old Gods Old gods and goddesses who have lived so long Through time and never found eternity, Fettered by wasting wood and hollowing hill, You should have fled our ever-dying song, The mound, the well, and the green trysting tree. They have forgotten, yet you linger still. Goddess of caverned breast and channeled brow, And cheeks slow hollowed by millennial tears, Forests of autumns fading in your eyes, Eternity matvels at your counted years And kingdoms lost in time, and wonders how There could be thoughts so bountiful and wise As yours beneath the ever-breaking bough, And vast compassion curving like the skies. - Edwin Muir (Scottish poet, 1887-1959)
Caveat: Catorce eran de Lope
El primer soneto Una vez... ¡ah!, figúrome que ahora Respiro aún su delicioso aliento Y enardecido por sus labios siento El corazón que la suspira y llora... "Hazme versos así," dijo leonora, (¡Catorce eran de Lope, y un portento!) "Y lo que pides te daré al momento, Con la vida y el alma que te adora" Después... Más nunca demandó cantares, Porque tan cerca palpitar se oían ¡Mi corazón y el suyo!... Y luminares Del alama aquellos ojos que ventían Bajo mis besos luz y lloro ardiente, ¡Fuego inmortal dejaron en mi mente! - Jorge Isaacs (poeta colombiano, 1837-1895)
Caveat: as if they were flowers
All Watched Over By Machines Of Loving Grace I like to think (and the sooner the better!) of a cybernetic meadow where mammals and computers live together in mutually programming harmony like pure water touching clear sky. I like to think (right now, please!) of a cybernetic forest filled with pines and electronics where deer stroll peacefully past computers as if they were flowers with spinning blossoms. I like to think (it has to be!) of a cybernetic ecology where we are free of our labors and joined back to nature, returned to our mammal brothers and sisters, and all watched over by machines of loving grace. - Richard Brautigan (American poet, 1935-1984)
Caveat: a pool wherein the heaviest stone may fall
Full Moon, West Coast Blotched with its unattainable mountains this was that yellow half-wheel rolled above Bald Hill, diminishing cirque climbed to its apogee of night, unsluicing sheeted silver on the world. It rose persimmon-colored from the sea, and hued like pumpkin as it fired the trees, suffused and swollen, lanterning the dusk; now less than evening size, processes all blue midnight and looks down, pouring from zenith on the blank-faced stones. Leaving no wrinkle on the planet's face at loss of what its winds and waves absorb and grind and blow to nothingness here are the furious struggles all brought down: slow drown of clashing towers of jangled bells and bodies that were wasted sacks of blood subsiding to the lit and level floor, their heroes cried to silence. Here is negation of both word and deed, of goodness and of evil in men's hearts, a pool wherein the heaviest stone may fall and write its weight of nothing in the glass. - Eric Wilson Barker (American poet, 1905-1973)
Caveat: without human meaning
Of Mere Being The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. - Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
Caveat: The syllables amount to something
TO SPEAK OF NOTHING
It is a serious thing, nothing.
The notion confounds the mind
As wind confounds the sea.
A woman fixes words to a miracle,
A man describes himself to God.
The syllables amount to something,
But they are nothing to speak of.
– M. Scott Momaday (American poet, b. 1934)
Caveat: Too many words, but precious.
Uptick We were sitting there, and I made a joke about how it doesn't dovetail: time, one minute running out faster than the one in front it catches up to. That way, I said, there can be no waste. Waste is virtually eliminated. To come back for a few hours to the present subject, a painting, looking like it was seen, half turning around, slightly apprehensive, but it has to pay attention to what's up ahead: a vision. Therefore poetry dissolves in brilliant moisture and reads us to us. A faint notion. Too many words, but precious.
Caveat: not in haste to end
The Best Thing in the World What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? --Something out of it, I think.
Caveat: a piece / of ripened memory
Part of Speech ...and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece of ripened memory which is twice as hole-ridden as real cheese. After all these years it hardly matters who or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes, and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh", only their rustle. Life, that no one dares to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth, bares its teeth in a grin at each encounter. What gets left of a man amounts to a part. To his spoken part. To a part of speech.
Caveat: beyond / The flames of Troy & Carthage
The Oldest Living Thing In L.A.
At Wilshire & Santa Monica I saw an opossum
Trying to cross the street. It was late, the street
Was brightly lit, the opossum would take
A few steps forward, then back away from the breath
Of moving traffic. People coming out of the bars
Would approach, as if to help it somehow.
It would lift its black lips & show them
The reddened gums, the long rows of incisors,
Teeth that went all the way back beyond
The flames of Troy & Carthage, beyond sheep
Grazing rock-strewn hills, fragments of ruins
In the grass at San Vitale. It would back away
Delicately & smoothly, stepping carefully
As it always had. It could mangle someone’s hand
In twenty seconds. Mangle it for good. It could
Sever it completely from the wrist in forty.
There was nothing to be done for it. Someone
Or other probably called the LAPD, who then
Called Animal Control, who woke a driver, who
Then dressed in mailed gloves, the kind of thing
Small knights once wore into battle, who gathered
Together his pole with a noose on the end,
A light steel net to snare it with, someone who hoped
The thing would have vanished by the time he got there.
Caveat: no llores, dueña del mundo
No llores, América No llores, América No llores, América, no llores por la sangre vertida en las esquinas del Sur, no llores por los hijos de tus mercenarios, no llores por tus bombas, tus cohetes, tu napalm, tus viajes a la luna, tus calles de navaja, tus dólares amargos, tus negros de precinto con sus bastones relucientes como krugers golpeando a sus hermanos de algodón, no llores por los amos de Wall Street, su polvo del mejor, sus trajes bien cortados, sus tiradores de pelo de gacela, no llores América, no llores, tu atronadora voz es la más bella entre los tules del sol, no llores, dueña del mundo, amada América, no llores, irás al cielo cuando mueras, tienes los ojos azules como Dios.
Caveat: Байрактар
“No catalogue of horrors ever kept men from war. Before the war you always think that it’s not you that dies. But you will die, brother, if you go to it long enough.” – Ernest Hemingway
What I’m listening to right now.
Unknown, “Байрактар.” This song is quite morbid, and glorifies death and war and patriotism, which are dangerous sentiments. I freely acknowledge that it is Ukrainian war propaganda, which makes me uncomfortable. Yet I found myself transfixed by it – as a composition (video and song, together), it’s coherent and well-crafted, though insanely simple. I’d hazard the opinion that it’s a kind of 21st century bardism. The title, Bayraktar, is the name of a high-tech, Turkish-made, drone-based weapons system, which the Ukrainians have been deploying to devastating effect on Putin’s columns of tanks and supplies.
текст:
Прийшли окупанти до нас в Україну
Форма новенька, воєнні машини
Та трохи поплавився їх інвентар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Російскі танкісти сховались в кущі,
Щоб лаптем посьорбати довбані щі
Та трохи у щах перегрівся навар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Зі сходу припхались до нас барани
Для вастанавлєнья велікай страни.
Найкращій пастух баранячих отар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Їх доводи – всяке озброєня різне:
Потужні ракети, машини залізні.
У нас на всі доводи є коментар –
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Вони захопити хотіли нас зразу
І ми зачаїли на орків образу.
З бандитів російських робить примар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Російска поліція справи заводить
Но вбивцю рашистів ніяк не знаходить.
Хто ж винен, що в нашому полі глухар?
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Веде пропаганду кремлівський урод,
Слова пропаганди ковтає народ.
Тепер нове слово знає їх цар:
…
Caveat: In all my years as a pedestrian
This Economy In all my years as a pedestrian serving juice to guests, it never occurred to me thoughtfully to imagine how a radish feels. She merely arrived. Half-turning in the demented twilight, one feels a sour empathy with all that went before. That, needless to say, was how we elaborated ourselves staggering across tracts: Somewhere in America there is a naked person. Somewhere in America adoring legions blush in the sunset, crimson madder, and madder still. Somewhere in America someone is trying to figure out how to pay for this, bouncing a ball off a wooden strut. Somewhere in America the lonely enchanted eye each other on a bus. It goes down Woodrow Wilson Avenue. Somewhere in America it says you must die, you know too much.
Caveat: 굶는 집
굶는 집 다섯식구 옥순이 아버지 옥순이 어머니 옥순이 옥순이 동생 옥순이 둘째 동생 더 낳을 힘 없어 둘째가 막내인지 배고파서 하루 이틀 꼬박 굶고 물배만 채워 다섯식구 서로 얼굴보고 앉았다 옥순이 둘째 동생 그 어린 것이 한 마리 소가 되어 짚도 풀도 먹고 고구마 덩쿨도 먹을 수만 있다면
– 고은 (한국시인 1933-)
A Starving House This family of five Ok-soon's father Ok-soon's mother Ok Soon-yi Ok-soon's brother Ok-soon's other brother Lacking the strength to have more children, the third is the youngest Hungry Just starve for a day or two Just drink some water This family of five Sat face to face Ok-soon's second brother The little one Could become a cow, eat straw and grass If only one could eat the sweet potato vine
– Ko Un (Korean poet, b. 1933)
This is my own translation, with quite a bit of assistance from my grammar book and google translate and Naver’s online dictionary. I make no claim to professionalism or accuracy. But it is a quite simple poem, so I thought I’d give it a try.
Caveat: Aspirant to nothingness
Buddha Swooning swim to less and less, Aspirant to nothingness! Sobs of the worlds, and dole of kinds That dumb endurers be-- Nirvana! absorb us in your skies, Annul us into thee.
Caveat: Contempt of Generations
This World is not Conclusion This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond - Invisible, as Music - But positive, as Sound - It beckons, and it baffles - Philosophy, don't know - And through a Riddle, at the last - Sagacity, must go - To guess it, puzzles scholars - To gain it, Men have borne Contempt of Generations And Crucifixion, shown - Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies - Blushes, if any see - Plucks at a twig of Evidence - And asks a Vane, the way - Much Gesture, from the Pulpit - Strong Hallelujahs roll - Narcotics cannot still the Tooth That nibbles at the soul -
Caveat: our mortal eyes
Chartres I do not wonder, stones, You have withstood so long The strong wind and the snows. Were you not built to bear The winter and the wind That blows on the hill here? But you have borne so long Our eyes, our mortal eyes, And are not worn -
Caveat: holding the carols / Consciously at bay
December Blues
At the bad time, nothing betrays outwardly the harsh findings,
The studies and hospital records. Carols play.
Sitting upright in the transit system, the widowlike women
Wait, hands folded in their laps, as monumental as bread.
In the shopping center lots, lights mounted on cold standards
Tower and stir, condensing the blue vapor
Of the stars; between the rows of cars people in coats walk
Bundling packages in their arms or holding the hands of children.
Across the highway, where a town thickens by the tracks
With stores open late and crèches in front of the churches,
Even in the bars a businesslike set of the face keeps off
The nostalgic pitfall of the carols, tugging. In bed,
How low and still the people lie, some awake, holding the carols
Consciously at bay. Oh Little Town, enveloped in unease.
Caveat: …dreamin’ is becomin’ a reality
What I’m listening to right now.
The Mamas and The Papas, “Creeque Alley.” Although this song was not part of my childhood soundtrack, its zeitgeist was. I feel like I could have been one of the small children in the video. The look and feel of it all, and the Dylanesque lyrics, all are profoundly nostalgic.
Lyrics.
John and Mitchy were gettin' kind of itchy Just to leave the folk music behind Zal and Denny workin' for a penny Tryin' to get a fish on the line In a coffee house Sebastian sat And after every number they'd pass the hat McGuinn and McGuire just a-gettin' higher In L.A., you know where that's at And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass Zally said "Denny, you know there aren't many Who can sing a song the way that you do, let's go south" Denny said "Zally, golly, don't you think that I wish I could play guitar like you" Zal, Denny and Sebastian sat (At the Night Owl) And after every number they'd pass the hat McGuinn and McGuire still a-gettin higher In L.A., you know where that's at And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass When Cass was a sophomore, planned to go to Swarthmore But she changed her mind one day Standin' on the turnpike, thumb out to hitchhike "Take me to New York right away" When Denny met Cass he gave her love bumps Called John and Zal and that was the Mugwumps McGuinn and McGuire couldn't get no higher But that's what they were aimin' at And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass Mugwumps, high jumps, low slumps, big bumps Don't you work as hard as you play Make up, break up, everything is shake up Guess it had to be that way Sebastian and Zal formed the Spoonful Michelle, John, and Denny gettin' very tuneful McGuinn and McGuire just a-catchin' fire In L.A., you know where that's at And everybody's gettin' fat except Mama Cass Di-di-di-dit dit dit di-di-di-dit, whoa Broke, busted, disgusted, agents can't be trusted And Mitchy wants to go to the sea Cass can't make it, she says we'll have to fake it We knew she'd come eventually Greasin' on American Express cards It's low rent, but keeping out the heat's hard Duffy's good vibrations and our imaginations Can't go on indefinitely And California dreamin' is becomin' a reality
Caveat: People are not going / To dream of baboons and periwinkles
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather. - Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)