letrym | (no subject)

есть дохуя охуенных американских поэтов а я люблю не самого странного не самого левого и даже не самого нью-йоркского, зато моего самого любимого фрэнка о'хару. наследники у него видать не фонтан, даже в гугелбуксе просмотров нету, так что я щас пальчиками. только скажу ещё.. хоть он формально и не самый а всё таки офигенно энвайский, не на уровне образов, а на уровне дыхания. и вообще променяшный. как то добрые люди хуячат критику на 500 страниц, а у меня вот не вылазит больше ничё, мы, влюблённые кошки, пиздец какие тупые.

Noir Cacadou or the Fatal Music of War
We were standing around
with guitars and mandolins
when the war ended. Yes.

The sea was calm and pale.
Almost polite. Whatever
had it meant to us, what

will you mean to me, does
nothing end? It was dull
as a spider's banquet. Just

twangings and a wave or
two. "Japee!" someone called
through his high red beard

and the Admiral said "Men
you were admirable." We
loved him as I love you. More,

and it meant nothing, simply
a remark after another war.
we were gay, we had won, we

dressed in stovepipes and
danced the measure of being
pleased with ourselves. That is

why I want you, must have
you. Draw the black line where
you want it, like a musical

string it will be love and lovely
and level as the horizon from
our exotic and dancing deck.

Your beard will grow very
fast at sea and you will
not know what instrument

you are patting. It willmean
a lot to you until the lines
stop vibrating and become

a thin black cry that ends.
But no admiral will speak
yet, we've a lot to go first.

I'm not ready for my costume.
We'll beat the gong, yell
out our uneatable tongues,

wallow lasciviously in arms.
You'll see how easily we
provoke the waves, although

the sextant shakes and positions
get difficult. And every dawn
the whine will go up, the black

lool that means love is near.
We'll draw our own lines
and be what the sea tries

to talk about. Then afterwards
we'll help each other dress, lay
flowers at the dummy''s feet.

Mr. O'Hara's Sunday Morning Service
There is this to be said
of Sunday morning that if
I have been very bad the night
before and wake up feeling

like a drab on a sunny day,
Dick will pop into my room
and invite me out to the
high abandoned airfield.

There, the sun will seem
properly chilly and the wind
will not compromise us
with any silly sentiment.

i will walk about on the
heaving grass rather shakily
and observe the model airplanes
lofted by dry blue currents.

As Dick like a discus hurler
throws his wood into the sky
I begin to feel engaged and
follow the glider straining

its little spirit into swoops
that clumsily break and bounce
to earth with a grunt. Then
he must pick up the wings

and go home, to make repairs,
to putty ts nose and and balance.
straighten its tail, to talk about winds
and temperatures, and balance,

to think about theories of
flight, and shave perhaps. So
all through dinner our clear
anxious eyes remain aloft.

ну и энвайская энвайскость
A Greek Girt at Riis Beach
The girl fishes up the sea.
A tube beside her holds a pole
and she tugs the ribbon, dirty
ribbon holding her and then
tumbling jet hair falls into wind
flashing with the sun's rays,
the stinging tails and arrows
of the jumping rabid ocean.

Red skirt blows up to nipples
and she lunges her pole over
the scared sea, flailing and rushing
retreating waves, terrified faces
on the little white dogs. Her eyes
in the wilderness gather fishes,
dreaming salmon leap over cheekbones
into the hot spring of her blood
and her lips, wet with the flavor
and the subtle scales, glitter
against the horizon. Birds flush
from her sweating palms. aieeeeeee!
barracuda! tarpon! ray!

Mounting the sandy mare, rearing!
throbbing legs astride she gallops
into a furious sunset whose fire
is quenched by a prodigality
of fishers who fly the seas.