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To a Locomotive in WinterWALT WHITMAN

Thee for my recitative! Thee in the driving storm even as now, the snow, the winter-day declining, Thee in thy panoply, thy measur’d dual throbbing and thy beat convulsive, Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel, Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at

thy sides, Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar, now tapering in the distance, Thy great protruding head-light fix’d in front, Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple, The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack, Thy knitted frame, thy springs and valves, the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels, Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily following, Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering; Type of the modern—emblem of motion and power—pulse of the continent, For once come serve the Muse and merge in verse, even as here I see thee, With storm and buffeting gusts of wind and falling snow, By day thy warning ringing bell to sound its notes, By night thy silent signal lamps to swing.

Fierce-throated beauty! Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night, Thy madly-whistled laughter, echoing, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all, Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding, (No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,) Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d, Launch’d o’er the prairies wide, across the lakes, To the free skies unpent and glad and strong.

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Crossing Brooklyn Ferry WALT WHITMAN

1 Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face! Clouds of the west—sun there half an hour high—I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

2 The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day, The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one

disintegrated yet part of the scheme, The similitudes of the past and those of the future, The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk

in the street and the passage over the river, The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away, The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them, The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore, Others will watch the run of the flood-tide, Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east, Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high, A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see

them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the

sea of the ebb-tide.

3 It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not, I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many

generations hence, Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,

POETRY IN AMERICA FOR TEACHERS

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd, Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was

refresh’d, Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood

yet was hurried, Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d

pipes of steamboats, I look’d.

I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old, Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with

motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in

strong shadow, Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south, Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in

the sunlit water, Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward, Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving, Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars, The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine

pennants, The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset, The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests

and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite

storehouses by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each

side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high

and glaringly into the night, Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the

tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

4 These and all else were to me the same as they are to you, I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river, The men and women I saw were all near to me, Others the same—others who look back on me because I look’d forward to

them, (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

5 What is it then between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around

it, I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me, I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution, I too had receiv’d identity by my body, That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of

my body.

6 It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw its patches down upon me also, The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious, My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil, I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d, Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant, The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting, Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest, Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw

me approaching or passing, Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh

against me as I sat, Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told

them a word, Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,

Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress, The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like, Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

7 Closer yet I approach you, What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores

in advance, I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me? Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for

all you cannot see me?

8 Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d

Manhattan? River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide? The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the

belated lighter?

What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach?

What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?

Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

We understand then do we not? What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted? What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not?

9 Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves! Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the men and

women generations after me! Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers! Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn! Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution! Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly!

Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!

Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it!

Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you;

Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current;

Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes

have time to take it from you! Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in

the sunlit water! Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners,

sloops, lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset! Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast

red and yellow light over the tops of the houses!

Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are, You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul, About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung out divinest aromas, Thrive, cities—bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers, Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual, Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers, We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward, Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us, We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us, We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also, You furnish your parts toward eternity, Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

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Proem: To Brooklyn Bridge BY HART CRANE

FROM THE BRIDGE

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumult, building high Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes As apparitional as sails that cross Some page of figures to be filed away; —Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene Never disclosed, but hastened to again, Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced As though the sun took step of thee, yet left Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,— Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets, Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning, A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks, A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene; All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . . Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews, Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow Of anonymity time cannot raise: Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused, (How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!) Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge, Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,—

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars, Beading thy path—condense eternity: And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited; Only in darkness is thy shadow clear. The City's fiery parcels all undone, Already snow submerges an iron year . . .

O Sleepless as the river under thee, Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

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Skyscraper BY CARL SANDBURG

BY day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul.

Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are poured out again back to the streets, prairies and valleys.

It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and out all day that give the building a soul of dreams and thoughts and memories.

(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman the way to it?)

Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and sewage out.

Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words, and tell terrors and profits and loves--curses of men grappling plans of business and questions of women in plots of love.

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the earth and hold the building to a turning planet.

Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and hold together the stone walls and floors.

Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an architect voted.

Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust, and the press of time running into centuries, play on the building inside and out and use it.

Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid in graves where the wind whistles a wild song without words

And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes and tubes and those who saw it rise floor by floor.

Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging at back doors hundreds of miles away and the brick-layer who went to state's prison for shooting another man while drunk.

(One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the end of a straight plunge--he is here--his soul has gone into the stones of the building.)

On the office doors from tier to tier--hundreds of names and each name standing for a face written across with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's ease of life.

Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls tell nothing from room to room.

Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers, and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all ends of the earth.

Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of the building just the same as the master-men who rule the building.

Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor empties its men and women who go away and eat and come back to work.

Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and all jobs go slower as the people feel day closing on them.

One by one the floors are emptied. . . The uniformed elevator men are gone. Pails clang. . . Scrubbers work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit,

and machine grime of the day. Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling

miles of houses and people where to buy a thing for money. The sign speaks till midnight.

Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence holds. . . Watchmen walk slow from floor to floor and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip pockets. . . Steel safes stand in corners. Money is stacked in them.

A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights of barges butting their way across a harbor, nets of red and white lanterns in a railroad yard, and a span of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of crosses and clusters over the sleeping city.

By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.

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Her Lips Are Copper Wire JEAN TOOMER

whisper of yellow globes gleaming on lamp-posts that sway like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

and let your breath be moist against me like bright beads on yellow globes

telephone the power-house that the main wires are insulate

(her words play softly up and down dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape and press your lips to mine till they are incandescent

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For the Marriage of Helen and Faustus (selection) HART CRANE

PART 1

The mind has shown itself at times Too much the baked and labeled dough Divided by accepted multitudes. Across the stacked partitions of the day-Across the memoranda, baseball scores, The stenographic smiles and stock quotations Smutty wings flash out equivocations.

The mind is brushed by sparrow wings; Numbers, rebuffed by asphalt, crowd The margins of the day, accent the curbs, Convoying divers dawns on every' corner To druggist, barber and tobacconist, Until the graduate opacities of evening Take them away as suddenly to somewhere Virginal perhaps, less fragmentary, cool. There is the world dimensional for those untwisted by the love of things irreconcilable… And yet, suppose some evening I forgot The fare and transfer, yet got by that way Without recall,-lost yet poised in traffic. Then I might find your eyes across an aisle, Still flickering with those prefigurations-Prodigal, yet uncontested now, Half-riant before the jerky window frame.

There is some way, I think, to touch Those hands of yours that count the nights Stippled with pink and green advertisements. And now, before its arteries turn dark

I would have you meet this bartered blood. Imminent in his dream, none better knows The white wafer cheek of love, or offers words Lightly as moonlight on the eaves meets snow.

Reflective conversion of all things At your deep blush, when ecstasies thread The limbs and belly, when rainbows spread Impinging on the throat and sides Inevitable, the body of the world Weeps in inventive dust for the hiatus That winks above it', bluet in your breasts.

The earth may glide diaphanous to death; But if I lift my arms it is to bend To you who turned away once, Helen, knowing The press of troubled hands, too alternate With steel and soil to hold you endlessly. I meet you, therefore, in that eventual flame You found in final chains, no captive then Beyond their million brittle, bloodshot eyes; White, through white cities passed on to assume That world which comes to each of us alone.

Accept a lone eye riveted to your plane, Bent axle of devotion along companion ways That beat, continuous, to hourless days-0ne inconspicuous, glowing orb of praise.

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Mamie CARL SANDBURG

MAMIE beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana town and dreamed of romance and big things off somewhere the way the railroad trains all ran.

She could see the smoke of the engines get lost down where the streaks of steel flashed in the sun and when the newspapers came in on the morning mail she knew there was a big Chicago far off, where all the trains ran.

She got tired of the barber shop boys and the post office chatter and the church gossip and the old pieces the band played on the Fourth of July and Decoration Day

And sobbed at her fate and beat her head against the bars and was going to kill herself

When the thought came to her that if she was going to die she might as well die struggling for a clutch of romance among the streets of Chicago.

She has a job now at six dollars a week in the basement of the Boston Store (1)

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is

romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.

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[Rapid Transit] WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

Somebody dies every four minutes in New York state—

To hell with you and your poetry— You will rot and be blown through the next solar system with the rest of the gases—

What the hell do you know about it?

AXIOMS

Don't get killed

Careful Crossings Campaign Cross Crossings Cautiously

THE HORSES black &

PRANCED white

Outings in New York City

Ho for the open country

Don't stay shut up in hot rooms Go to one of the Great Parks Pelham Bay for example

It's on Long Island Sound with bathing, boating tennis, baseball, golf, etc.

Acres and acres of green grass wonderful shade trees, rippling brooks

Take the Pelham Bay Park Branch of the Lexington Ave. (East Side) Line and you are there in a few minutes

Interborough Rapid Transit Co.

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Subway Wind CLAUDE MCKAY

Far down, down through the city's great, gaunt gut The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;

In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut, Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.

And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door To give their summer jackets to the breeze;

Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas;

Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,

Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift Lightly among the islands of the deep;

Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white That lend their perfume to the tropic sea,

Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night, And the Trades float above them fresh and free.

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If I should learn, in some quite casual way (Sonnet V) EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

IF I should learn, in some quite casual way, That you were gone, not to return again—

Read from the back-page of a paper, say, Held by a neighbor in a subway train,

How at the corner of this avenue And such a street (so are the papers filled)

A hurrying man—who happened to be you— At noon to-day had happened to be killed,

I should not cry aloud—I could not cry Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—

I should but watch the station lights rush by With a more careful interest on my face,

Or raise my eyes and read with greater care Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

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Buick KARL SHAPIRO

As a sloop with a sweep of immaculate wing on her delicate spine And a keel as steel as a root that holds in the sea as she leans, Leaning and laughing, my warm-hearted beauty, you ride, you ride, You tack on the curves with parabola speed and a kiss of goodbye, Like a thoroughbred sloop, my new high-spirited spirit, my kiss.

As my foot suggests that you leap in the air with your hips of a girl, My finger that praises your wheel and announces your voices of song, Flouncing your skirts, you blueness of joy, you flirt of politeness, You leap, you intelligence, essence of wheelness with silvery nose, And your platinum clocks of excitement stir like the hairs of a fern.

But how alien you are from the booming belts of your birth and the smoke Where you turned on the stinging lathes of Detroit and Lansing at night And shrieked at the torch in your secret parts and the amorous tests, But now with your eyes that enter the future of roads you forget; You are all instinct with your phosphorous glow and your streaking hair.

And now when we stop it is not as the bird from the shell that I leave Or the leathery pilot who steps from his bird with a sneer of delight, And not as the ignorant beast do you squat and watch me depart, But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

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In Goya’s Greatest Scenes We Seem to See… LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI

In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see the people of the world

exactly at the moment when they first attained the title of

‘suffering humanity’ They writhe upon the page

in a veritable rage of adversity

Heaped up groaning with babies and bayonets

under cement skies in an abstract landscape of blasted trees

bent statues bats wings and beaks slippery gibbets

cadavers and carnivorous cocks and all the final hollering monsters

of the ‘imagination of disaster’

they are so bloody real it is as if they really still existed

And they do

Only the landscape is changed

They still are ranged along the roads plagued by legionnaires

false windmills and demented roosters They are the same people

only further from home on freeways fifty lanes wide

on a concrete continent

spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness

The scene shows fewer tumbrils but more strung-out citizens

in painted cars and they have strange license plates

and engines that devour America

Last Night I Drove a Car GREGORY CORSO

Last night I drove a car not knowing how to drive not owning a car I drove and knocked down people I loved ...went 120 through one town.

I stopped at Hedgeville and slept in the back seat ...excited about my new life.

I Know a Man ROBERT CREELEY

As I sd to my friend, because I am always talking,—John, I

sd, which was not his name, the darkness sur-rounds us, what

can we do against it, or else, shall we & why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for christ’s sake, look out where yr going.

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The Decent of Alette (selections) ALICE NOTELY

SECTIONS 1-3 OF BOOK ONE

“One day, I awoke” “& found myself on” “a subway, endlessly” “I didn’t know” “how I’d arrived there or” “who I was” “exactly” “But I knew the train” “knew riding it” “knew the look of” “those about me” “I gradually became aware--” “though it seemed

as that happened” “that I’d always” “known it too--” “there there was” “a tyrant” “a man in charge of” “the fact” “that we were” “below the ground” “endlessly riding” “our trains, never surfacing” “A man who” “would make you pay” “so much” “to leave the subway”

“that you don’t” “ever ask” “how much it is” “It is, in effect” “all of you, & more” “Most of which you already” “pay to live below” “But he would literally” “take your soul” “Which is what you are” “below the ground” “Your soul” “your soul rides”

“this subway” “I saw” “on the subway a” “world of souls”

“On the subway” “we rode the trains” “Got on, got off” “Sat & watched, sat” “& slept” “Walked from car to car” “Stood in stations” “We were caught up” “in movement” “in ongoingness” “& in ongoingness” “of voices,” “for example “Which of us spoke? did” “it matter?” “Who

saw what” “was being seen,” “knew what” “was known?” Gradually what was seen” “became what I saw,” “to me” “Despair & outrage” “became mine too” “Sorrow” “became mine--” “To ride a”

“mechanical” “contrivance” “in the darkness” “To be steeped in” “the authority”

“of” “another’s mind” “the tyrant’s mind” “Life of bits & pieces” “cars & scenes” “disconnected” “little dreams” “False continuum” “mechanical time:” “What do we miss?” “What do we miss?” “Was there once” “something else?” “There are animals” “in the subway” “But they”

“are mute & sad” “There are singers” “There are corpses” “There is” “substance” “of darkness” “And emotion” “strong emotion” “The air” “is all emotion”

“A woman entered” “a car I rode,” “had a misshapen” “slowing foot; &” “she wore” “thick-lensed glasses” (“her eyes were small,” “over-focused”) “She carried a cup, announced,” “‘I need” “enough money--” “the amount is eighteen dollars--” “to take my daughter above the ground” “for one night” “just one night” “I promised her a night” “above the ground’”

“‘Money will not” “be enough,’” “a woman said to her,” “‘Not just money,” “he wants your things,” “your small things,” “your emblems,” “all your trappings” “You must give up” “to the tyrant” “all your flowers” “all your carnations” “Or your cut hair” “Give him your hair”

“You must give him your jokes” “your best jokes,” “he takes whatever--”

“Makes fun of it,” “but uses it” “Give him your only” “silk scarf” “your tiny” “turqoise pendant” “Your old-fashioned watch” “your copper barette” “& your nail polish” “Give him your lotion, your gardenia” “perfume” “Give him your coat too” “But keep your sweater” “Let him take” “what he wants” “from your wallet” “red leatherette coin purse” “& then

he’ll let you” “go upstairs” “& walk around in” “our times” “He will smile” “his boyish smile” “& let you go up there awhile’