Who Are We Now? by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Title: Who Are We Now?
Author: Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
Genre: Poetry.
Country: U.S.
Language: English.
Publication Date: 1976.
Summary: A collection of 30 poems (3 of which are prose poems). The Jack of Hearts is a poetic tribute to Bob Dylan, celebrating his artistry and his role as a voice for the marginalized and oppressed. Director of Alienation is a poem that contemplates the feeling of being out of sync with the world, whether through personal introspection or observing the human condition. Wild Dreams of a New Beginning is about the surreal vision of American cities being overwhelmed by a giant wave, leaving a sense of ambiguity about the possibility of civilization restarting or continuing after complete devastation. Lost Parents offers a satirical exploration of modern relationships, the search for meaning, and the impact of adult self-indulgence on the next generation, through a character who juggles a chaotic life at the expense of his children. People Getting Divorced explores the fragmented and existential nature of divorce, focusing on the emotional and physical dislocation experienced by individuals. Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt is a poem that lovingly and critically describes Klimt's painting, The Kiss. The "Moving Waters" of Gustav Klimt is a loving description of Gustav Klimt's painting, The Moving Waters. I Am You is a poem about the connection between two lovers. At the Bodega is an evocative poem of a flamenco dancer dressed as a bullfighter. Snapshot Epiphany explores fleeting moments of revelation within everyday life, particularly in the context of European experiences. Overheard Conversations (In the U.S. Restaurant & Café Sport, San Fransisco, Listening to Barlow Farrar, Tony Dingman & Others) explores the themes of the United States' relationship with its own people and its foreign policy and critiques the country's inability to embrace diversity, its tendency towards blind obedience, and its leaders' negative impact on other nations. The Heavy is a prose poem that explores the vibrant and dynamic nature of San Francisco's light through personification, contrasting the city's light with that of other places. Great American Waterfront Poem is a prose poem that critiques American materialism and consumerism, portraying a concrete and bland landscape, contrasting it with the ideal of a vibrant, diverse nation. Highway Patrol is a prose poem that describes driving on a freeway in Sacramento and stopping at a motel. Seascape with Sun and Eagle is a poem that celebrates the beauty and freedom of the landscape and the spirit of adventure. Dissidents, Big Sur is about the dissidents of Big Sur, and their difficulty in an unwelcoming society. Alienation: Two Bees contemplates on the concepts of alienation from the larger conformist society and loyalty to a fellow through the deaths of two bees. A Vast Confusion explores the chaotic and overwhelming nature of the modern world, capturing a sense of bewilderment and disorienting change. Upon Reflection explores the themes of time, memory, and the transient nature of experience. Matinal is a joyful poem about the beauty of the morning sun and the hope it offers. Deep Chess uses the game of chess as a metaphor for life and the challenges of existence. The Recurrent Dream is a poem exploring themes of abandonment, loneliness, and the struggle against unwanted external voices that crowd the mind. A River Still To Be Found is a poem about the spiritual river Ganges, which is not yet found within America. Monet's Lilies Shuddering talks about Monet's lilies, recurring in many of his paintings. Insurgent Mexico is a poem about Mexico. A Meeting of Eyes in Mexico describes a reading in Mexico where the poet's eyes meet the eyes of someone in the audience. The General Songs of Humanity is about the power of poetry, through the brilliance of Pablo Neruda. Eight People on a Golf Course and One Bird of Freedom Flying Over is a critical poem about the control of society by politicians, religion, and the military. Populist Manifesto is a call to action for poets to engage with the world and abandon their isolation, urging poets to move beyond intellectual games and connect with the public.

My rating: 7.5/10
My review:


♥ Who are we now, who are we ever,
Skin books parchment bodies libraries of the living
gilt almanachs of the very rich
encyclopedias of little people
packs of players face down
on faded maps of America
with no Jack of Hearts
in the time of the ostrich
Fields full of rooks
dumb pawns in black-and-white kingdoms
And revolutions the festivals of the oppressed
and festivals the little revolutions
of the bourgeoisie
where gypsy fortune tellers deal
without the Jack of Hearts
the black-eyed one who sees all ways
the one with the eye of a horse
the one with the light in his eye
the one with his eye on the star named Nova
the one for the ones with no one to lead them
the one whose day has just begun
the one with the star in his cap
the cat with future feet
looking like a Jack of Hearts
mystic Jack Zen Jack with crazy koans
Vegas Jack who rolls the bones
the high roller behind the dealer
the one who'll shake them,
the one who'll shake the ones unshaken
the fearless one
the one without bullshit
the stud with the straightest answer
the one with blazing words for guns
the distance runner with the word to pass
the night rider with the urgent message
The man from La Mancha riding bareback
The one who bears the great tradition and breaks it
The Mysterious Stranger who comes & goes..

♥ ..the ones with their eyes in the sands
the sand that runs through the glass
the ones who don't want to look
at what's going down around them
the shut-eye ones who wish
that someone else would seize the fay
that someone else would tell them
which way up and which way out
and whom to hate and whom to love..

♥ ..the kid who paints the fence
the boy who digs the treasure up
the boy with the beans on the beanstalk
the dandy man the candy man
the one with the lollipops
the harlequin man
who tells the tic-toc man to stuff it
in front of the house that Jack built
behind the house that Jack built
where sleeps the Cock that crowed in the morn
where sleeps the Cow with the crumpled horn
where sleeps the dude who kept the horse
with the beautiful form
and kissed the Maiden all forlorn
the Jack of the pack all tattered and torn
the one the queen keeps her eye on
Dark Rider on a white horse
after the Apocalypse
Prophet stoned on the wheel of fortune
Sweet singer with harp half-hid
who speaks with the cry of cicadas
who tells the tale too truly
for the ones with no one to tell them
the true tale of sound and fury
the Jack of Hearts who lays it out
who tells it as it is
the one who wears no watch
yet tells the time too truly
and reads the Knight of Cups
and knows himself
the Knave of Hearts the Jack of Hearts
who stole the tarts
of love & laughter
the Jack who tells his dream
to those with no one to dream it
the one who tells his dream
to the hard-eyed innocents..

♥ ..the woman-man
the whole man
who holds all worlds together
when all is said and all is done
in the wild eye the wide eye
of the Jack of Hearts
who stands in a doorway
clothed in sun

~~from The Jack of Hearts.

♥ I think I'll hook a new derby
with my cane
and put a sign on it reading
Director of Alienation
or The Real Revolution
So it's Mister Alienation is it
like he don't like nobody?
It's not me It's Them out of step
I came in looking for an angel
male or female dark or fair
but why does everyone look
so serious or unhappy
like as if everyone's alienated
from something or someone
from the whole earth even
and the green land
among the loud indignant birds
My land is your land
but "all is changed, changed utterly"..

♥ I came in looking for an angel
among the alien corn
I might get caught
fingering the lingerie
feeling up the manikins
House dicks after me
Where's your credit cards
They'll find the hole in my sock
in the Shoe Department
The full-length mirrors all designed
to make you look your worst
so you'll get real depressed
and throw off your old clothes
and buy new duds on the spot
Well I'll take them at their word
They asked for it
Off with these grungy threads
and slide down the escalators bare-ass
Slip between the on-sale sheets
into the on-sale bed
feeling for an angel in it..

♥ I don't want to join them either
Always the Outsider
What a drag
Why don't you get with it
It's your country
What a cliché this Outsider
a real bore
But is there anyone left inside
in this year of the boring Bicentennial
Indians alienated Artists alienated
All these poets alienated
Parents husbands wives alienated
Kids alienated
Even billionaires alienated
hiding out in foreign countries
Don't let them tell you different
with their flags and their grants
So Buy Buy Buy
and get Inside
Get a loada this junk
You wanna belong
You gotta have it
Pull yourself together
and descend to Macy's basement
And eat your way up
thru the seven stages
of this classless society
with the Credit Department on the top floor
where surely some revelation is at hand
Consume your way up
until you're consumed by it
at the very top
where surely a terrible beauty is born
Then jump off the roof
a dark of hair
o Ruth among the alien corn
waving plastic jewels and genitals

~~from Director of Alienation.

♥ There's a breathless hush on the freeway tonight
Beyond the ledges of concrete
restaurants fall into dreams
with candlelight couples
Lost Alexandria still burns
in a billion lightbulbs
Lives cross lives
idling at stoplights
Beyond the cloverleaf turnoffs
"Souls eat souls in the general emptiness"..

♥ Manhattan Island swept clean in sixteen seconds
buried masts of Amsterdam arise
as the great wave sweeps on Eastward
to wash away over-age Camembert Europe
Mannahatta steaming in sea-vines
the washed land awakes again to wilderness
the only sound a vast thrumming of crickets
a cry of seabirds high over
in empty eternity
as the Hudson retakes its thickets
and Indians reclaim their canoes

~~from Wild Dreams of a New Beginning.

♥ It takes a fast car
to lead a double life
in these days of short-distance love affairs
when he has far-out lovers in
three different locations
and a date with each one
at least twice a week
a little simple arithmetic shows
what a workout he's engaged in
crossing & recrossing the city
from bedroom to patio to swimming pool
the ignition key hot
and the backseat a jumble of clothes
for different life-styles..

♥ ..between two other numbers
male or female
including his wife
who also called twice
wanting to know where he's been
and what he's done
with their throw-away children
who
left to their own devices
in a beach house at Malibu
grew up and dropped out into Nothing
in a Jungian search
for lost parents
their own age

~~from Lost Parents.

♥ ..and the sole
ah the soul
a curious conception
hanging on somehow
to walk again
in the free air
once the heel
has been replaced

~~from People Getting Divorced.

♥ Nearly there must be
a jeweled tree
with glass leaves aglitter
in the gold air

It must be
morning
in a faraway place somewhere

They are silent together
as in a flowered field
upon the summer couch
which must be hers

And he holds her still
so passionately
holds her head to his
so gently so insistently
to make her turn
her lips to his

Her eyes are closed
like folded petals

She
will not open

He
is not the One

~~from Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt.

♥ ..pale bodies wrapt
in the night of women
lapt in light
in ground swells of
dreamt desire
dreamt delight

Still strangers to us
yet not
strangers
in that first night
in which we lose ourselves

And know each other

~~from The "Moving Waters" of Gustav Klimt.

♥ And I am alone here
but if there were two of us
I would say

There is only one here
in the end as in beginning
one body breathing
one body singing

And the body is us
the body is our selves
and I am you

~~from I Am You.

♥ And still the whole idea of poetry being
to take control of life
out of the hands of
the Terrible People

♥ While I always dreamed of Afghanistan banana stands
or of opening a roadhouse in Sante Fe
serving blue cheese hamburgers
garlic and scallions on English muffins
with waitresses wearing cactus hats
and electric Navajo blankets
And couples in the booths
in the deep dream department
holding each other's hands
like doves that might fly away

She the most
mindless woman on earth
and he
(muy macho picchu)
a slob from the Avenues
having almost as much fun as if
they were home by themselves
making love every half hour
for three days
and not going out much
after that

♥ And she really wanted
the guy at the bar
but had to leave
without him

And the men laughed
and said stuff in Italian
which they always say
when women leave bars

And polygamy a tiny village
in Yucatan

♥ "Like this here siren
marries the skipper
and comes on board wearing tennis shoes
and the crew is so quiet
you could hear a fish fart
and the next thing you know
she's painting a tennis court
on the after deck
and stringing a net between the stanchions
and then gets this pussy-whipped skipper
to throw tennis balls at her
which she bats back at him
with the Chinese cook playing ballboy
and then when we get out to sea
with a cargo of tennis balls bound for Wimbledon
on a sunny day between Scylla and Charybdis
she's batting balls like that
and slams one over the side
and the racket goes over too
and she gets the skipper
to bring the ship about
and put two men over the side
in a dingy
to retrieve the floating capitalist racket
and the two men drown
and the ship itself runs onto
a sawtooth reef
and goes down with all hands
as ten thousand tennis balls
bob to the surface"

~~Overheard Conversations (In the U.S. Restaurant & Café Sport, San Fransisco, Listening to Barlow Farrar, Tony Dingman & Others).

♥ ..but the blond singer was into "La Spagnola" and the whole place was humming with pure joy even though life itself was still a tragedy if you lay down, or at least a farce easily turned into a tragedy by sitting upon the ground, and "La Spagnola" proved it all, the sad sweet music pouring out of the lovely mouth of life itself, the parted lips of life, and one had the feeling that this heavy listener spent all his life sitting someplace watching everybody else's life go by, and that he would sit witnessing the most passionate acts of the most beautiful creatures, and show no reaction nor make the slightest gesture beyond the long dragging on his long cigarillo, and one could only wonder what bed or lover could possibly have borne him last night, and he was the Mafia godfather of Italian opera out on a scouting tour, and he was James Joyce's Artist, above, beyond, behind the scenes, indifferent, parting his fingernails, and he was a character in a corner of an Egyptian café in Lawrence Durrell's Justine, and he was Proust's solitary diner, and he was Dr. Matthew O'Connor in drag in Djiuna Barnes' Nightwood asking "Watchman, what of the Night?" and he was watching everyone in his Night which was their day, for he was forever an exile in this lighted life, until suddenly a final golden solo came to a glorious climax and everyone clapped and laughed and untangled themselves and spilled out of the café laughing and talking, and the goldenhaired soprano who could have been a a contessa went straight to him and bent over him and kissed him so fully on the lips that he rose up with the lips, and that man and that woman so close they floated out, into the sunlight, together!

~~from The Heavy.

♥ San Francisco land's end and ocean's beginning The land the sea's edge also The river within us the sea about us The place where the story ended the place where the story began The first frontier the last frontier Beginning of end and end of beginning End of land and land of beginning

♥ He's in his own civilized world enclosed in the booth of civilization and I'm in mine outside waiting for my lawyer to call back with the final word on my divorce from civilization Will they let Man be free or won't they Will they or won't they let him be a barbarian or a wanderer if he wants to I look at my reflection in the glass of the phone booth outside Its like a mirror of the world with a wild me in it and the Bank of America towering over behind me Will Eros or Civilization win And who's this weirdo who is myself and where does he think he's going to sail away to when there isn't any longer any Away Another huge oiler stands in All the fucked-up diplomats of the world on the bridge holding empty champagne glasses as in a Fellini movie The guy in the booth hangs up and falls out I sit down in the booth and drink my beer waiting for the phone to ring The Balclutha's whistle blows The tide is at the ebb The phone rings

~~from Great American Waterfront Poem.

♥ Man we sure as hell lit that joint up if you know what I mean All good clean fun and we died laughin' Just like in the movies

~~from Highway Patrol.

♥ Freer
than most birds
an eagle flies high up
over San Fransisco
freer than most places
soars high up
floats and glides high up
in the still
open spaces
flown from the mountain
floated down
far over ocean
where the sunset has begun
a mirror of itself

He sails high over
turning and turning
where seaplanes might run
where warplanes might burn

He wheels about burning
in the red sun
climbs and glides
and doubles back
upon himself
now over ocean
now over land
high over pinwheels stuck in sand
where a rollercoaster used to stand

soaring eagle setting sun

All that is left of our wildness

~~Seascape with Sun and Eagle.

♥ And the hummingbirds take flight
in a flurry of fear
a cloud of them all at once
humming away
into deep blue air
where the sky sucks up
their wingéd hum
and in the infinite distance
eats them

Even as a crowd of huge defiant
upstart crows
sets up a ravening raucous
caw! caw! caw!

and screams and circles overhead
and pickets the polluted air
as the metal monster power-drives
on up the canyon
and over the horizon

And the crows now too
wing away on wind
and are sucked up
and disappear
into the omnivorous universe

Even as any civilization
ingests its own most dissident elements

~~from Dissidents, Big Sur.

♥ Something had alienated him
and he would not go back
or was it perhaps
the wounded one on the bed
who kept him
I tried to get him to fasten onto
a crumpled page
of the local news
but he would not
And I must have hurt him doing that
for he fell on the bed
and died in an instant
stretching out his legs
or arms
as if to his comrade or lover
who crawled a quarter-inch toward him
and then hunched up
into a very small furry ball
and was still
and would not move again
As all at once outside
the hive hummed louder
with a million mild conformists
with wild antennas bent

Not one flew out to wake the dead

No messenger was sent

~~from Alienation: Two Bees.

♥ Long long I lay in the sands

Sound of trains in the surf
in subways of the sea
And an even greater undersound
of a vast confusion in the universe
a rumbling and a roaring
as of some enormous creature turning
under sea & earth
a billion sotto voices murmuring
a vast muttering
a swelling stuttering
in ocean's speakers
world's voice-box heard with ear to sand
a shocked echoing
a shocking shouting
of all life's voices lost in night
And the tape of it
somehow running backwards now
through the Moog Synthesizer of time
Chaos unscrambled
back to the first
harmonies

And the first light

~~A Vast Confusion.

♥ And I heard the learned astronomer
whose name was Heinrich Olbers
speaking to us across the centuries
about how he observed with naked eye
how in the sky there were
some few stars close up
and the further away he looked
the more of them there were
with infinite numbers of clusters of stars
in myriad Milky Ways & myriad nebulae

So that from this we may deduce
that in the infinite distances
there must be a place
there must be a place
where all is light
and that the light from that high place
where all is light
simply hasn't got here yet
which is why we still have night

But when at last that light arrives
when at last it does get here
the part of day we now call Night
will have a white sky
with little black dots in it
little black holes
where once were stars

And then in that symbolic
so poetic place
which will be ours
we'll be our own true shadows
and our own illumination
on a sunset earth

~~Olbers' Paradox.

♥ Night's black mirror is broken
the star crab has scuttled away
with the inkwell
into India

Dawn
sows its mustard seed

In the steep ravines and gulches
of Big Sur
small animals stir
under the tough underbrush
as sun creeps down the canyon walls
into the narrow meadows
where the wild quail
run & cluck

Daytime moon
after much reflection says

Sun is God

And the stream
standing still
rushes forward

~~Upon Reflection.

♥ dear son
do not wake
until I make
this poem about it

Then rise & shine
It
is your world

~~from Matinal

♥ Life itself like championship chess
dark players jousting
on a checkered field
where you have only
so much time
to complete your moves

And your clock running
all the time
and if you take
too much time
for one move
you have that much less
for the rest
of your life

And your opponent
dark or fair
(which may or may not be
life itself)
picking his nose or yours
or bugging you with his deep eyes
or obscenely wiggling his crazy eyebrows
or blowing smoke in your face
or crossing and recrossing his legs
or her legs
to reveal a crotch
with or without balls
or otherwise screwing around
and acting like some insolent invulnerable
unbeatable god
who can read your mind & heart

And one hasty move
may ruin you

..And there's still time—
Your move

~~from Deep Chess.

♥ Monet caught a Cloud in a Pond
in 1903
and got a first glimpse
of its lilies
and for twenty years returned
again and again to paint them
which now gives us the impression
that he floated thru life on them
and their reflections
which he also didn't know
we would have occasion
to reflect upon

~~from Monet's Lilies Shuddering.

♥ In scorched dry desert
where sun is god and god eats life
great god sun going down
pastes up immense red posters
on adobe walls
and then falls down
over the horizon
"with the flare of a furnace blast"
and the posters faded yellow
fall into darkness
leaving only shadows to prove
one more revolution has passed

~~Insurgent Mexico.

♥ My eyes encounter yours
over the crowd
Just a pair of eyes out there
in a far foto of faces
distant lamps
in a dark landscape
flickering
And the eyes speak—
in whatever tongue—
The poem ends
The eyes go on
burning
And there is applause out there
as on a dark sea
I hear it distantly
as in a sea shell—
shreds of sunlight blown—

~~from A Meeting of Eyes in Mexico.

♥ First of all
they steal the letters because
they sense that the General Song
of the words of everyone
hidden in these letters
must certainly hear the keys
to the heart itself of humanity
which the birds themselves
have never been able to fathom
(in fact entertaining much doubt
that there actually are
hearts in humans)

And then these birds have a further feeling
that their own general song
might somehow be enriched
by these strange cries of humans
(What a weird bird-brain idea
that our titterings might enlighten them)

♥ But now that Neruda is dead
no more such letters are written
and they must play it by ear again—
the high great song
in the heart of our blood & silence

~~from The General Song of Humanity.

♥ The phoenix flies higher & higher
above eight elegant people on a golf course
who have their heads stuck in the sands
of a big trap
One man raises his head and shouts
I am President of Earth. I rule.
You elected me, heh-heh. Fore!
A second man raises his head.
I am King of the Car.
The car is my weapon. I drive all before me.
Ye shall have no other gods.
Watch out. I'm coming through.
A third raises his head out of the sand.
I run a religion. I am your spiritual head.
Never mind which religion.
I drive a long ball. Bow down and putt.
A fourth raises his head in the bunker.
I am the General. I have tanks to conquer deserts.
And my tank shall not want. I'm thirsty.
We play Rollerball. I love Arabs.
A fifth raises his head and opens his mouth.
I am Your Master's Voice.
I rule newsprint. I rule airwaves, long & short.
We bend minds. We make reality to order.
Mind Fuck Incorporated.
Satire becomes reality, reality satire.
Man the Cosmic Joke. Et cetera.
A sixth man raises his gold bald head.
I'm your friendly multinational banker.
I chew cigars rolled with petro-dollars.
We're above nations. We control the control.
I'll eat you all in the end.
I work on margins. Yours.
A woman raises her head higher than anyone.
I am the Little Woman. I'm the Tender Warrior
who votes like her husband. Who took my breasts.
A final figure rises, carrying all the clubs.
Stop or I'll shoot a hole-in-one.
I'm the Chief of All Police. I eat meat.
We know the enemy. You better believe it.
We're watching all your paranoids. Go ahead & laugh.
You're all in the computer. We've got all
your numbers. Except one
unidentified flying asshole.
On the radar screen.
Some dumb bird.
Every time I shoot it down
it rises.

~~Eight People on a Golf Course and One Bird of Freedom Flying Over.

♥ Poets come out of your closets,
Open your windows, open your doors,
You have been holed-up too long
in your closed worlds.
Come down, come down
from your Russian hills and Telegraph Hills,
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
down from your foot hills and mountains,
out of your tepees and domes.
The trees are still falling
and we'll to the woods no more.
No time now for sitting in them
As man burns down his own house
to roast his pig.
No more chanting Hare Krishna
while Rome burns.
San Fransisco's burning,
Mayakovsky's Moscow's burning
the fossil-fields of life.
Night & the Horse approaches
eating light, heat & power,
and the clouds have trousers.
No time now for the artist to hide
above, beyond, behind the scenes,
indifferent, paring his fingernails,
refining himself out of existence.
No time now for our little literary games,
no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias,
no time now for fear & loathing,
time now only for light & love.
We have seen the best minds of our generation
destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.
Poetry isn't a secret society,
It isn't a temple either.
Secret words & chants won't do any longer.
The hour of oming is over,
the time for keening come,
time for keening & rejoicing
over the coming end
of industrial civilization
which is bad for earth & Man.
Time now to face outwards
in the full lotus position
with eyes wide open,
Time now to open your mouths
with a new open speech,
time now to communicate with all sentient beings,
All you "Poets of the Cities"
hung in museums, including myself,
All you poet's poets writing poetry
about poetry,
All you poetry workshop poets
in the boondock heart of America,
All you house-broken Ezra Pounds,
All your far-out freaked-out cut-up poets,
All you pre-stressed Concrete poets,
All your cunnilingual poets,
All your pay-toilet poets groaning with graffitti,
All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches,
All you masters of the sawmill haiku
in the Siberiaa of America,
All you eyeless unrealists,
All your self-occulting supersurrealists,
All you bedroom visionaries
and closet agitpropagators,
All you Groucho Marxist poets
and leisure-class Comrades
who lie around all day
and talk about the workingclass proletariat,
All you Catholic anarchists of poetry,
All you Black Mountaineers of poetry,
All you Boston Brahmins and Bolinas bucolics,
All you den mothers of poetry,
All you zen brothers of poetry,
All you suicide lovers of poetry,
All you hairy professors of poesie,
All you poetry reviewers
drinking the blood of the poet,
All you Poetry Police—
Where are Whitman's wild children,
where the great voices speaking out
with a sense of sweetness and sublimity,
where the great new vision,
the great world-view,
the high prophetic song
of the immense earth
and all that sings in it
And our relation to it—
Poets, descend
to the street of the world once more
And open your minds & eyes
with the old visual delight,
Clear your throat and speak up,
Poetry is dead, long live poetry
with terrible eyes and buffalo strength.
Don't wait for the Revolution
or it'll happen without you,
Stop mumbling and speak out
with a new wide-open poetry
with a new commonsensual "public surface"
with other subjective levels
or other subversive levels,
a tuning fork in the inner ear
to strike below the surface.
Of your own sweet Self still sing
yet utter "the word en-masse"—
Poetry the common carrier
for the transportation of the public
to higher places
than other wheels can carry it.
Poetry still falls from the skies
into our streets still open.
They haven't put up the barricades, yet,
the streets still alive with faces,
lovely men & women still walking there,
still lovely creatures everywhere,
in the eyes of all the secret of all
still buried there,
Whitman's wild children still sleeping there,
Awake and walk in the open air.

~~Populist Manifesto.