9183. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 329

329. MAIDENS AND 

COSTUMES AND

KETTLES AND MEALS

I got haunted by

things - it was a

simple matter. I'd

stumble onto something

and it would captivate

my thoughts. Take

me over; and it still

happens today that

there are things startling

enough to stop me

dead. Consider this

Roman guy, a third-

century captive named

Regulus, or so the 

name and story goes,

who was executed in a

manner that  -  all other

things considered  -  

I found hideous and 

without human context 

at all  -  'his captors cut

out his eyelids, forcing

him to stare at the sun

until he went blind.'

I assume until he died.

Not exactly 'execution'

but I think that would

have been preferable.

I'd read of slave slayings

in NYC, blacks and such,

that were pretty brutal, 

in such unheard of 

fashions that, truly, 

made me blanch.

Burnings while alive,

skin being flayed, 

arms and limbs cut

off while tied to

execution pyres, 

crowds present and 

cheering it all on, 

announced dates

for public executions 

that became celebratory 

afternoons with people 

cheering, etc. Posted

times and dates for

afternoons out? What

kind of world was it 

that made what kind 

of place this was? I

realized I was walking 

on bones, nameless and

uncounted. I found two

of the announced

'execution grounds' and

realized that in that 

present day (1968, etc.)

they still existed but had

simply been moved on 

to other uses, with only

the most occasional story

or tale referencing them.

History then was a dark,

long blot, from that

direction : little of the

grace and fine aplomb

it most often gets made

into. Maidens and costumes

and kettles and meals.

-

It's difficult to

believe, but I

used to study

Poetry. A boring

subject to be sure,

with little at its

end except another

person's opinion or

thought. Or better

yet 'opinion of a

thought.' It was all

gibberish, in its way,

after a while. But

I went on. Think

of it this way : a

shadow-land with

a shadow-dweller

thinking too much

of things that don't

exist. That would be

me. Poetry, as an

exercise for 'study'

is a stupid dead-end;

but I did I anyway

because I wanted to 

learn it, or see it, 

from the inside and 

then walk it out. To

see what I could do.

What I could make 

of it. It was pretty

simple, and without 

a 'program' approach,

of the dreary sort by

which colleges, and even

readings and discussions,

claim to 'advance' 

poetry  -  as if there 

was something to 

advance. Most often 

I would take a poem, 

or even a piece or 

a section of one  - 

chosen maybe by 

chance, or randomly, 

or by some design  -  

and turn it back, or

or try to, into prose. 

As a way, I guess, 

of stating actually

what was happening 

or what was being 

portrayed  -  noting 

how many more 

words it took or 

would take to do 

it that way; what 

shortcuts were put 

in place by 'poetic' 

word-use instead 

(sometimes a curious 

poem-phrase could 

take the place of

ten or fifteen 

words, weirdly).

It was difficult, not

that easy at all, and

sometimes I'd just

'think' I had grasped a

something, and then 

by trying that method 

of playback, realize I

hadn't at all and that

once it was out of poetry

it was completely

un-relatable, almost

other-worldly. Poetry

was magic like that  -  

it bests language at

its own game.

-

There was one thing I

found (here's a good

for-instance)  -  by one

of those gushers who

do end up just giving

poetry a bad name. 

S. Foster Damon, was

his name. This was

his line :  'Thy mouth

is a fragrant wound 

of the twilight.' That

was written presumably

sincere in approach and

suitably abstract by

poetry standards to be

only encase-able as poetry.

Try as one might, there's

no real getting around

any means of turning that

back to a prose moment.

It is considerately, only,

and personally drawn as

a concrete, yet a quite

indefinite, poetry. Now,

the thought goes, 'but is

it defensible?' Does it

have a sure validity of

its own, as it stands?

Is it not a mere paradox?

I can only answer back,

well, maybe, but, who

knows? It taught me that

poetry can get 'around'

things, and sneak something

else in, through another

doorway or portal to

the mind.

-

Just like the place I was

walking, this was unspeakable.

A jagged line of anarchic,

symbolic, wild poetry, in the

place and the employ of

a land of such unspeakable 

stories and histories that

I was sometimes slaughtered

myself. 'Eyes wide open,'

as is said. A wild Christian 

hiding and fearful in some

catacomb of Roman-old

could be no more agape 

than was I.

-

There was an awful

lot of rapacious slaughter,

now that I think of it,

going on. New Yorkers

are pretty harsh and horrid

people, at least at that

time; the old-timers whose

lives and lineages went back

farther than most into some

of this old and distant New

York stories. I could almost

imagine the hideousness

of the street-emotions 

which could take people

over and have them flay

the skin of another, or

cut someone's eyelids out,

on the way, mind you, on

the way, to a further form

of execution and death.

As if it had to be done in

steps and sequence  -  like

a forty-second street movie

theater where you had to 

sit through the first B-movie

feature to get to the big

one you were actually 

there to see. Craziest stuff 

in the world : and rudest

and most callous people

I ever met too. This was

back when taxi-drivers

were still all crazy white

men bouncing off one or

another bum story, crummy

life or broken dream. 'Hey.

Yeah bud, where ya' wanna'

go?' Now, you can' hardly

find a white ordinary, older

American guy like that 

around anywhere, let 

alone behind the wheel 

of a NY cab. There were

times I'd end up talking

to someone and the language

out of his mouth, the accent,

the lilt, was so broadly Irish

or Scottish or something,

that I'd feel that I too was

in that distant world when 

all these brogues and tongues

had first landed here. That

was about 1741; then the

'Negro Revolt' burned the

old, original, city 

to the ground.
-
It was called 'The Slave 
Revolt' as well : New York 
city then had a few 
thousand. Listen up : 
'It was March 18, 1741.
Slave Revolt! A mysterious 
fire had broken out at the 
governor's house, and the
fort at the base of the
island had been set up
twice, and burned to
the ground. No one knew
who had done it; exactly a
week later, more fires 
began. One after another; 
van Zant's warehouse had 
burst into flames. And then
a black slave named Cuffee
was caught, running from
one of them. Tortured, 
he talked. A slave revolt.
There was an easy way of
getting slaves to confess.
Build a bonfire in a public
place, put the Negro on it,
light the bonfire, and ask
him questions. Slaves
were soon being 
accused, island-wide, 
and questioned in this 
manner, even the slaves 
of respectable people.
Two slaves, one belonging
to John Roosevelt the 
butcher, gave names and
confessions as they were
put to the fire, hoping
for escape thereby
 (which did not come).
Fifty more names came,
in the twinkling of an eye,
as the fires burned. None
were to be spared, since
the crowds, moved by their
natural feelings, threatened 
to riot themselves, if they
could not watch the
black men fry.'