The People, Yes Page 18
and the Encyclicals of the Popes?
Will somebody be coocoo then?
And if so, who??
84
In the chain store or the independent it is the people meeting the people: “Would you like to be waited on? Could I wait on you? Could I be of assistance? Is there something you would like? Is there something for you? Could I help you? Anything I can help you to? What will yours be? What can I get for you? What would you like? Is there something?”
The rodeo hoss wrangler, the airplane stunter,
the living cannonball shot from a gun,
die animal tamer amid paws and fangs—
they use up their luck ahead of time,
they bet their necks and earn a living:
they play fair with their seen galleries
the same as lone hunters and explorers
aim to please unseen acres of fine faces,
aim to tell about it later maybe
if a public cares to hear.
In this corner the spotlighted challenger,
in this corner the world’s heavyweight champ
along with camera boys grinding,
lads at the mikes giving round by round,
they aim to please,
to put it over big
for the fish on the spot,
for the many more fish beyond,
one sports writer quizzing another,
“How many of the fish are here?
“What’s your guess?”
The world series pitcher pets his arm,
prays he won’t get a glass arm:
he too strives to please:
he would like to put smoke on the ball
and throw a hitless game:
when the big-boy home-run hitter
has an off day and fans the air,
at the umpire’s cry “three strikes”
he may hear from the bleachers,
“Take the big bum out.”
One movie star arches her eyebrows
and refers to “my public.”
One soda-jerker arches his eyebrows,
curves malt-milk from shaker to glass
and speaks of “my public.”
The dance marathon winning couple
bow sleepy thanks to their public.
The fire department ladder truck driver
sees his public at a standstill
on the sidewalk curbs.
The going-going-gone jewelry auctioneer
plays to another public.
And at every street intersection
these publics intersect.
Ringmasters in top hats, clowns on mules,
circus riders in spangles,
little ladies doing somersaults on horses,
acrobat families in pink tights
sliding their own human toboggans—
the peanut, popcorn, and red lemonade sellers
they feel their crowds and read crowd moods.
“I know why I lost my crowd tonight,”
said a flame of an actor.
“I never can do anything with them
unless I love them.”
The breezes of surface change blow lightly.
The people take what comes, hold on, let go.
The high wheel bicycle was a whiz.
Eskimo pie raked in a lot of jack.
The tom thumb golf courses had a run.
Yo yo charmed till yo yo checked out.
The tree sitters climbed up, came down.
Sideburns, galways, handlebar mustaches, full beards,
they flitted away on winds whistling,
“Where are the snows of yesteryear?”
meaning snow and stage-snow, the phony and the real
gone to the second-hand bins, the rummage sales,
the Salvation Army wagons.
Stronger winds blow slow.
Trial balloons are sent up.
The public says yes, says no.
The whim of the public rides.
A hoarse cry carves events.
The platoon of police in uniform,
the drum-major with his baton
and a gold ball high in the air,
The silver cornet band, the fife-and-drum corps,
the Knights of Pythias in plume and gilt braid,
the speakers of the day with mounted escorts,
the fire department, the Odd Fellows, the Woodmen,
the civilian cohorts following the local militia,
American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars,
they march between sidewalks
heavy with a human heave,
heavy with vox populi.
“Me too, count me in.
“I want to belong.
“I do what’s regular.
“I’ll sign up.
“A trial package can’t hurt me.
“Here’s my name and dues.
“I’ll try anything once.”
This is the tune of today’s razzle-dazzle.
Tomorrow the tune is never quite the same.
Tomorrow’s children have it their own way.
When the yes-men no longer yes
or the no-men shift their no
anything is in the cards.
Ask the public relations counsel.
He is a shortstop and a scavenger
smooth as a big league umpire
cool as a veteran horse race jockey
cool as a cube of cucumber on ice.
He will tell you there is a public
and this public has many relations
and you can’t have too much counsel
when you’re trying to handle it.
Our ghost writers will ghost for you:
they write it, you hand it out
or you speak the speech written for you
and nobody knows but the ghost
and the ghost is paid
for helping you with your public.
The cheer leader struts his stuff,
wigwags the swaying grand stand,
throws himself into alphabetical shapes
trying to orchestrate his crowd:
the fads and fashions innovators,
the halitosis and body odor frighteners,
the skin and complexion fixers,
the cigarette ads lying about relative values.
the nazi imitators, the fascisti imitators,
the ku klux klan and the konklave’s wizard,
the makers of regalia, insignia, masks,
hoods, hats, nightshirts, skull-and-crossbones,
the spellbinder calling on all true patriots,
the soapboxer pleading for the proletariat,
the out-of-works marching marching
with demands and banners, “why? why?”
the strike leader telling why the men walked out,
the million-dollar-national-sales-campaign director,
the headache copy writer groping for one new idea,
the drive organizers planning their hoorah,
the neighborhood captains of tens and twenties,
the best-seller authors, the by-line correspondents,
the President at the White House microphone,
the Senators, Congressmen, spokesmen, at microphones—
Each and all have a target.
Each one aims for the ping ping
the bling bling of a sharpshooter.
Here is a moving colossal show,
a vast dazzling aggregation of stars and hams
selling things, selling ideas, selling faiths,
selling air, slogans, passions, selling history.
The target is who and what?
The people, yes—
sold and sold again
for losses and regrets,
for gains, for slow advances,
for a dignity of deepening roots.
85
One memorial scone reads:
“We, near whose bones you stand, were Iroquois.
Friendly hands have given us back enough for a tomb.”
Breeds run out
and shining names
no longer shine.
Tribes, clans, nations, have their hour,
Hang up their records and leave.
Yet who could chisel on a gravestone:
“Here lies John Doe,” or,
“Here rest the mortal remains of Richard Roe”
And then step back and read the legend and say,
“Can this be so when I myself am John Doe,
when I myself am Richard Roe”?
pack up your bundle now and go
be a seeker among voices and faces
on main street in a bus station at a union depot
this generation of eaters sleepers lovers toilers
flowing out of the last one now buried
flowing into the next one now unborn
short of cash and wondering where to? what next?
jobs bosses paydays want-ads groceries soap
board and clothes and a corner to sleep in
just enough to get by
when its lamplighting time in the valley
where is my wandering boy tonight
in the beautiful isle of somewhere
the latest extra and another ax murder
he’s forgotten by the girl he can’t forget
she lives in a mansion of aching hearts
tickets? where to? round trip or one way?
room rent coffee and doughnuts maybe a movie
suit-cases packsacks bandannas
names saved and kept careful
you mustn’t lose the address
and what’ll be your telephone number?
give me something to remember you by
be my easy rider
kiss me once before you go a long one
flash eyes testaments in a rush
underhums of plain love with rye bread sandwiches
and grief and laughter: where to? what next?
86
The people, yes, the people,
Until the people are taken care of one way or another,
Until the people are solved somehow for the day and hour,
Until then one hears “Yes but the people what about the people?”
Sometimes as though the people is a child to be pleased or fed
Or again a hoodlum you have to be tough with
And seldom as though the people is a caldron and a reservoir
Of the human reserves that shape history,
The river of welcome wherein the broken First Families fade,
The great pool wherein womout breeds and clans drop for restorative silence.
Fire, chaos, shadows,
Events trickling from a thin line of flame
On into cries and combustions never expected:
The people have the element of surprise.
Where are the kings today?
What has become of their solid and fastened thrones?
Who are the temporary puppets holding sway while anything,
“God only knows what,” waits around a corner, sits in the shadows and holds an ax, waiting for the appointed hour?
“The czar has eight million men with guns and bayonets.
“Nothing can happen to the czar.
“The czar is the voice of God and shall live forever.
“Turn and look at the forest of steel and cannon
“Where the czar is guarded by eight million soldiers.
“Nothing can happen to the czar.”
They said that for years and in the summer of 1914
In the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen
As a portent and an assurance they said -with owl faces:
“Nothing can happen to the czar.”
Yet the czar and his bodyguard of eight million vanished
And the czar stood in a cellar before a little firing squad
And the command of fire was given
And the czar stepped into regions of mist and ice
The czar travelled into an ethereal uncharted Siberia
While two kaisers also vanished from thrones
Ancient and established in blood and iron—
Two kaisers backed by ten million bayonets
Had their crowns in a gutter, their palaces mobbed.
In fire, chaos, shadows,
In hurricanes beyond foretelling of probabilities,
In the shove and whirl of unforeseen combustions
The people, yes, the people,
Move eternally in the elements of surprise,
Changing from hammer to bayonet and back to hammer,
The hallelujah chorus forever shifting its star soloists.
87
The people learn, unlearn, leam,
a builder, a wrecker, a builder again,
a juggler of shifting puppets.
In so few eyeblinks
In transition lightning streaks,
the people project midgets into giants,
the people shrink titans into dwarfs.
Faiths blow on the winds
and become shibboleths
and deep growths
with men ready to die
for a living word on the tongue,
for a light alive in the bones,
for dreams fluttering in the wrists.
For liberty and authority they die
though one is fire and the other water
and the balances of freedom and discipline
are a moving target with changing decoys.
Revolt and terror pay a price.
Order and law have a cost.
What is this double use of fire and water?
Where are the rulers who know this riddle?
On the fingers of one hand you can number them.
How often has a governor of the people first
learned to govern himself?
The free man willing to pay and struggle and die
for the freedom for himself and others
Knowing how far to subject himself to discipline
and obedience for the sake of an ordered society
free from tyrants, exploiters and
legalized frauds—
This free man is a rare bird and when you meet
him take a good look at him and try
to figure him out because