Dawn

    Who sleeps only four hours a night，

    I wake before dawn， dress and go down

    To my study to start typing：

    Poems， letters， more pages

    In the book of recollections.

    Anything to get words flowing，

    To get them out of my head

    Where they're pressing so hard

    For release it's like a kind

    Of pain. My study window

    Faces east， out over the meadow，

    And I see this morning

    That the sheep have scattered¹

    On the hillside， their white shapes

    Making the pattern of the stars

    In Canis Major， the constellation²

    Around Sirius， the Dog Star，

    Whom my father used to point

    Out to us， calling it

    For some reason I forget

    Little Dog Peppermint³.

    What is this line I'm writing？

    I never could scan in school.

    It's certainly not an Alcaic.

    Nor a Sapphic. Perhaps it's

    The short line Rexroth used

    In The Dragon & The Unicorn⁴，

    Tossed to me from wherever

    He is by the Cranky Old Bear

    （but I loved him）。 It's really

    Just a prose cadence⁵， broken

    As I breathe while putting

    My thoughts into words；

    Mostly they are stored-up

    Memories-dove sta memoria.

    Which one of the Italians

    Wrote that？ Dante or Cavalcanti？

    Five years ago I'd have had

    The name on the tip of my tongue

    But no longer. In India

    They ca1l a storeroom a godown，

    But there's inventory⁶

    For my godown. I can't keep

    Track of what's m there.

    All those people in books

    From Krishna & the characters

    In the Greek Anthology

    Up to the latest nonsense

    Of the Deconstructionists，

    Floating around in my brain，

    A sort of "continuous present"

    As Gertrude Stein called it；

    The world in my head

    Confusing me about the messy

    World I have to live in.

    Better the drunken gods of Greece

    Than a life ordained⁷ by computers.

    My worktable faces east；

    I watch for the coming

    Of the dawnlight， raising

    My eyes occasionally from

    The typing to rest them，

    There is always a little ritual，

    A moment's supplication⁸

    To Apollo， god of the lyre；

    Asking he keep an eye on me

    That I commit no great stupidity.

    Phoebus Apollo， called also

    Smintheus the mousekiller

    For the protection he gives

    The grain of the farmers. My

    Dawns don't come up like thunder

    Though I have been to Mandalay

    That year when I worked in Burma.

    Those gentle， tender people

    Puzzled by modern life；

    The men， the warriors⁹， were lazy，

    It was the women who hustled¹⁰，

    Matriarchs running the businesses.

    And the girls bound their chests

    So their breasts wouldn't grow；

    Who started that， and why？

    My dawns come up circumspectly¹¹，

    Quietly with no great fuss.

    Night was and in ten minutes

    Day is， unless of course

    It's raining hard. Then comes

    My first breakfast. I can't cook

    So it's only tea， puffed¹² wheat and

    Pepperidge Farm biscuits.

    Then a cigar. Dr Luchs

    Warned me the cigars

    Would kill me years ago

    But I'm still here today.