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Be the first to ask a question about Packing Up for Paradise. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Jul 19, mwpm rated it really liked it Shelves: poetry. From On the Way to the Exit If reincarnation gives me a choice I shall come back as a wind - as a freelance breeze on the go wherever my gusto takes me.

To be an invisible meddler on errands on airy caprice - to dance roughshod on the ocean, wrestle a forest or a wheat field, whistle under doors and garments, life eagles aloft in my arms - what livelier sport could there be? When I come back as a wind I will blow down the barriers of shame and kiss every mouth I desire. Button button, what good is my button? Does it hold me together, fasten me right? I pull it, I push it, I try to unhinge it and yet it just sticks in there tight. Do Mommy and Poppy both have one? Does it have some use when you grow up tall? What the heck do I do with it now and why is it on my anatomy?

I'm beginning to learn what things can be done with the other parts that are part of me. But button button, what good is a button that doesn't unbutton at all? So are we all, in our labyrinths. Is inert sorrow plugged in to stay? A plow to break the otiose, please!


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For a furbelow of freedom if nothing more. No breathing room in these lap-dog kennels? Merely speedier crutches of newer driftwood to go hopping again around the mirrors with a woodener pout to whittle at? A little arson, please, a little aerification to dare some miracle of small surprises!

At least a bauble, at least! Or so are we stalled, in our labyrinths. Is he the mistress of your insoluble question? Warning He is addicted to effrontery He can mess up the neatest arrangements He can make certain that your squirmings engulf you He is a harmless rascal He is a revolutionary harlot He offers you nothing less than the risk of everything He desires all your desires He prickles with fecundity Cinningest of cunts cockadoodle of all cocks he will dive for treasure in your deep vaginas he will grasp your testes and play ball with heaven What more could you want?

What are you afraid of? Does no one here wish to embrace the Celestial Totality? Does no one want to live out the whole holy story? Is there something dull about the innocent? That your simple glowing is a glow too pure, and an irritant? Were I a reforming pagan or Blake's holy child I might come to you to play at angles incorruptible, in the childhood of a world set its age aside and embrace a maid demure with dulcet mood inviolable.

Though the world looks dancing candy to the green-armed amateur, I, a Peter Pan unlikely, now prefer more bitter sweets. So, despite your simple glowing both adorable and innocent, purity that bores is strictly God's divertissement. It was the Worm who said to me, Do you seek the ultimate mystery of where the Inmost Light may dwell?

I'm never asked, but I could tell. Men search for it in starry places, in cloistered cells, in pretty faces. But they go looking with eyelids shut. I tell you glory lives in the gut. Within that dark metamorphic maze Heaven and Hell conjointly blaze. What else gives light to Eternity? I asked the Sea how deep things are: O said She, that depends upon how far you want to go.

Well, I have a sea in me, said I, do you have a me in you? I'll look, said the Sea but that's apt to go rather deep. And she broke a wave over my foot.

Packing Up for Paradise: Selected Poems 1946-1996

Yes, She said, Yes No no, said I, I want to know how to be strong like you. Basking in the sunbath of your libido my epidermis can't tell night from day Winds whistle through my urethra my pressure points bulge and quiver my pubic hairs stand on end I get out of breath trying to sit still Can't we move to a neighborhood of lovers slip out of our blistered skins fill the house with ragas and Clicquot and make a habit of mutual excess?

We have enough heating equipment to furnish every room with astonishment - Sunburn Serenade , pg. This is It. Do not ask where we go from here Nobody knows Some think they do bu nobody really knows anything about anything We are only gurgles in the stream and the stream doesn't know where it is going either It is just going It is just going with its nature as far as that will take it And with its nature it has to take along a horde of gurgles who are forever asking where they are gurgling to Everything is going beautifully nowhere - Gurgles , pg. An old fondler an old giggler here I go again on my annual hop.

As long as I can bounce I'm unsinkable. Pass me the buck Pass me the unbuckled! Love's the best rundown for the aches of mortality. I travel with a light foot with two feet when I can get them off to rescue the joy of life. Watch out leadfooted pigheads! To uplift my legwork I quirk for a living, I keep my crackpot on a constant simmer. For my fizzles and botches I refuse to apologize. I can still manage a trill and keep my toes tapping. So I go on humming and strumming and herming and sperming as if my life depended on it. Because it does! Oli Hazzard. From Me to You. George Whipple.

John Ashbery. All One Horse. Breyten Breytenbach. The Fringe Poetry Cafe. The Fringe. An Ordinary Dog. Gregory Woods. Imaginary Menagerie. Ailbhe Darcy.

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To Hell with Paradise: New and Selected Poems

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