implore—
Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
SELECTIONS FROM
CHELSEA ROOMING HOUSE
BY H ORACE G REGORY
Chelsea
(Originally published in 1930)
L ONGFACE M AHONEY D ISCUSSES H EAVEN
If someone said, Escape,
let’s get away from here,
you’d see snow mountains thrown
against the sky,
cold, and you’d draw your breath and feel
air like cold water going through your veins,
but you’d be free, up so high,
or you’d see a row of girls dancing on a beach
with tropic trees and a warm moon
and warm air floating under your clothes
and through your hair.
Then you’d think of heaven
where there’s peace, away from here
and you’d go some place unreal
where everybody goes after something happens,
set up in the air, safe, a room in a hotel.
A brass bed, military hair brushes,
a couple of coats, trousers, maybe a dress
on a chair or draped on the floor.
This room is not on earth, feel the air,
warm like heaven and far away.
This is a place
where marriage nights are kept
and sometimes here you say, Hello
to a neat girl with you
and sometimes she laughs
because she thinks it’s funny to be sitting here
for no reason at all, except perhaps,
she likes you daddy.
Maybe this isn’t heaven but near
to something like it,
more like love coming up in elevators
and nothing to think about, except, O God,
you love her now and it makes no difference
if it isn’t spring. All seasons are warm
in the warm air
and the brass bed is always there.
If you’ve done something
and the cops get you afterwards, you
can’t remember the place again,
away from cops and streets—
it’s all unreal—
the warm air, a dream
that couldn’t save you now.
No one would care
to hear about it,
it would be heaven
far away, dark and no music,
not even a girl there.
T IME AND I SIDORE L EFKOWITZ
It is not good to feel old
for time is heavy,
time is heavy
on a man’s brain,
thrusting him down,
gasping into the earth,
out of the way of the sun
and the rain.
Look at Isidore Lefkowitz,
biting his nails, telling how
he seduces Beautiful French Canadian
Five and Ten Cent Store Girls,
beautiful, by God, and how they cry
and moan, wrapping their arms
and legs around him
when he leaves them
saying:
Good bye,
good bye.
He feels old when he tells
these stories over and over,
(how the Beautiful Five and Ten Cent Store
Girls go crazy when he puts on
his clothes and is gone),
these old lies
that maybe nobody at all believes.
He feels old thinking how
once he gave five
dollars to a girl
who made him feel like other men
and wonders if she is still alive.
If he were a millionaire,
if he could spend five dollars now,
he could show them how
he was strong and handsome then,
better than other men.
But it is not good to feel
Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
SELECTIONS FROM
CHELSEA ROOMING HOUSE
BY H ORACE G REGORY
Chelsea
(Originally published in 1930)
L ONGFACE M AHONEY D ISCUSSES H EAVEN
If someone said, Escape,
let’s get away from here,
you’d see snow mountains thrown
against the sky,
cold, and you’d draw your breath and feel
air like cold water going through your veins,
but you’d be free, up so high,
or you’d see a row of girls dancing on a beach
with tropic trees and a warm moon
and warm air floating under your clothes
and through your hair.
Then you’d think of heaven
where there’s peace, away from here
and you’d go some place unreal
where everybody goes after something happens,
set up in the air, safe, a room in a hotel.
A brass bed, military hair brushes,
a couple of coats, trousers, maybe a dress
on a chair or draped on the floor.
This room is not on earth, feel the air,
warm like heaven and far away.
This is a place
where marriage nights are kept
and sometimes here you say, Hello
to a neat girl with you
and sometimes she laughs
because she thinks it’s funny to be sitting here
for no reason at all, except perhaps,
she likes you daddy.
Maybe this isn’t heaven but near
to something like it,
more like love coming up in elevators
and nothing to think about, except, O God,
you love her now and it makes no difference
if it isn’t spring. All seasons are warm
in the warm air
and the brass bed is always there.
If you’ve done something
and the cops get you afterwards, you
can’t remember the place again,
away from cops and streets—
it’s all unreal—
the warm air, a dream
that couldn’t save you now.
No one would care
to hear about it,
it would be heaven
far away, dark and no music,
not even a girl there.
T IME AND I SIDORE L EFKOWITZ
It is not good to feel old
for time is heavy,
time is heavy
on a man’s brain,
thrusting him down,
gasping into the earth,
out of the way of the sun
and the rain.
Look at Isidore Lefkowitz,
biting his nails, telling how
he seduces Beautiful French Canadian
Five and Ten Cent Store Girls,
beautiful, by God, and how they cry
and moan, wrapping their arms
and legs around him
when he leaves them
saying:
Good bye,
good bye.
He feels old when he tells
these stories over and over,
(how the Beautiful Five and Ten Cent Store
Girls go crazy when he puts on
his clothes and is gone),
these old lies
that maybe nobody at all believes.
He feels old thinking how
once he gave five
dollars to a girl
who made him feel like other men
and wonders if she is still alive.
If he were a millionaire,
if he could spend five dollars now,
he could show them how
he was strong and handsome then,
better than other men.
But it is not good to feel
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