Poetry Thursday: Elephants, Eyes, and Hands

I like this poem sequence from Primary Six. I found it while Googling a string that might perhaps sum up the week. I especially like this:



Song of the Elephant
by Stephanie

In the heat of the day,
An elephant tries to cool.

Its trunk which is as long as a tree,
And crinkled up like an old paper bag.


Or perhaps you are looking for professional poetry today. So try Peter Orlovsky's "Second Poem."

To wit:

Morning again, nothing has to be done,
                maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
              the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
               to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
  maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
  maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
room-land?
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
 disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
 or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
 or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
 two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
 that.
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
 its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
 a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
 around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
 makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
 flowers.

Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris

[wall mural via Virtual Boricua]