Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [12]
fields of weeds to
curl around the old
dead cornstalk that
is rattly crackly
deadbone & wreaths
it purple, softens it,
gives it a juicier
(THE WOODS ARE SHINING)
sound in the wind,
droops it, embraces
it, gives it the
Autumn kiss for
harvest stack farewell
— old Melancholy Frowse
is wound round in
Carolina in the
Morning —
The piercing blue of
the first Autumn
day, the woods
are shining, the
Nor’east wind making
ripples in the
flooded tarns — all
is lovely this Sunday morn.
The Weeping Willow
no longer hangs but
waves ten thousand
goodbyes in the
direction of the wind
— The clean
little tele. pole without
crossbars stands lost
in Carolina vegetations,
some of the corn half
its height, & that
lush forest of
Carolina backs it
solemnly & with
a promise — that
was here for boys killed
in Palau in 1944, boys —
that had sisters who
yet mourn this Sun.
morning — hope
that was there for
the strange Cherokee
— & now for me
that wanders round
my earth — amen.
Sitting in the middle
of the woods with
Little Paul, Princey
& Bob — Little foxy
Prince sits panting
— big mosquitos —
Big Bob panting
hard, tongue out,
licks his mouth,
blinks eye, big
tongue flapping over
sharp teeth —
drooling — Pine
needle floor is
brown, dry cracky
odorless —
blue sky
is sieve above
tangled dry
vining green heart
leafing trunking
cobwebbing —
now & then sway
massedly in upper
winds — Sun
makes joy gold
spots all over
The sand road
is blinding old —
many gnats —
cars raise storms
of dust — wind
sways grass
in ditch ridges —
straight thinpines
stand in vaulty
raw blue, clean —
Negroboys bike
by smiling —
Princey’s little
wet nose —
no more — no more —
Oh Princey, Bob,
Little Paul, woods
of Easonburg, no more
— (freedom of
the blue cities calls
me.)
SHORT TIC SKETCHES (TICS ARE FLASHES OF MEMORY OR DAYDREAM)
(1) Hartford — when I was
a boy poet & wrote
for myself — no
frantic fear of “not
being published,” but
the joy, the shining
morning, “This love
of mine” — leaves,
houses, Autumn — and
Immortality
(2) Hospital, 1951, letting
the images overwhelm
me, not rushing out
to lasso them &
getting all pooped
out — NOW Coach
(3) Oh when I was young &
had a pretty little Edie
in bright lavender
sweater to hug to
me — big breasts, thighs
warm, bending-to-me waist,
— now I’m cold as
the moon . . . no more women
for puffy-eyed Jack —
who once posed in a
button-down boy sweater
for a picture — When —
O when, reading the N.Y.
Times, he thought he
was learning everything —
& has learned but decay
only — & sadness of partings —
(4) Mr Whatsisname
in beat ragged coat
in r.r. office, has same
haggard anxious soulneglected
sorrow as
he searches among
ledgers, mouth open,
as my father in his
shop of old yore —
with glasses on
nose, blue eyes, —
O doom, death,
come get me! I cannot
live but to remember
— old puff lined
Jack, go put a
poor blanket of
dirt over your
noble nose.
Last night, under the
stars, I saw I belonged
among the big poets
(did I read that somewhere?)
(5) Raw, almost childlike
slowmotion dinosaur
ideas of 1947
bop on So. Main
L.A. — “You Came
To Me From out of
Nowhere” — The
ideas of serious basic
thinkers, young, energetic,
powerful — joy comes
from the really new —
Bird was like that, but
more & most complex
Be like Bird, find y.self
little story tunes to
string yr. complexities
along a wellknown line
or you will sound like
a crazy Tristano of
the Seymour-record
(Bartok — Bar Talk)
( Bela BarTalk)
— Bird has visions between
bridges — So do you
in visions between chapter
lines — — !!!
Shakespeare, Giroux’s
Shakespeare Opera
Books — simple — not
that simple but use
story-forms — or phooey,
do what you please —
Never will be bored in the
bottom — at the hut, the
secret room, the weed,
the mind — the daVinci
series —
I was in my mother’s
house, in winter — I was
writing “The Sea is My
Brother” — what have
I learned since then?
I have