Two chap books by James Weil, 1963 and 1965 from Frank's library

From "Sorrow's Spy"

"But ask not Bodies doom'd to die,
To what abode they go;
Since Knowledge is but sorrow's Spy,
It is not safe to know."
Sir William Davenant

Not holy wholly weaned from Plato
I feel bottled here, as though
informed I am informed upon.
Now all that cuddled once turns on
me to a curdle; what I know
is how I watch the world grow
to universe of discourse, cell
small as my own original.
Sour sucker for the tattler's teat,
barbarian again I beat
at metaphysic bars, dare doom,
delivery to workshop's womb.
_____________________________

4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - 0

I HEAR my son
refer to himself
in the third person
and to one
Cape Cannibal--
he doesn't speak well
for four.

Against him is
that blasted Atlas
farting his
way to heaven--a hell
of a way
to get there.

And having eaten
my heart
out, I talk
in a second
person, which
doesn't speak
well for me
either.
________________________

THE CURSE OF KING TUT'S TOMB
on which was inscribed: "Death shall
come on swift wings to him that touches
the tomb of a Pharaoh

So, what does it tell,
the Tut-tut scholars say,
that some who touched this fell
in love with windows?

It's not the falling-out
with legend heaven knows
that hurts me, nor those touched
as the story goes;

but how golden-gone
we are reading words as
a curse, ourselves cursed out
of touch with a touchstone.
___________________________

From "The Thing Said"

garden

please let me
dig demons

I wrestle
rock like an

angel dug
in & it

gives up hard
what in the

world would
an angel

do that for
_______________________

THEN

Sometimes there
is nothing

further from
a father

than his son
Then though my

son I hold
you closest

for being
beyond me
_________________________

THE POSTMAN'S DAY OFF,
I CELEBRATE

SUNDAY is
an empty
day. I don't

hear from my
friends. So I
must fill full

the day with
listening--
amaze at

how the birds
quarrel &
the boys sing

And when they
are shushed in
bed, may I

wonder how
the day is
accomplished

James Weil