Lament for the March King
I weep for Philip Sousa — He is dead!
“Come quietly, John,” they said,
tapping that quick-step man with his own baton,
who with a whomp of the drum dropped feet-first down
where in buttons and braid and honor he leads the band.
one of that underground
whose flutes are rusty with dirt,
whose piccolos wheeze,
whose horns and bassoons are pitched an octave low,
marching in double columns under the earth
while along the sides in rows
the ants all wiggle their ends,
crickets, beetles, and moles
whistle the Stars and Stripes
Forever, and clapping their soundless palms
ghosts stand up and cheer.
“Come quietly, John,” they said,
tapping that quick-step man with his own baton,
who with a whomp of the drum dropped feet-first down
where in buttons and braid and honor he leads the band.
one of that underground
whose flutes are rusty with dirt,
whose piccolos wheeze,
whose horns and bassoons are pitched an octave low,
marching in double columns under the earth
while along the sides in rows
the ants all wiggle their ends,
crickets, beetles, and moles
whistle the Stars and Stripes
Forever, and clapping their soundless palms
ghosts stand up and cheer.
II I am out of step with my times —
old-fashioned
and a patriot,
who from the Alaskan hills waged the Korean War,
scanning the Nome Gazette for Intelligence,
and before, after, and since,
an optimist
fought at the hot gates, in the salt marshes
the Wasteland, Spengler, and Doom,
while over a sinking heart and a sinking head
the headlines grow,
and who could do battle almost
for Goodness, Beauty, and Truth,
if only the drums and cymbals
would thunder loudly enough,
the fifes tootle and swirl,
marching single file down my enemies’ throats
(where in the dark they lie weeping)
and tickle their ribs
with trombones.
old-fashioned
and a patriot,
who from the Alaskan hills waged the Korean War,
scanning the Nome Gazette for Intelligence,
and before, after, and since,
an optimist
fought at the hot gates, in the salt marshes
the Wasteland, Spengler, and Doom,
while over a sinking heart and a sinking head
the headlines grow,
and who could do battle almost
for Goodness, Beauty, and Truth,
if only the drums and cymbals
would thunder loudly enough,
the fifes tootle and swirl,
marching single file down my enemies’ throats
(where in the dark they lie weeping)
and tickle their ribs
with trombones.
III The lions have shabbier coats
each year. More and more
they resemble Bert Lahr.
With ads and coloring books
the clowns peddle their jokes,
and over impregnable nets
the queens of the high wires dangle
and fall —
lewd clusters of balloons.
But surely the band is of all
most beat —
the braid stripped from their coats,
striped trousers patched,
neither shoulders, hands, nor feet
moving
as they play,
with incredible lack of zeal,
the sharps and flats and rests
of the wrong notes.
Do you love a parade, dear John?
To get a parade these days
you must murder the President,
then sit for hours in black
while over confetti screens the caissons go —
Adagio, Lento, Grave.
Corelli, Torelli, Vivaldi
at double p,
they sip their whiskey sours,
staring with gloom-lit voices
over the lawns
where the power mowers whine,
where shadows grow —
Sartre McLuhan and Dread.
each year. More and more
they resemble Bert Lahr.
With ads and coloring books
the clowns peddle their jokes,
and over impregnable nets
the queens of the high wires dangle
and fall —
lewd clusters of balloons.
But surely the band is of all
most beat —
the braid stripped from their coats,
striped trousers patched,
neither shoulders, hands, nor feet
moving
as they play,
with incredible lack of zeal,
the sharps and flats and rests
of the wrong notes.
Do you love a parade, dear John?
To get a parade these days
you must murder the President,
then sit for hours in black
while over confetti screens the caissons go —
Adagio, Lento, Grave.
Corelli, Torelli, Vivaldi
at double p,
they sip their whiskey sours,
staring with gloom-lit voices
over the lawns
where the power mowers whine,
where shadows grow —
Sartre McLuhan and Dread.
IV Marching can be absurd.
Imagine us all stripped down —
tools of the men
thwacking their thighs in rhyme with a Scotch burr,
breasts of the women bobbing,
inflatable globes —
To procreate their kind
only birds must sing,
but we —
who perch on the world’s end
as on the end of an egg
and stare at the yellow stain
of misery —
what do we have to do
with trumpets,
Maestoso,
and joy?
Imagine us all stripped down —
tools of the men
thwacking their thighs in rhyme with a Scotch burr,
breasts of the women bobbing,
inflatable globes —
To procreate their kind
only birds must sing,
but we —
who perch on the world’s end
as on the end of an egg
and stare at the yellow stain
of misery —
what do we have to do
with trumpets,
Maestoso,
and joy?
V The trees are still marching, dear John,
over the hills,
and over the sun-wet fields
ranks of the wind,
and in the sky, bright-armed,
the gold-capped leader goes,
and through the rooms go I,
my children ranked behind,
mocking with clockwork limbs
and rhetorical features me —
“To the right flank, March, to the rear!” —
over tables, sofas, chairs
and upright over the walls,
our ribs resounding joy,
our feet pounding in rhyme,
while down our sweat-flushed faces run tears
for all of those things gone down below
that are marching still.
over the hills,
and over the sun-wet fields
ranks of the wind,
and in the sky, bright-armed,
the gold-capped leader goes,
and through the rooms go I,
my children ranked behind,
mocking with clockwork limbs
and rhetorical features me —
“To the right flank, March, to the rear!” —
over tables, sofas, chairs
and upright over the walls,
our ribs resounding joy,
our feet pounding in rhyme,
while down our sweat-flushed faces run tears
for all of those things gone down below
that are marching still.