The Cloudpump

The Cloudpump

the black-tinted World-Spirit blows from carafes
wind-legs spreadout like fin and
wing in water and air
so that he damns himself decomposer juggler of his
bones cottonwool bridges
he who rolls fruits and rolls birds across the sky
and grinds guidestones like an organ
thus we climb out of him nothing holds us back
and measure twelve bushels of shadow three ells of owls
and are fathomdeep rosegrass
he seduced the swan
he reversed the watershed
he makes neither flowers or ado
he carries a small glass cask

vain is the crown of his head and his mind and carries
mountains and lustre within
at dawn-red at cannon-messinger he must die along with
his core and choir and individual voice
and taps the tuning forks on the thin trunks of his bodies'
nightteats
and mints his blood in small kettles
and splashes the angular night with stars
yes waxwardrobe weather-sheaf-chimes
and when someone doesn't want to there is someone who
wants to and must and can again and would like to and
fills the glasses to the rim and laughs and
neither feels nor smells the other therefore the cradles
rock quickly

Written by Hans/Jean Arp; founder of Dada.

Posted by Palmer April 2008

****Now that we have that straight, let's enjoy another fine dadaist poem by Hans Jean Arp:

Kaspar Is Dead by Jean Hans Arp

alas our good kaspar is dead.
who will bury a burning flag in the wings of the clouds who will pull
black wool over our eyes day by day.
who will turn the coffee mills in the primal barrel.
who will lure the idyllic roe from his petrified paperbag.
who will sneeze oceanliners unbrellas windudders beekeepers spindles
of ozone who will pick clean the pyramids' bones.
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. holy saint bong kaspar is dead.
the clappers raise heart-rending echoes of sorrow in the barns of the bells
when we murmur his name. therefore i will only sigh out his surname
kaspar kaspar kaspar.

why hast thou forsaken us. in what shape has thy lovely great soul taken
flight. hast thou changed to a star or a chain made of water in a tropical
whirlwind or a teat of black light or a transparent brick in a drum that
howls for its craggy existence.
now the soles of our feet and the crowns of our heads have dried up and
the fairies are lying half-charred on the funeral piles.
now the black bowling alleys thunder in back of the sun and no one is
setting a compass or spinning the wheelbarrow's wheels.
who will eat with the phosphorized rat on the lonely barefooted table.
who will chase the siroccoco devil that's trying to lead off our horses.
who will decipher the monograms scratched on the stars.
his bust shall adorn the mantels of people ennobled by truth through it
leaves but small comfort or snuff for his death's head.


Hey, I am starting to like this run-on free form style.

Glenn