Weldon Kees

Weldon Kees

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Harry Weldon Kees (February 24, 1914 – disappeared July 18, 1955) was an American poet, painter, literary critic, novelist, playwright, jazz pianist, short story writer, and filmmaker.
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The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead
Raked in piles, the wicker
Creaking
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—That spot of blood on the drawing room wall,
No larger than a thumbnail when I looked a moment ago,
Is spreading,
Cousin Agatha, and growing brighter
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Then walk the floor, or twist upon your bed While bullets, cold and blind, rush backward from the target’s eye,
And say, “I will not dream that dream again
I will not dream Of long-spent whispers vanishing down corridors That turn throug...
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To build a quiet city in his mind:
A single overwhelming wish; to build,
Not hastily, for there is so much wind,
So many eager smilers to be killed,
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“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time
But the fire roared and died, the phoenix quacked like a goose,
And all roads to the country fray like shawls Outside the dusk of suburbs
...
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The middle is the place to stand If there can be one solid spot,
Undoubted, in that damaged land
Two schools exist; one says there is No region lacking hazard, pain,
And fear; the other mentions plains Enclosed For those Wanting mor...
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"A equals X," says Mister One
"A equals B," says Mister Two
"A equals nothing under the
But A," says Mister Three
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The surgical mask, the rubber
Are singed, give off an evil smell
You seem to weep more now that
Spreads everywhere we look
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It must have been in March the rug wore through
Now the day passes and I
At warped pine boards my father's father nailed,
At the twisted grain
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Under the bunker, where the reek of kerosene Prepared the marriage rite, leader and whore,
Imperfect kindling even in this wind, burn on
Someone in uniform hums Brahms
Servants
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"Wondrous life
" cried Marvell at Appleton House
Renan admired Jesus Christ "wholeheartedly
"But here dried ferns keep falling to the floor,
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For a
Let it be enough:
The responsive smile,
Though effort goes into it
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1
Iron, sulphur, steam: the wastes         Of all resorts like this have left their traces
Old canes and crutches line the walls
Light         Floods the room, stripped from the pool, broken         And shimmering like scales
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When the
Gave out, we
Burning the books, one by one;
First the
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Over the river and through the woods To grandmother’s house we go
She waits behind the bolted door,
Her withered face in thirty pieces,
While blood runs thin, and memory,
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In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for
To pick the cat's brains and descendA weedy hill
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