WILLIAM WANTLING

POEM SELECTION

Poems from The Awakening (1968)

THE AWAKENING I found the bee as it fumbled about the groundIts leg mangled, its wing torn, its sting goneI picked it up, marvelled at its insistence to continue on, despite the dumb brute thing that had occurredI considered, remembered the fatal struggle the agony on the face of wounded friends and the same dumb drive to continueI became angry at the unfair conflict suffered by will and organismI became just, I became unreasoned, I became extravagantI observed the bee, there, lying in my palmI looked and I commanded in a harsh and angry shout – STOP THAT!Then it ceased to struggle, and somehow suddenly became marvellously whole, and it arose and it flew awayI stared, I was appalled, I was overwhelmed with responsibility, and I knew not where to begin.   

WITHOUT LAYING CLAIM without laying claimto an impossible innocenceI must tell you howin the midst of that crowdwe calmly pulled the pinsfrom six grenadesmumbling an explanationeven we didn’t believe& released the spoonsa lump in our throats.  

PUSAN LIBERTY the 6 x 6 bounces me down thewashboard roads, I see the sun-eaten walls of Korea, mygirl-wife & child in mud & straw hut back in Taegu & hereI am meeting the SEAL as he sits on his roller-skate cartminus arms & legs but beneath his ass a million $’s worthof heroin – I make my buy walk through the 10,000 cam-era market-place, jeeps for sale, people for sale, I’m even for sale as I find the porch of Cutie’s suckahatchihouse and fix, sitting in the sun on the adobe veranda, thetwo Chinese agents come around to make their buy, 2 youngboys, they’re hooked bad & I charge them too much – we sitthere and fix, I fix again, the so-called Enemy & I, but just3 angry boys lost in the immense absurdity of War and state suddenfriends who have decided that our hatred of Government exceedsour furthest imaginable limits of human calculation.  

INITIATION What we doing, being cool?That argument Kitten, on the freewayI couldn’t keep up our habits andWe cruised along sick, seeking magicAnd you said – Hit some chump over his headBut I didn’t dig that so you offeredTo find some good tricks I got hot, indignant like a square with tearsAnd you felt pity, saying  - Don’t cry Daddy, it’s justanother way to burn a sucker.   POETRY I’ve got to be honest. I canmake good word music and rhyme at the right times and fit wordstogether to give people pleasure and even sometimes take theirbreath away – but it always somehow turns out kind of phoney.Consonance and assonance and inner rhyme won’t make up for the factthat I can’t figure out how to get down on real paper the real or the truewhich we call life. Like the other day. The other day I was walkingon the lower exercise yard here at San Quentin and this cat calledTurk came up to a friend of mine

 and said Ernie, I hear you’reshooting on my kid. And Ernie told him So what, punk? And Turkpulled out his stuff and shanked Ernie in the gut only Ernie had aMetal tray in his shirt. Turk’s shank bounced right off him andErnie pulled his stuff out and of course Turk didn’t have a tray andcaught it dead in the chest, a bad one, and the blood that came to hislips was a bright pink, lung blood, and he just laid down in the grassand said Shit. Fuck it. Sheeit. Fuck it. And he laughed a longtime, softly, until he died. Now what could consonance or assonance oreven rhyme do to something like that?.  THE DAY THE DAM BURST & what if the dam shouldsuddenly burstIf suddenly I should runheadlong, frothing, haphazardlyhurling shrapnel grenadesinto high-noon crowds? if suddenly tossing asidethe dead ugly ache of itall, I equalled the senselesswith my brute senseless act? O My, wouldn’t Ishine? wouldn’tI shine then?wouldn’t it be I then whohad created Godat last?. 

 FOR THE PEYOTE GODDESS This is the comic endAll the paths, all thechances, all the choicesall the decisions, and soI took the exact ones atevery little crossroadsactually the only oneswhich would place me atthis terminal pointin order to dwell withmyself where, in the coldlight of consciousness, the barrenness of the world extendseven to the starsand so I forgot the dream ofearth – but the dream oncearound again became thereality – and we are living our dreams and perhaps, Ahdreaming our lives You knew, didn’t you?All the time I was onmy pale horse, my idiotother self, you knew thatwe were really one. Andif that knowledge seemedlike a poor solution tome, you knew it was theonly possible answer. So to help me into the mergingwhich is our only goal, youdestroyed the phony drama ofmy life, all the narcissistic solutions, the foolish oldlies I told myself, the palerationalisations, you tookthem all up in your delicatefist and dashed them to theearth, THE EARTH, and youleft me with the words whichwould only make sense afteryou were irremedially gone – ‘Let a man listen to his dreamso he may hear the story of all

men and let him say as he didwhen he was a child: This istrue; it does not matter whatthey tell me.’  DIRGE IN SPRING Therehigh on a hilla man plows his field.The sun warm, the day stilland the airstill also, a shieldfor the earth.

And belowblind from new birthhide the young of a hare.Crouched in the lairsoft, without willthey dream. The doe runsfast over the field, turnsbefore the plow, urgingthe man to take up her dare.He is blind to her. Without concernor rancor, he rips the soft dream.His plow a high screamin her ear, the doe runs on.It is not rarefor such to be rippedfrom the lair of life.And the man?   THE DEATH OF CARYL CHESSMAN Little did I know, thenThe price of my revengeIf someone had foretoldThose long years of quiet terror and grey steelI would have shrugged and laughed, saying‘A hard price for having my way with a virgin.’Then the long years beganAnd setting aside my hot dreams of gloryI came to understand…

 So they bathed my body with Gas  LETTER FROM KICKAPOO (pop. 250) I’mhiding outfrom the heat here this timethey want mefor Living without Believingfor Working without SlaveryPlaying without Misery please don’t give me away?   FOR A NORDIC CHILD You are a cold northern woman from a coldnorthern land, a dark land, windy & wildwith mist-shrouded cliffs and constanthunger, where the wolves howl from snow-torn ledges. I see your ancestors, the race of blond ones that sprang from strangedistant places. The Cro-Magnon hunchesover a small fire in the crevice of a cliff.He rips his meat in blood chunks & searchesan early dusk with grey falcon eyes. Astir in the cave behind him catches thecorner of his eye & he sees again the lush virgin being prepared for the Old Manof the tribe. Her golden hair is beinggreased & braided by the old crones, butshe smiles cunningly at the fire watcher.Her eyes are blue. She licks her lips &it is the meat she smiles for, the antici-pation of it, warm and blood-odored. Butthe fire-watcher, young, stronger than any,has another hunger. Power is his goad, &lust, now that his cruder hunger is appeas-ed. He moans in back of his throat & rises,yellow-furred form hunched, holds the warmjuiced chunk of meat before him & approachesthe rear of the cave. The crones have seenthis happen before. They scurry away. The

girl smiles again, victoriously, reachesout for the warm odored offering & tears itwith her small, sharp, milk-white teeth asthe fire-watcher pushes her down & takesher there on the rock strewn ground. When this tale has reached the Old Man & he roars his anger down upon them, the fire-watcher kills him in sudden crushing com-bat and his power is born. These were yourancestors. This is you, now, with layerupon layer of concepts added. And it fas-cinates me.   ‘AT THE MARKET-PLACE’ at the market-placewe sell many thingsincluding love & couragebut these you must bring

with you& pay for as you leave     FOR A GIRL WHO DOESN’T LIKE HER NAME You are young and slender and sitting straightin the seat as you peer at me over the edge of your glass- Call me Kim, you say- I think Camille sounds so silly O Baby you don’t know how good Camille sounds to this poor simple poet Camille Camille Camille Camille How it runs over my tongue like butter and honeyand how it calls out to the butter of your hairand the cream and honey of your long full legsand the cool look on your tangerine lips (To really get crude Baby, how it goes with

droolandfruit

 Camille Camille Camille Camille (Cream Honey Butter Fruit Drool Camille

Hoo !Ha !

Oboy ! I’m a dog)

 But wait – even poets can be serious – it’s

permitted once in a whileDon’t you know Baby, how your legs will changeand the butter will run out of your hair and

the cream and honey will leave you Even the cool tangerine lips will lose their

cool smileYou’ll grow old and none will remember youas

I see you nowUnless they can let Camille Camille Camillerun over their tongues and know as I knowwhen I hear how you once were and howit sounds and looks and smells to me now 

  LEMONADE 2c Kathy was myfirst customernaturally, Iturned her onfreeshe put hercool hand inmineled me to herdark & sweatycellarkissed meLord, how ourlips trembledhow bitter-sweet& coolthat lemonade  

TIME AND THE CITYSOME SEVENTEEN SYLLABLE COMMENTS

 1 

On the freewayI follow redglow taillights

to my city of glass 2 

I was not here yesterdayalso

I will not be here tomorrow 3 

Will you please explain thisI hate youI fear you

I return always 4 

The pain of your peopletears my flesh

Still…There is the hour before dawn

 5 

I will not be here yesterdayalso

I was not here tomorrow 

Poems from Sick Fly and from 10,000 r.p.m. & digging it, yeah!

From Sick Fly (1970) IT WAS TUESDAY MORNING It was Tuesday morningI was flunking out of schoolThe February sun was hazyI went to bed with 2 jugs of white portto drink myself asleepbut I kept flashing back to the day before…I kept letting my dog off her chain& she kept running out in the yard tochase the gasoline tanker& she kept clipping under the rear wheels& she kept yelping with surprise as shesat in the road with her guts hanging outbetween her back legs & her eyesnever stopped looking at me with shamed surpriseas if she’d got caught shitting on the rug& then the sun was bouncing off her eyeslike a handball off a blank concrete wallflicker / flicker deathflickerThen Dan came over with some Neso & AcidI dropped 2 caps & a tab & waited but itstarted doing some real bad thingsSo I borrowed a nickel from Dan & jumped on my bikeIt took 2 months to ride the half-mileto the liquor store & the fifth of 100-proofvodka kept muttering under its breathduring the 100-mile ride homethings like- We’re gonna get you Wantling, yournumber is really up this time, baby…& to stop its goddamn muttering I slammedits neck against a bus-stop bench & chug-a-luggedit but it kept muttering, stupidly, instead ofwarm there was an icy thing in my belly muttering& the flashbacks were coming on faster nowlike some strobe-light gone mad with the prophecyIt was me in the road with my guts hanging out

& I was hung up on the pain, the shame, thesurprise in my eyesI couldn’t see the road anymore…Maybe my bike knew the way home all by itselfAnyway, I was there, back in the bedroombut the muttering was louder nownervous, ugly& I went for all the old pills I’d stashedwhen I wasn’t sure what they wereThere was half a handful, all colors& I dropped them & wished the sweatwould stop running down my back legs& hoped I wouldn’t puke till the pillsbegan to workBut after a while things started comingout of the cornersmutteringcoming straight for me& I looked down, curious, to see thedot inside my left wristwiden into a black rotting ring& then the artery jumped out& started gushing blood 2 feet into the airThen the blood turned to pus& the muttering steadied into a loud hum nowcrackling with shrieks and static& beneath it somewhere there was a drumThere were 10,000 steel heeled bootsstomping out a refrain- Now now now now It’s your turn now…& I guess some of the shrieks were minefor 2 days later my wife found me underthe bed curled up in a ball, covered with shit& vomitBut here I am now fairly calmfull of tranquilizers & group therapyIt evidently wasn’t my turn after allWhat I wonder is, why all the hassle?Why all the bullshit?I never wanted to be a poet, anywayI’d carry a lunchbox like everybody elseif only the muttering would stop   

RUNE FOR THE DISENCHANTED What if:  - In a moment of pure terror I refused the call of beauty by stuffing banknotes in my ear? - In a moment of pure agony I leapt into a vat of molten gold? - In a moment of pure vision I woke from out my lonely dream? - In a moment of pure compassion I refused to hate my enemy? - In a moment of pure decision I called our game a draw - In a moment of pure sophistication I refused to play my role & pierced my ears with seashells? - In a moment of pure understanding I howled with laughter which never ceased, flinging roses all about me? - In a moment of pure inspiration I began to love my dream of life, and thus resumed my game and role?  FOR MARY ON LENT From your belly stepped a Kingsoared in gold above the mooncaught again the silver ringand we turned Him to your womb Yet when I saw your clumsy Kingwho once could leap like versethorned to that wasted tree, hangingthin and droning, terse, classic, veiledand numb, dwindling beneath Hiswailing, grave, and cindered sun, whythen I, who come so cold now, Iam told a warped and crimson robeof fiery embers rose, rose in thatswift-winged mass, rose high And the kite I flythe clumsy kite I chose

while playing in the grasshas not yet reached the sky…   From 10,000 r.p.m. and digging it, yeah! (1973) THE HEAD SHOP the head shopis getting ripped off so regulartheres hardly enuf breadto pay salaries at the endof the monthso I put up a blacklight sign

‘if you come in here to rip offcause you know we wontcall the Man, yr burning yrown Bros & Sisters – thisplace supports 7 Freaks’

then we split to Rick’s &he breaks out his Lebanese hash &Marcie feels bad aboutcharging me $3 for 2 tabs ofSunshine but cant get off herbusiness is business hangup, cantjust give it to me but smiles &digs out a gram of hash & presses itinto my hand for a bonus & wedo it up too & and I’m following heraround the pad hoping for somethingeven sweeter but then her manslides in the front door & I pick upthe look in her eyes & dig thatwith just a little shovein the right direction Marciewill let her man back in, so I hum and haw a bit, say how I’vegot to get to class…Rick doesn’t want me to ride mybicycle to campus, thinks I’m toostoned – Marcie offers to drive mebut I tell her I dropped the Sunshinewith all intentions of making this bicycle ride the hi spot of mytrip – secretly proud that I dontpush for making it with her, thenpeddle off toward campus, stop atthe liquor store, buy a pint ofwhite port for insurance

in case the Trip gets too far outknowing I have no downers at home &believing in being prepared & thenpeddle off again, am onlyabout a mile down the blackroad when the moon comes outfull, the mercury-vapour street-worldstage – God, or something, is hummngdown on me, promising and threateningvague, wondrous things…now, I never did dig a stage, don’teven like to read my poetry aloud& was Peoria Illinois’ most enthusiasticatheist at the age of 12but something is happeningsomewhere inside I hear demandsfor another, heaviersacrifice, find a large stone, tenderlylay the virgin pint of port on itceremoniously reverently smash it with a heavy stick& ride off again, somewhat worried… the last time things were humminglike thisthe molecules of my matter spreadtoo far apart &I almost fell thru into theUniversal Dynamo of Singing Lightbut then I grin, thinking ofCleaver & Leary in Algiers fucking upthe revolution with Power Grabs, & Iglance up into the humming throbbingunavoidable Light & laff & laff – ittakes several subjective hours topeddle 2 more blocks but laffinghours, laffing all the way

home  IT WAS 5 AM it was 5 amthe only station coming thruwas this 50,000 watt clear-channel out of Austin & this jesus freak got on forsomeplace called AmbassadorCollege &for over an hour he revealed

how long hairdrugsyouthful disrespect for theFather, for the old standards& beliefs& for authority was destroying the traditionalfamily unit was underminingDemocracy &threatening our survivalas a great nation I lit a joint &thought how grateful I wasthat he was right &thought how there wasstill hope  ‘THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL’

-         for chas bukowski I’d been pounding the underworld all night, sulk-ing for the lovely whore of words the nose-fluteof words the kettledrum reverberating of them inyr mind yr ears yr groin & belly & finally sulk-ing for their uselessness their inadequacy…&Bobby Frink came by & drove me to the Pizza Hut& bought me beers beers beers and it was 12.30closing time & while walking home slow juststaring at the maniac rose-full moon I saw thistall chick with her Lil Abner Long Sam body &ass length red hair… I introduced myself as the greatest living poet of Normal Illinois &she’d heard about me cause its always in the local papershow I’m in jail for narcotics orassault or for trashing telephone booths thatsteal yr last dime – it gets around… we endup in her bathtub doing something special & juicy with herstrawberry glycerine soap & it was one of thegood nights the fine nights, a night that comesalong once in a while when you can take off yrmask & just freak all night like that some-times or its all a drag a mask a role, a Big Rigtruckstop with lukewarm showers & bad hamburgers… but then it was Thursday morning & I fellasleep just as her old man came in – I told himhow Bad I was but he kicked my ass anyway –well all I really wanted to say was how some ofus die screaming some howling with laughter some

just rotting away in the arms of that Bitch-Death State… I want to try it all before I go& if you think that strawberry soap wasn’t wortha crack on the jaw then yr rotting away already…  WE MAKE A DEAL… We make a dealI dont drink for 24 hrstheyll get me homeNaima gives me her Mescaline& we smoke our last 2 jointsgoing over the Golden Gatebridge, thenstanding on the flight deckJim & Irv & Naima & young Johnchant OM…..loving me off to Chicagobutwhen the seatbelt sign flashes offI run to the washroombolt the doorpuke & shiverdrop my last downersink back into mycabinclass seat, &somewhere over Kansas Cityhit a heavy pocket offlashbacksstep out of myselfstand therestaring downat the heapon my seatthe cold sweat on its facestinking ofweeks-old wine, thegrime, thegreasy tics & temors& I say to myself- There’s yr body baby, now love it or leave it nows yr last chance& I do not suffer preaching gladlybutI wish you were here too

standing beside memiles above the twitchingearthstaring down at Kansas orChina or Chicago asthe sun chases dying shadowsacross our poisoned land& I take yr hand & point down& preach a bit, say to you- Theres our body baby, now love it or leave it nows our last chance   OPEN LETTER TO THE UNDERGROUND Dear Bob HeadThis is not an easy time to be alive inPoets have been saying this since hieroglyphicsIt is still trueThe motherfuckers are killing us andEverybody I know, almost, & their cases are excellentI love the Panthers I love Burroughs I love the UndergroundThey are our only hope for the Motherfuckers have marked usThe Motherfuckers are killing us yetMy hatred my contempt for violence exceeds the furthest imaginable limits of human calculationI breed miceCan I hate the cats when they kill my miceCan I slap Ruthie when she stomps on a cockroachThings become intolerable in their complications yet theMotherfuckers continueI know I have earned yr contempt for accepting aFactory job that sends me home in a blue knot of pain Yet the rent must be paid the kids must eat & I cannotRepeat cannot allow myself to teach in this system Even to subvert it, ifI have well earned yr contemptI would not have it any other wayYou & all the other people I love have a rare

human potential My hatred my contempt for the State exceeds thefurthest Imaginable limits of human calculationThe motherfuckers continue to kill usOnce, on Acid, you spoke of how the Counterculture needsA vision of Joy & Power & I felt you were speaking to meThat vision does not come now except in moments afterreading Schweitzer & Camus & it is called ‘reverence for Life’As Schwietzer so simply and at the same time so complexlyPuts it: ‘We are life which wills to liveIn the midst of life which wills to live’Yet the Motherfuckers continue to kill usPerhaps yr vision can be contained in this: WeAre alive here & now &The beauty the breathless improbable joyOf this fact cannot ever be surpassedLove, Bill   * there are a few things to notebefore I leavebut not manyI haven’t learned much in 37 years 1. all governments are eventually appalling2. pain hurts3. to eat meat is murder4. to be without love is inexcusable5. to love is the most difficult of all 

William Wantling (November 23, 1933 – May 2, 1974) was an American poet, novelist, ex-Marine, ex-convict, and college professor born in East Peoria, Illinois. After graduating high school he joined the Marine Corps until 1955. He served in Korea during 1953. After leaving the Marines he moved to California and eventually had a son with his then-wife Luana. Wantling went to San Quentin State Prison in 1958 convicted of forgery and possession of narcotics. During his imprisonment Luana divorced him and took custody of the child. He was released in 1963, and returned to Peoria. There he married Ruth Ann Burton, a fellow divorcee in 1964. In 1966 he enrolled at Illinois State University where he received both a BA and MA. He taught at the university up until his death on May 2, 1974. Wantling died of heart failure, possibly brought about by his extensive drug use.