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Paul Goodman's poetry could be astonishingly bad, and his politics worse--though he never toed anyone's line and so was in trouble with nearly everyone from time to time. Still, his sonnets are high among the reasons I've tried to write with meter and rhyme. In his best work there's sweetness, passion, and an unlikely combination of humility and self-absorption. Everything is personal to him, and as a result his occasional poetry--about the launching of Sputnik, Kent State, Justice Black's resignation--is the best I know. Here are three of his poems I have by heart:
FLAGS, 1967
How well they flew together side by side
the Stars and Stripes my red and white and blue
and my Black Flag the sovereignty of no
man or law! They were the flags of pride
and nature and advanced with equal stride
across the age when Jefferson long ago
saluted both and said, "Let Shays' men go.
If you discourage mutiny and riot
what check is there on government?"
Today
The gaudy flag is very grand on earth
and they have sewed on it a golden border,
but I will not salute it. At our rally
I see a small black rag of little worth
and touch it wistfully. Chaos is Order.
Beethoven
The age of life I am, Beethoven died
unhappier than I and lonelier
than human beings ought to let each other.
He had when he took death for a bride
never known another. Rough and rude
he came in character an awkward lover,
yet she did not rebuff him nor defer
the night.
As for me, I have often cried
when he speaks to me. Everything is plain
between us definite and understood,
but what to do with it I cannot guess.
Many hours we have spent we twain
conversing: what he says is very good
but when he leaves off I am at a loss.
Taylor, these unreasonable days
gentle it is how we have been for each
other practical and very sweet
friends. I am not bashful to praise
how we in spite of persons and bad laws
and the envious opinion of the street
enjoyed our simple sex without deceit
that others fear and hide for no good cause.
Exactly of a continent the span
divides us now: you where upon the rocks
the seals play outside the Golden Gate,
I watch the stormier Atlantic that
ceaselessly on Fire Island knocks,
who only yesterday were hand in hand.
None of his poetry is in print, but Amazon lists several copies of the Collected Poems used.
5:20:05 PM 
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