Dolores Hayden
Dolores Hayden Poems
Exuberance sips bootleg gin from a garter flask
with a ruby monogram "E."
She wears a red dress one size too small,
eyes wide, she flirts with everyone, dares
Lincoln Beachey to fly until he runs out of gas,
rides a dead engine all the way down.
She watches Ormer Locklear climb
out of the cockpit two hundred feet up,
tap dance on his upper wing
as the houses of honest families
with their square-fenced yards
slide below his shuffle. An oval pond
winks in the sun, like a zero.
Exuberance challenges pilots
to master the Falling Leaf, perfect the Tailspin,
ignore the Graveyard Spiral, the Doom Loop.
These aviators predict every American will fly.
Exuberance believes Everybody Ought
to Be Rich, John J. Raskob explains why
in the Ladies Home Journal. She gets stock tips
from her manicurist, call loans from her broker,
buys Radio, Seaboard Utilities, Sears,
orders shares in investment trusts — why not? —
chain stores keep multiplying, cars, trucks,
planes, houses. This nation is all about growth,
growth and leverage, look at the skyscrapers shooting up,
men rivet steel, floor after floor, high-speed elevators
spring through the cores, planes soar over them all.
Sherman Fairchild has made a million
selling aerial photographs of real estate.
Exuberance travels constantly, owns land
in Miami, Miami Beach, Coral Gables, Palm Beach,
she trades "binders" on lots five times over,
befriends Mr. Charles Ponzi from Boston
who is raking in a bundle near Jacksonville.
Prices for sand and palms are sure to rise.
But how do we know when irrational exuberance
has unduly escalated asset values?
Wall Street has been wing walking,
call it barnstormer capitalism,
soon the bankers and the brokers will steal
the aviators' lexicon, claim their own tail risks,
graveyard spirals, doomsday cycles,
wonder how everything blue-sky stayed up so long.
Exuberance buys more stock on margin,
volume runs high, the ticker tape
can't keep up, higher, higher, higher,
Black Thursday, not a parachute in sight.Exuberance sips bootleg gin from a garter flask
with a ruby monogram "E."
She wears a red dress one size too small,
eyes wide, she flirts with everyone, dares
Lincoln Beachey to fly until he runs out of gas,
rides a dead engine all the way down.
She watches Ormer Locklear climb
out of the cockpit two hundred feet up,
tap dance on his upper wing
as the houses of honest families
with their square-fenced yards
slide below his shuffle. An oval pond
winks in the sun, like a zero.
Exuberance challenges pilots
to master the Falling Leaf, perfect the Tailspin,
ignore the Graveyard Spiral, the Doom Loop.
These aviators predict every American will fly.
Exuberance believes Everybody Ought
to Be Rich, John J. Raskob explains why
in the Ladies Home Journal. She gets stock tips
from her manicurist, call loans from her broker,
buys Radio, Seaboard Utilities, Sears,
orders shares in investment trusts — why not? —
chain stores keep multiplying, cars, trucks,
planes, houses. This nation is all about growth,
growth and leverage, look at the skyscrapers shooting up,
men rivet steel, floor after floor, high-speed elevators
spring through the cores, planes soar over them all.
Sherman Fairchild has made a million
selling aerial photographs of real estate.
Exuberance travels constantly, owns land
in Miami, Miami Beach, Coral Gables, Palm Beach,
she trades "binders" on lots five times over,
befriends Mr. Charles Ponzi from Boston
who is raking in a bundle near Jacksonville.
Prices for sand and palms are sure to rise.
But how do we know when irrational exuberance
has unduly escalated asset values?
Wall Street has been wing walking,
call it barnstormer capitalism,
soon the bankers and the brokers will steal
the aviators' lexicon, claim their own tail risks,
graveyard spirals, doomsday cycles,
wonder how everything blue-sky stayed up so long.
Exuberance buys more stock on margin,
volume runs high, the ticker tape
can't keep up, higher, higher, higher,
Black Thursday, not a parachute in sight.
...
Focus on the shapes. Cirrus, a curl,
stratus, a layer, cumulus, a heap.
Humilis, a small cloud,
cumulus humilis, a fine day to fly.
Incus, the anvil, stay grounded.
Nimbus, rain, be careful,
don't take off near nimbostratus,
a shapeless layer
of rain, hail, ice, or snow.
Ice weighs on the blades of your propeller,
weighs on the entering edge of your wings.
Read a cloud,
decode it,
a dense, chilly mass
can shift, flood with light.
Watch for clouds closing under you,
the sky opens in a breath,
shuts in a heartbeat.
...
Dolores Hayden Biography
Dolores Hayden is an American professor, urban historian, architect, author, and poet. She teaches architecture, urbanism, and American studies at Yale University. Hayden received her B.A. in architecture from Mount Holyoke College in 1966. She also studied at Cambridge University and the Harvard Graduate School of Design where she obtained a professional degree. She is the widow of sociologist and novelist, Peter H. Marris and is the mother of Laura Hayden Marris. Since 1973, Hayden has traveled to MIT, UC Berkeley, UCLA, and Yale to hold lectures about architecture, landscape architecture, urban planning, and American studies. She founded a Los Angeles based non-profit arts and humanities group called The Power of Place which was active from 1984 to 1991. The goal of the organization was to, "celebrate the historic landscape of the center of the city and its ethnic diversity. Under her direction, collaborative projects on an African American midwife's homestead, a Latina garment workers' union headquarters, and Japanese-American flower fields engaged citizens, historians, artists, and designers in examining and commemorating the working lives of ordinary citizens." This is documented in the text, The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History.)
The Best Poem Of Dolores Hayden
Flying Cars
hover above slow trucks—
in the name of Pegasus they wing past
stucco houses, commercial strips, miniature golf,
and the pale sand of the public beach.
Like poets, the designers test
roll, pitch, and yaw. They practice gliding,
learn to wrap the extraordinary vertical
in the everyday horizontal.
Developer Harry Culver plans
a skyburb with an airplane in every garage.
The flying car ascends, amazes,
yet, like a complex figure of speech,
the roadable airplane must land,
fold its wings, drive on.
A flock of names whispers lift:
Sky Flivver, Arrowplane, Autoplane, Airphibian.
Dolores Hayden Comments
Dolores Hayden Popularity
Dolores Hayden Popularity
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/26/2024 2:53:49 AM # 1.0.0.1119
