Bomb by Gregory Corso
"Bomb" by Gregory Corso is a provocative and playful poem that serves as an extended dramatic monologue, shaped visually to mimic the form of a mushroom cloud. The poem addresses the atomic bomb, exploring complex themes of admiration, love, and humor in relation to a weapon often associated with destruction and death. The speaker expresses a surprising affection for the bomb, questioning how one can hate it when similar feelings are not directed at other forms of violence throughout history. Through vivid imagery and imaginative scenarios, the poem juxtaposes the past and present, referencing historical figures and modern icons alike, while maintaining a conversational tone.
Corso employs a mix of comic and serious elements, ultimately presenting a unique perspective that celebrates the bomb as a significant force in the human experience. The poem culminates in a cacophony of sounds that mimic the bomb's explosion, yet closing lines pivot to a more somber reflection on the future, suggesting the birth of more destructive forces within humanity. This juxtaposition of humor and gravity invites readers to reconsider their assumptions about war, destruction, and creation, making "Bomb" a multifaceted exploration of one of humanity's most complex legacies.
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Subject Terms
Bomb by Gregory Corso
First published: 1958; collected in The Happy Birthday of Death, 1960
Type of poem: Dramatic monologue
The Poem
“Bomb” is an extended dramatic monologue presented as shaped verse in the form of the mushroom cloud of an atomic blast. The title refers to the object addressed in the poem. The speaker talks to the silent atomic bomb, comparing it with the other works and practices of humankind, declaring the bomb worthy of laughter, admiration, and love.
“Bomb” opens as the speaker begins the address, exclaiming, “You Bomb/ Toy of Universe Grandest of all snatched-sky I cannot hate you.” How, the speaker wonders, can he hate the bomb in particular when no similar hate is felt for the thunderbolt, the caveman’s club, Leonardo Da Vinci’s catapult, or Cochise’s tomahawk? Indeed, the speaker asks, “[H]ath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a sling[?]” The bomb is, after all, “no crueller than cancer.”
To all others, death in any other form, whether “car-crash lightning drowning/ Falling off a roof electric-chair heart attack” or “old age old age,” is better than death by the bomb, but to the speaker, the bomb is “Death’s jubilee/ Gem of Death’s supremest blue.” The speaker imagines the effect of the atomic blast on pedestrians and subway riders in Manhattan but quickly lets imagination soar, envisioning “Turtles exploding over Istanbul” and “The top of the Empire State/ arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily.” With the atomic blast, the ruins of antiquity, the structures of the present, and the possibilities of the future shall all be at an end, and the bomb can “tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop/ over its long long dead Nor.” Even God will be gone: “A thunderless God A dead God/ O Bomb thy BOOM His tomb.”
The speaker justifies the unusual perception of the bomb, announcing, “I am able to laugh at all things,” adding, “I say I am a poet and therefore love all man.” As a poet, the speaker does not need to be “all-smart about bombs,” for if “bombs were caterpillars” the speaker would “doubt not they’d become butterflies.”
The poem continues with a comic vision of “a hell for bombs,” where they remain after being blown to bits, singing German and American songs, longing for songs in Russian and Chinese. There is also comic sympathy for the “little Bomb that’ll never be,” the Eskimo bomb, with whom the speaker longs to frolic in play. The comic effect reaches a peak when the speaker becomes the bomb’s suitor, arriving at its doorstep with flowers in hand, pleading to be allowed to enter, saying, “O Bomb I love you/ I want to kiss your clank eat your boom.”
The poem climaxes with a crescendo of sound:
BOOM BOOM BOOM BO OM BOO M
This orchestration of words signals the thunderous arrival of the bomb, but the poem’s last lines take a serious and prophetic turn. Simply to say that the bomb will explode and all the world will yield to its force is insufficient. “Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb,” the speaker declares, and “in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born/ magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine all beautiful/ and they’ll sit plunk on earth’s grumpy empires.”
Forms and Devices
The most obvious device in “Bomb” is the shaping of the poem to give it the pictorial impression of a nuclear mushroom cloud. The top section of the poem is round like the top of an atomic blast, while the portion beneath is tapered like the stem of the cloud rising from the earth. In using shaped verse, Corso makes the design of his poem conform to the object of the poem’s focus. If the poem is read as part of The Happy Birthday of Death (1960), the illustration of the atomic blast on the volume’s cover provides additional emphasis on the appearance of the detonated bomb. Furthermore, the title of the volume suggests that “Bomb” is about the birthday of the bomb, or “Death’s jubilee,” the anniversary of the explosion of the nuclear weapon over Japan in August, 1945, and that this birthday, at least in the surprisingly playful mind of the speaker, is a happy occasion. However, if the poem is read in Mindfield: New and Selected Poems (1989), the visual impression of the original broadside or the subsequent foldout is lost.
A second feature of “Bomb” is the dramatic situation, in which Corso exploits the apostrophe, making the speaker address an object that cannot literally answer. With the apostrophe, the poem becomes a dramatic monologue well suited for a live reading, especially by Corso himself, whose talents as a reader lend themselves well to comedy based on the improbable personification of a nuclear weapon.
A third feature of the poem is Corso’s juxtaposition of antiquity with modernity. The speaker refers to St. Michael, St. George, David, Hesperus, Homer, and Zeus, but also mixes in Rathbone, Dillinger, Bogart, Boris Karloff, and Harpo Marx. He pits Hermes, the mythic messenger with winged shoes, against Jesse Owens, the track star of the 1936 Berlin Olympics. The interruptive, conversational lines often marked by the informality of contractions are juxtaposed with archaic words such as “hath,” “thy,” “false-talc’d,” and “ye.” There is a “final amphitheater/ with a hymnody feeling of all Troys,” but for the “Ritz Brothers from the Bronx caught in the A train/ The smiling Schenley poster will always smile.” This juxtaposing of the old and new is characteristic of many of Corso’s poems, including “Marriage,” his most famous work. Corso’s experience as an abandoned child, an imprisoned thief, and a streetwise young man gives him dominion over contemporary idiom, but he is also proud that he devoted much of his time in jail to studies of the classics and antiquity. He enjoys demonstrating his erudition.
The subtlest feature of “Bomb” is its ironic confounding of standard expectations. One might expect a poem about atomic weaponry to denounce the bomb and its power to destroy humanity; instead, the speaker loves and celebrates the bomb. He is protective and sympathetic; he even tries to woo the bomb. One might expect images of horror and death, but Corso mutes the horror with comic effects, such as the “top of the Empire State/ arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily.” One might expect the onomatopoeia of the climactic outburst of sound to underscore the thunder of the bomb, but the selections of sound include “Barracuda,” “cougar,” “Ubangi,” “orangoutang,” and “bee bear baboon,” steering the poem toward humor. One might expect the bomb to be associated with the work of the devil, but the poem concludes with a reference to the Madonna and the birth of the savior. This last twist deflates the previous comic antics, giving special impact to the closing prophecy that not only the speaker, but all others as well, contribute to the birth of the ultimate blast.