Poetry
It doesn't help to be out of touch, for a while
you believe excellence is unimportant, that it wouldn't be great to be great, Then it is October, perhaps only the end of August, months have passed, you're fretting in the same seat, garbage and who-knows-what all over your desk. You burn to be a spectacle but your mind is a mess. |
About to sleep in this room
About to sleep in this room
with the oval rag rug
softly-faded pink,
aqua, lavender, canary.
I’m glad we came
to be with you.
My only reason is I like you
and it seemed to matter.
Little mauve roses on the bedspread,
well,
I don’t know why I’m here.
with the oval rag rug
softly-faded pink,
aqua, lavender, canary.
I’m glad we came
to be with you.
My only reason is I like you
and it seemed to matter.
Little mauve roses on the bedspread,
well,
I don’t know why I’m here.
We looked at places we might build
We looked at places we might build --
a clearing in the apple orchard:
we’d see sunset and daybreak
just over the brow of the hill.
And near the garden, across the stone wall,
looking across the wide fields from the brambles
We’d be close to the well. We could build a wooden walkway
over the patch of swampy ground
Or dig a farm pond.
I was dreaming I’d cover our house with lichens:
ash green,
rusty gold.
a clearing in the apple orchard:
we’d see sunset and daybreak
just over the brow of the hill.
And near the garden, across the stone wall,
looking across the wide fields from the brambles
We’d be close to the well. We could build a wooden walkway
over the patch of swampy ground
Or dig a farm pond.
I was dreaming I’d cover our house with lichens:
ash green,
rusty gold.
He hates vagueness
He hates vagueness:
it’s a sort of mission
and his cranky walk demonstrates it.
To have been a solitary child
fearing the father,
to expect nothing,
to be so stunned by assistance
to be rude from sheer surprise.
To have beauty,
and a sailor,
now weathered red
in middle age.
He’ll make you swoon with his eyes.
He says the Scots hate porridge
as everyone does
but they eat it.
They know god hates them
and eating it they do his will.
Something’s pressing on a nerve
or else it’s diet. Circulation.
It’s the muscles,, they’re not nourished.
Working out just makes them cramp.
Perhaps it’s just the climate, or the season.
Miso soup must be the cure.
Three pecans every hour.
Make a rule
and obey it.
Call it virtue
if it’s hard.
Turn your toes out,
turn them in.
Do this, do that.
Your hips!
He crinkles up his face,
dissolves his face,
in the radiance
of your greeting.
He sharpens the lines of the land,
snipping around rocks,
examines the view.
Is it sufficiently
Japanese?
it’s a sort of mission
and his cranky walk demonstrates it.
To have been a solitary child
fearing the father,
to expect nothing,
to be so stunned by assistance
to be rude from sheer surprise.
To have beauty,
and a sailor,
now weathered red
in middle age.
He’ll make you swoon with his eyes.
He says the Scots hate porridge
as everyone does
but they eat it.
They know god hates them
and eating it they do his will.
Something’s pressing on a nerve
or else it’s diet. Circulation.
It’s the muscles,, they’re not nourished.
Working out just makes them cramp.
Perhaps it’s just the climate, or the season.
Miso soup must be the cure.
Three pecans every hour.
Make a rule
and obey it.
Call it virtue
if it’s hard.
Turn your toes out,
turn them in.
Do this, do that.
Your hips!
He crinkles up his face,
dissolves his face,
in the radiance
of your greeting.
He sharpens the lines of the land,
snipping around rocks,
examines the view.
Is it sufficiently
Japanese?
A Walk
We walked where they’d widened the road,
erased the trees.
We passed two hunters in their redcoats by the narrow bridge.
They turned off the road.
I felt deer-like
sporting my Afghan leather.
Trudged uphill a long way in the country
opening from woods into bristly fields and walls.
The road all mud.
Over the next valley
stretches of undulating mountains.
Within its shadow, mauve and lavender,
soft wheats, rusts and slatey blues.
We turned around, back down,
the sun was setting quickly now.
There’s a herd of black cattle
across on the next hill
you pointed out.
You see the barn in snow,
eye level. Look left down to the field
the black lumps near the upper edge.
I’d have thought they were bushes
or boulders.
M.C. wants the peeling side of her house repainted white.
She likes the color shadows winter casts
and n real winter snow (not patches like today)
the house would blend right in.
The trim, she conceded,
might be
adobe squash.
Not so orange
as butternut.
We ran down
no stops
all the way
down the hill.
erased the trees.
We passed two hunters in their redcoats by the narrow bridge.
They turned off the road.
I felt deer-like
sporting my Afghan leather.
Trudged uphill a long way in the country
opening from woods into bristly fields and walls.
The road all mud.
Over the next valley
stretches of undulating mountains.
Within its shadow, mauve and lavender,
soft wheats, rusts and slatey blues.
We turned around, back down,
the sun was setting quickly now.
There’s a herd of black cattle
across on the next hill
you pointed out.
You see the barn in snow,
eye level. Look left down to the field
the black lumps near the upper edge.
I’d have thought they were bushes
or boulders.
M.C. wants the peeling side of her house repainted white.
She likes the color shadows winter casts
and n real winter snow (not patches like today)
the house would blend right in.
The trim, she conceded,
might be
adobe squash.
Not so orange
as butternut.
We ran down
no stops
all the way
down the hill.
For M.C.
The red of autumn you spoke of
the precipitation of iron in the leaves,
and the meteoric iron
sword of Michael over the gate.
Everything dies this season
except us.
I feel our triumph this time. Bare and dripping.
The reds have turned to brown, swept off
and glutted the drains.
The air has the bite and taste of winter.
Unsure, the rain drips and splashes
and I’m fearless
a few minutes more.
the precipitation of iron in the leaves,
and the meteoric iron
sword of Michael over the gate.
Everything dies this season
except us.
I feel our triumph this time. Bare and dripping.
The reds have turned to brown, swept off
and glutted the drains.
The air has the bite and taste of winter.
Unsure, the rain drips and splashes
and I’m fearless
a few minutes more.
To M. C.
Your steps shone blue before me
breaking the new snow crust.
You cried for a year in the bathtub,
told me the story of your real father,
Jim Heart.
You pointed out
a star I couldn’t see.
breaking the new snow crust.
You cried for a year in the bathtub,
told me the story of your real father,
Jim Heart.
You pointed out
a star I couldn’t see.
The sea, paved with people in the heat
The sea, paved with people in the heat --
Thank god we aren’t there.
Fresh green almonds. A fig dropping
Unripe in the anchovies at lunch.
Thank god we aren’t there.
Fresh green almonds. A fig dropping
Unripe in the anchovies at lunch.
Not Meeting in Reims
It rained all day. I looked sourly at the cathedral at 3 o’clock
and from 5 to 6 I waited, watching,
pacing, in and out.
You on your way to England,
me taking the train.
We’d meet for a glass of champagne, see the caves,
and part,
like the movies.
You didn’t show.
You drove from Genoa where the car sat
into traffic in central France.
When I boarded the train back to Paris
you were arriving,
at 9.
and from 5 to 6 I waited, watching,
pacing, in and out.
You on your way to England,
me taking the train.
We’d meet for a glass of champagne, see the caves,
and part,
like the movies.
You didn’t show.
You drove from Genoa where the car sat
into traffic in central France.
When I boarded the train back to Paris
you were arriving,
at 9.
Not able to speak
Not able to speak
I will learn how.
Except words come,
you talk,
I talk,
we say things
across oceans.
My ears are pining
for overtones,
for the shape of your room
or the shape of my own, changing.
But the sound is weak, and the same,
the same sound,
of my same voice.
You speak:
all I hear
is my fear.
I will learn how.
Except words come,
you talk,
I talk,
we say things
across oceans.
My ears are pining
for overtones,
for the shape of your room
or the shape of my own, changing.
But the sound is weak, and the same,
the same sound,
of my same voice.
You speak:
all I hear
is my fear.
No time
No time.
Only time to be lazy
sleep in the bathtub
amuse the dog
reread old letters
go to the movies.
Only time to be lazy
sleep in the bathtub
amuse the dog
reread old letters
go to the movies.
I'm so brave
I’m so brave,
I’m so brave
I can weep
with terror.
I’m so brave
I can weep
with terror.
I made the bed neat
I made the bed neat
on top
just in case.
on top
just in case.
We were on no narrow road
We were on no narrow road
Whichever way I went I faced you.
You nailed me,
smiling.
Whichever way I went I faced you.
You nailed me,
smiling.
Not be forewarned
Not be forewarned --
that’s no use.
I’ve twisted off the silver charms
from silver links I never wear.
Under my left hand a left foot of silver,
a right arm,
two women who beg healing
on their knees.
I wonder where the next step is, knowing
the next step is cleaning the house, hoping for
something more magic, as if magic were not
arithmetic.
People are insane, being square is no protection.
I’m no missing piece
of anybody’s puzzle.
I’ve walked into set-ups;
I know how to walk out.
that’s no use.
I’ve twisted off the silver charms
from silver links I never wear.
Under my left hand a left foot of silver,
a right arm,
two women who beg healing
on their knees.
I wonder where the next step is, knowing
the next step is cleaning the house, hoping for
something more magic, as if magic were not
arithmetic.
People are insane, being square is no protection.
I’m no missing piece
of anybody’s puzzle.
I’ve walked into set-ups;
I know how to walk out.
You came and went
You came and went,
left me croaking,
No air in this place.
I see your face
blurring this minute
and the next:
shining holes where your eyes would be
and your wild hair as if you just woke.
I never touched you except hello,
goodbye,
your arm in conversation.
left me croaking,
No air in this place.
I see your face
blurring this minute
and the next:
shining holes where your eyes would be
and your wild hair as if you just woke.
I never touched you except hello,
goodbye,
your arm in conversation.
Uitrit/Uit/Exit/Out
Talking to myself, my own dummy,
I know it’s done with strings.
Hoping for evacuation,
the next flight out of my head.
O advocate,
you’d have an answer for me.
Disaster
like sludge
in a cup.
I know it’s done with strings.
Hoping for evacuation,
the next flight out of my head.
O advocate,
you’d have an answer for me.
Disaster
like sludge
in a cup.
I'm not your pearl
I’m not your pearl, I bite, be careful.
Love is no insurance, I forget my battle’s not with you.
Even if I left the country it wouldn’t help.
I have wounds: they’re not important
but touch them
and you’re dead. If I were
more precious, who could stand it?
If I weren’t queer and chicken
I could really love you.
As it is,
I love you.
Love is no insurance, I forget my battle’s not with you.
Even if I left the country it wouldn’t help.
I have wounds: they’re not important
but touch them
and you’re dead. If I were
more precious, who could stand it?
If I weren’t queer and chicken
I could really love you.
As it is,
I love you.
Sleeping wet
Sleeping wet,
stripped for the heat,
your skin is sticky,
the sheets scratchy with sand.
I choked seeing the sun’s glint on your forearm.
I was shamed and shy looking stupid at your wrist, your back.
Your body is hard, pushing is useless,
I need to nibble you slowly, an invisible fish.
I am in terror of surprise,
of strangers, of wandering children,
your willing escape,
of distraction, of finishing,
waking at sunrise,
you gone to the beach,
starting a day
as if we were friends.
stripped for the heat,
your skin is sticky,
the sheets scratchy with sand.
I choked seeing the sun’s glint on your forearm.
I was shamed and shy looking stupid at your wrist, your back.
Your body is hard, pushing is useless,
I need to nibble you slowly, an invisible fish.
I am in terror of surprise,
of strangers, of wandering children,
your willing escape,
of distraction, of finishing,
waking at sunrise,
you gone to the beach,
starting a day
as if we were friends.
Finance
I love looking at my bankbook
Do you think it’ll grow
like a plant
if I talk to it?
I look at the balance
and I think I’m a man,
more of a man than last year.
less of a man than last month
when the balance was bigger.
Do you think it’ll grow
like a plant
if I talk to it?
I look at the balance
and I think I’m a man,
more of a man than last year.
less of a man than last month
when the balance was bigger.
Vera Cruz
Grains of plaster drop on our beds
from the ceiling fan's shiver and stir.
Better sleep with your mouth closed.
Outside our rusted window
shattered bottles
scatter on the roof.
II.
Warm ladies like beached whales,
in flowered housecoats with their babies,
share a puddle safe from sharks
above the tide's lap.
Mamas in togas wade out to their knees.
I swim, touching bottom,
foam on my chin.
from the ceiling fan's shiver and stir.
Better sleep with your mouth closed.
Outside our rusted window
shattered bottles
scatter on the roof.
II.
Warm ladies like beached whales,
in flowered housecoats with their babies,
share a puddle safe from sharks
above the tide's lap.
Mamas in togas wade out to their knees.
I swim, touching bottom,
foam on my chin.
A lake of thin ice
A lake of thin ice
in a sheet of snow.
A blue tree
like a fragile, spiny fan.
A melting line,
shadow of a crack, softens.
Electric wires streak across the pond uphill --
a row of poles, black as nails.The bare woods, like a forest of fine coral,
flesh gray and
violet gray,
a dry gray
(peach gold
and evergreen)
ash gray and
salt gray,
seawater silver gray,
color of patience.
Hemlock,
cedar, spruce, or pine
stand like watchmen, spearshafts in the ground
I cannot see your house,
Jamie, acid green as the late spring.
Yesterday your face looked drawn,
colorless and cold,
your voice was sore but you talked
sharp as ever.
I couldn't read the questions in your face.
I always think your mind's made up,
you've got a plan.
You throw a line,
see what's attracted
(what resists)
as I am drawn now, to your invisible
green house
across the lake.
in a sheet of snow.
A blue tree
like a fragile, spiny fan.
A melting line,
shadow of a crack, softens.
Electric wires streak across the pond uphill --
a row of poles, black as nails.The bare woods, like a forest of fine coral,
flesh gray and
violet gray,
a dry gray
(peach gold
and evergreen)
ash gray and
salt gray,
seawater silver gray,
color of patience.
Hemlock,
cedar, spruce, or pine
stand like watchmen, spearshafts in the ground
I cannot see your house,
Jamie, acid green as the late spring.
Yesterday your face looked drawn,
colorless and cold,
your voice was sore but you talked
sharp as ever.
I couldn't read the questions in your face.
I always think your mind's made up,
you've got a plan.
You throw a line,
see what's attracted
(what resists)
as I am drawn now, to your invisible
green house
across the lake.
You Come Back
You creaked across the orange floor
(It needs to be cleaned, the dust balls
gather in the corner and between your shoes,
the wax is crusted thickly at the edges of the furniture)
your creaking shoe was my warning
and the dog's frantic clicking in the hall.
You look the same. Finer maybe. Your Mongol eyes.
Your false tooth is chipped.
You're wearing a funny hat like a Siberian
and a very elegant coat, just a little oversize.
There are holes worn through the shoulders.
Standing's too difficult,
my legs are gone weak.
I need weeks
of ordinary days
to know it's you.
(It needs to be cleaned, the dust balls
gather in the corner and between your shoes,
the wax is crusted thickly at the edges of the furniture)
your creaking shoe was my warning
and the dog's frantic clicking in the hall.
You look the same. Finer maybe. Your Mongol eyes.
Your false tooth is chipped.
You're wearing a funny hat like a Siberian
and a very elegant coat, just a little oversize.
There are holes worn through the shoulders.
Standing's too difficult,
my legs are gone weak.
I need weeks
of ordinary days
to know it's you.
There's grease in the streets
There's grease in the streets
and the smell of lighter fluid
spreads from the futile coal fire.
Every morning when we open the drapes
the ponderous gray sky appears.
Day seems to be over.
I refuse but you have tea
with toast and jam
and I won't get anything better
without industry.
The glass conservatories in the gardens are low and graceful
trimmed in white: we see nothing brighter.
The trees are bare: everything looks dead.
It's a quality of the light that does it. The surfaces seem utterly opaque
and clouded. Nothing reflects from underneath.
Nothing is warm.
The lights in the evening are dim. There are many bulbs, but no light.
The walls are gray, the carpet stained.
The high ceiling is gloomy.
Do you think all the heat is up there?
Inadvertently we kick over our coffee cups every night
white sitting in front of the fire.
The couch on three legs, the fourth propped up with magazines,
slides backwards if you forget and lean, and another cup
of tea or coffee spills.
Are you all right?
A second leg has broken off.
We sleep in a narrow bed.
The first night I lay with my right side on a bookshelf. Now it's roomier:
we fit better with practice.
We've learned better control of the blankets and shawls.
I wake in the middle of the night, or early morning, I don't know. It's cold.
I regret drinking coffee so late.
The electric heater's on
and glows orange-red
so I find my way back in the dark,
but the coals are dead, or nearly.
and the smell of lighter fluid
spreads from the futile coal fire.
Every morning when we open the drapes
the ponderous gray sky appears.
Day seems to be over.
I refuse but you have tea
with toast and jam
and I won't get anything better
without industry.
The glass conservatories in the gardens are low and graceful
trimmed in white: we see nothing brighter.
The trees are bare: everything looks dead.
It's a quality of the light that does it. The surfaces seem utterly opaque
and clouded. Nothing reflects from underneath.
Nothing is warm.
The lights in the evening are dim. There are many bulbs, but no light.
The walls are gray, the carpet stained.
The high ceiling is gloomy.
Do you think all the heat is up there?
Inadvertently we kick over our coffee cups every night
white sitting in front of the fire.
The couch on three legs, the fourth propped up with magazines,
slides backwards if you forget and lean, and another cup
of tea or coffee spills.
Are you all right?
A second leg has broken off.
We sleep in a narrow bed.
The first night I lay with my right side on a bookshelf. Now it's roomier:
we fit better with practice.
We've learned better control of the blankets and shawls.
I wake in the middle of the night, or early morning, I don't know. It's cold.
I regret drinking coffee so late.
The electric heater's on
and glows orange-red
so I find my way back in the dark,
but the coals are dead, or nearly.
Remy
Remy,
where are you?
I'm home, upstairs, I was in bed.
The world is turning cold, or warm,
anyway, older.
Why am I alone? I know it's always so,
but so what? You are in my heart,
I feel you with me, usually, unless
you call, when I feel you gone.
It's like tripping in the street, dropping
the teapot, losing your wallet, whatever it was you knew you had
and don't.
I would like to think that now
(It's 1:39 a.m. by my alarm)
you are sitting bolt awake in the dark
and I am in your mind.
where are you?
I'm home, upstairs, I was in bed.
The world is turning cold, or warm,
anyway, older.
Why am I alone? I know it's always so,
but so what? You are in my heart,
I feel you with me, usually, unless
you call, when I feel you gone.
It's like tripping in the street, dropping
the teapot, losing your wallet, whatever it was you knew you had
and don't.
I would like to think that now
(It's 1:39 a.m. by my alarm)
you are sitting bolt awake in the dark
and I am in your mind.
It doesn't help to be out of touch
It doesn't help to be out of touch, for a while
you believe excellence is unimportant,
that it wouldn't be great to be great,
Then it is October,
perhaps only the end of August,
months have passed, you're fretting in the same seat,
garbage and who-knows-what all over your desk.
You burn to be a spectacle
but your mind is a mess.
you believe excellence is unimportant,
that it wouldn't be great to be great,
Then it is October,
perhaps only the end of August,
months have passed, you're fretting in the same seat,
garbage and who-knows-what all over your desk.
You burn to be a spectacle
but your mind is a mess.
The moon shreds clouds
The moon shreds clouds
like a shriek of white,
a splinter of ice
unmelting,
a nail piercing my ear
spreading blindness across the sky.
Your word, always the last,
my end,
stone in a well,
comes behind or across the fields
where the smoke rises.
like a shriek of white,
a splinter of ice
unmelting,
a nail piercing my ear
spreading blindness across the sky.
Your word, always the last,
my end,
stone in a well,
comes behind or across the fields
where the smoke rises.
A Wednesday Afternoon
Your ribs were stiff
it was like going to bed with a chicken.
I liked your beaky nose, the arrogance of your cheekbones,
your skin like a silky wrapper,
slipping loose
as the tone seeped from your muscles.
it was a little sad
trying so hard,
lathering without passion.
it was like going to bed with a chicken.
I liked your beaky nose, the arrogance of your cheekbones,
your skin like a silky wrapper,
slipping loose
as the tone seeped from your muscles.
it was a little sad
trying so hard,
lathering without passion.
A laugh rifts the night
A laugh rifts the night,
fixes its tenacious root
I don't hear:
my own questions prevent.
I am unwound, unready for new earth.
Longing to be furrow, plow.
Trucks rumble down
this house
year in, year out.
(I replastered it in summer.
walls gapped again by spring.)
The wind, a hollow echo off the building walls,
sirens, whistles, howling drunks,
are fearful here high up, like cries of owls, foxes, murder.
What am I waiting for? To see
myself fade in that time before sunset when you cannot find
the ball thrown at your head?
I'm feeling myself small.
I could fill the world with tears if I could cry:
for trying to be human,
a river of wind,
for nothing.
fixes its tenacious root
I don't hear:
my own questions prevent.
I am unwound, unready for new earth.
Longing to be furrow, plow.
Trucks rumble down
this house
year in, year out.
(I replastered it in summer.
walls gapped again by spring.)
The wind, a hollow echo off the building walls,
sirens, whistles, howling drunks,
are fearful here high up, like cries of owls, foxes, murder.
What am I waiting for? To see
myself fade in that time before sunset when you cannot find
the ball thrown at your head?
I'm feeling myself small.
I could fill the world with tears if I could cry:
for trying to be human,
a river of wind,
for nothing.
There is no one in the garden now
There is no one in the garden now:
the woman in blue who stood there is gone.
The sprinkler wheels in the garden like the sower's hand flings the seed
so droplets flash in arcs
repeating, like decor.
A new string is tied at regular intervals
with strips of the same red cloth tied.
Does anyone else
look out the window?
I look out naked
mornings when the sun is indifferent,
the espaliers, whatever greens are newly pushing,
blur with smoke. I see through a building intruding,
through its void rooms, to a flat white surface.
At night I open the windows for the night wind
to thrill me before bed. I am lit from behind,
again I am without clothes, looking browner
in the evening by incandescent light,
false but improved, if you could see.
The garden
is heard now
being quiet.
The garden I can never walk within
is mine, as any unreal object
can be utterly possessed.
It carves, with an innocent blade of repose
a space to its own size
mending darkness and an order of its own
where I desire myself less.
Where I will learn, on other evenings,
I suppose, to walk in my own glade.
the woman in blue who stood there is gone.
The sprinkler wheels in the garden like the sower's hand flings the seed
so droplets flash in arcs
repeating, like decor.
A new string is tied at regular intervals
with strips of the same red cloth tied.
Does anyone else
look out the window?
I look out naked
mornings when the sun is indifferent,
the espaliers, whatever greens are newly pushing,
blur with smoke. I see through a building intruding,
through its void rooms, to a flat white surface.
At night I open the windows for the night wind
to thrill me before bed. I am lit from behind,
again I am without clothes, looking browner
in the evening by incandescent light,
false but improved, if you could see.
The garden
is heard now
being quiet.
The garden I can never walk within
is mine, as any unreal object
can be utterly possessed.
It carves, with an innocent blade of repose
a space to its own size
mending darkness and an order of its own
where I desire myself less.
Where I will learn, on other evenings,
I suppose, to walk in my own glade.
Grandma
I didn't mind what the rabbi said,
it was all the same to me.
My face burnt:
it was so long since I'd seen her. I'd never seen her
all the time when she was senile and mad
and what would have been the point?
She wouldn't have known.
We'd only lies between us anyway
to make life cozy.
What would she care?
she was tough.
She hobbled around her neighborhood for years
blind with cataracts
nobody knew were so bad.
She'd climb the stepladder for dishes on the top shelf
and smack you if you tried to help.
Did she look at
television?
She learned to pick the phone up off the cradle
when it rang.
She would hold it. Put it down.
She wouldn't talk.
When I was young she made me clothes
and I wore knickers
in shame
years longer
than anyone.
She kept making them.
She kept the butter in a dish with water.
She made soup and coffee, chicken, and lima beans,
and I could have lump sugar which was special.
I used to lie on the couch and study the waterfall cracks in the ceiling.
I liked to chew the collars of the shiny white silk shirts she made.
When her eyesight got bad they came out crooked
and it was hard to tell her.
Every annum she'd get 45 or 47
cents dividend
on a stock in her name.
I remember her chasing a rat into the toilet with a ball-peen hammer
and how she'd yell at my grandfather whenever he'd ask me a question.
Those last years I saw them
they seemed to eat only potatoes.
it was all the same to me.
My face burnt:
it was so long since I'd seen her. I'd never seen her
all the time when she was senile and mad
and what would have been the point?
She wouldn't have known.
We'd only lies between us anyway
to make life cozy.
What would she care?
she was tough.
She hobbled around her neighborhood for years
blind with cataracts
nobody knew were so bad.
She'd climb the stepladder for dishes on the top shelf
and smack you if you tried to help.
Did she look at
television?
She learned to pick the phone up off the cradle
when it rang.
She would hold it. Put it down.
She wouldn't talk.
When I was young she made me clothes
and I wore knickers
in shame
years longer
than anyone.
She kept making them.
She kept the butter in a dish with water.
She made soup and coffee, chicken, and lima beans,
and I could have lump sugar which was special.
I used to lie on the couch and study the waterfall cracks in the ceiling.
I liked to chew the collars of the shiny white silk shirts she made.
When her eyesight got bad they came out crooked
and it was hard to tell her.
Every annum she'd get 45 or 47
cents dividend
on a stock in her name.
I remember her chasing a rat into the toilet with a ball-peen hammer
and how she'd yell at my grandfather whenever he'd ask me a question.
Those last years I saw them
they seemed to eat only potatoes.
where's your letter
Where's your letter?
I'm not good at patience.
or Faith.
I could see it wasn't in the mailbox
but I opened it anyway, in case I was blind.
no letter.
don't believe me next time
when I say write
whenever you like.
I'm not good at patience.
or Faith.
I could see it wasn't in the mailbox
but I opened it anyway, in case I was blind.
no letter.
don't believe me next time
when I say write
whenever you like.
The temperature drops tonight
The temperature drops tonight
to twenty.
A wasp trapped unseen
behind a screen
is only the clock.
I'd go close the door
but I'm cold.
Heat rattles in the next room. Where I sit
I hear it.
My knees are tired.
My ankles are tired.
The plumbing raps and scratches,
drops plop in the basin
under the tap.
The frigidaire shivers,
suddenly
tries to walk.
to twenty.
A wasp trapped unseen
behind a screen
is only the clock.
I'd go close the door
but I'm cold.
Heat rattles in the next room. Where I sit
I hear it.
My knees are tired.
My ankles are tired.
The plumbing raps and scratches,
drops plop in the basin
under the tap.
The frigidaire shivers,
suddenly
tries to walk.
Inquiry
I asked how you were:
they told me you were fine
when last they'd seen you,
pause, but,
pause,
it's a long story.
they told me you were fine
when last they'd seen you,
pause, but,
pause,
it's a long story.
I'm hopelessly unready
I'm hopelessly unready
to pack up and fly
in a boxcar of stranglers
and families
alone.
to pack up and fly
in a boxcar of stranglers
and families
alone.
slippy pork
slippy pork
the menu said
so we wondered what that was
of course we ordered it.
was it slippery?
maybe
sleepy.
the menu said
so we wondered what that was
of course we ordered it.
was it slippery?
maybe
sleepy.
We saw Capri
We saw Capri;
then night fell.
then night fell.
Waiting Room in Oban
A bum pokes
his scabby shoe
out of the coat heap
that's himself.
Next
he's pissing a river.
Don't nobody look.
7.29.74
his scabby shoe
out of the coat heap
that's himself.
Next
he's pissing a river.
Don't nobody look.
7.29.74
Tangaval
I climbed on
Tangaval.
The top was beaten flat:
a giant's garden of stones,
a playground of boulders,
shields,
slings in the wind's fist.
Goliath fell in pieces,
southwards,
in the sea.
The lapwing's single note
from every compass point
I thought a message,
answered
like a fool.
Tangaval.
The top was beaten flat:
a giant's garden of stones,
a playground of boulders,
shields,
slings in the wind's fist.
Goliath fell in pieces,
southwards,
in the sea.
The lapwing's single note
from every compass point
I thought a message,
answered
like a fool.
The clouds are swollen
The clouds are swollen,
stacked like crates,
herded like cattle
across blue fields chasing leaves.
A woman with her nude back
turned,
blotched with the rain's weight.
Bursting with light,
feathers,
scrawls,
caresses
strike across your brow.
7.22.73
stacked like crates,
herded like cattle
across blue fields chasing leaves.
A woman with her nude back
turned,
blotched with the rain's weight.
Bursting with light,
feathers,
scrawls,
caresses
strike across your brow.
7.22.73
A thread of no distinctive color
A thread of no distinctive color --
you might find the button lady
selling it --
is reeling hopeless out my throat
to follow you.
The speech I was about to make
you missed. So have I.
Anyone with sense would laugh
at this silly pain you leave me, leaving.
My profound cry omitted. My
submissive lie on rewind.
you might find the button lady
selling it --
is reeling hopeless out my throat
to follow you.
The speech I was about to make
you missed. So have I.
Anyone with sense would laugh
at this silly pain you leave me, leaving.
My profound cry omitted. My
submissive lie on rewind.
Repeat
I saw you, saw you dead again,
saw the car, in my mind, open its battered head,
you spilt across a stone.
Your face smiles now,
transparent and without questions:
you still take yourself for granted;
I indulge my awkwardness a little.
We're far enough. I know your name.
You don't hide behind the rock or
in the rhododendron bush, though only you
could slip within the knot of branches now.
You don't shine inside
the water, still or running:
once I thought
to split the winter ice
would bring you back.
I cannot think why
I should even think of you.
You were no one: witless
carved a gap in life
and fell in: I survive
by caution.
2.23.74/8/15/74
saw the car, in my mind, open its battered head,
you spilt across a stone.
Your face smiles now,
transparent and without questions:
you still take yourself for granted;
I indulge my awkwardness a little.
We're far enough. I know your name.
You don't hide behind the rock or
in the rhododendron bush, though only you
could slip within the knot of branches now.
You don't shine inside
the water, still or running:
once I thought
to split the winter ice
would bring you back.
I cannot think why
I should even think of you.
You were no one: witless
carved a gap in life
and fell in: I survive
by caution.
2.23.74/8/15/74
Decision
I heard your voice
lost overseas, watched the
waves end where your
frostbit heart said no.
Sea's grey as paint
and stiff as grease. I do not
care where else the sun shines
if not here.
We are wearing down
like quarters,
I wear a red blot
on my breast, it's not blood.
You take a new shape everyday
and now it's morning, now,
who will you be?
What is bitter?
The taste of keys
and stiffness in the lock
and who behind the door?
Whose absence? Who
behind the door?
The flood is one way and the tide's push bores upriver
and the wind licks waves
that way.
To fall through water, to be eaten in the dark.
10.1.74
lost overseas, watched the
waves end where your
frostbit heart said no.
Sea's grey as paint
and stiff as grease. I do not
care where else the sun shines
if not here.
We are wearing down
like quarters,
I wear a red blot
on my breast, it's not blood.
You take a new shape everyday
and now it's morning, now,
who will you be?
What is bitter?
The taste of keys
and stiffness in the lock
and who behind the door?
Whose absence? Who
behind the door?
The flood is one way and the tide's push bores upriver
and the wind licks waves
that way.
To fall through water, to be eaten in the dark.
10.1.74
Salad man, oh my bird
Salad man, oh my bird,
light wing
with your face of sand.
light wing
with your face of sand.
o little dog
o little dog
no walk today
it's hailing
pee on the paper.
no walk today
it's hailing
pee on the paper.
For Mary Frank
Fear and patient bison wander on her thigh
where scars of clay scar flesh
and what remains of peace bellies through a shabby leaf.
A shadow of fern burns upon her willing lip:
and the thirst of defeat grinding muscle to a stop.
Her amphibian's head thinks slowly
implacable with regret.
2.17.75/2.22.75
where scars of clay scar flesh
and what remains of peace bellies through a shabby leaf.
A shadow of fern burns upon her willing lip:
and the thirst of defeat grinding muscle to a stop.
Her amphibian's head thinks slowly
implacable with regret.
2.17.75/2.22.75
For John Lloyd
Do not stay alone:
you have a heart to share
or lose with strangers.
The nesting Arctic terns
draw scalp's blood.
You
walk islands,
reconcile a grown-up son,
my age.
Why should you
choose less
than your own power demands?
I have seen you face the wind
and turn onto your way
alone,
in your own time.
Who told you
you were old?
you have a heart to share
or lose with strangers.
The nesting Arctic terns
draw scalp's blood.
You
walk islands,
reconcile a grown-up son,
my age.
Why should you
choose less
than your own power demands?
I have seen you face the wind
and turn onto your way
alone,
in your own time.
Who told you
you were old?
Is a wall I sit in front of
Is a wall I sit in front of
With my father we are smiling
I'm in my white sailor suit I don't remember
sailing.
There's the building there's the section of wall
Where our frightening captive smiles
Evaporated.
With my father we are smiling
I'm in my white sailor suit I don't remember
sailing.
There's the building there's the section of wall
Where our frightening captive smiles
Evaporated.
I have imagined secret lovers
I have imagined secret lovers
With apartments, the smooth way.
I want to catch fire. I will be hard,
Only wait.
I dream of violence,
The end of patience, of nerve,
And your mouth not speaking, finally, please, but soft, curious.
Do not touch me. If I go out again it will rain on me
Cold.
I am the home of terror, desire,
Economy. My heart is a wheel, a window.
Will I swallow or spit?
I do not want to offend,
Spend another year in a castoff life
Among metal hangers still sagging,
Bent to hold something heavily wet, and slipping.
With apartments, the smooth way.
I want to catch fire. I will be hard,
Only wait.
I dream of violence,
The end of patience, of nerve,
And your mouth not speaking, finally, please, but soft, curious.
Do not touch me. If I go out again it will rain on me
Cold.
I am the home of terror, desire,
Economy. My heart is a wheel, a window.
Will I swallow or spit?
I do not want to offend,
Spend another year in a castoff life
Among metal hangers still sagging,
Bent to hold something heavily wet, and slipping.
I'd like to give you something you can never leave behind
I'd like to give you something you can never leave behind.
A gift with a hook in it.
I'd like to give you something precious,
something essential,
or water,
something you'd die without.
You'd remember
I was the one gave it to you.
Nobody else.
A gift with a hook in it.
I'd like to give you something precious,
something essential,
or water,
something you'd die without.
You'd remember
I was the one gave it to you.
Nobody else.