AcknowledgementsEarlier versions of some of these poems have been published in Disability Rag, Mouth, The Socialist, Transcendent Visions, and the Scars Publications anthologies Balance and Chaos Theory. |
Preface
The title and the cover illustration are taken from a print entitled Yo lo vi from the series of prints Los desastres de la Guerra by Francisco Goya de Lucientes, his account of the Spanish popular resistance to French occupation for which the word guerrilla was invented. I have always identified closely with that artist. |
I. Revised from a 1960s Notebook |
The Unitieswhen the Case plant struckRacine was split, paralyzed I carried canned goods from outside sympathizers to angry folk on picket lines
at the fogged night gate
Racines close-bonded |
This Was RealFRESH POETRY was a signOn a store selling necessary things At the corner of Damen and Monroe Where we could also FRESH MEET, The sidewalk in front marvelously Cracked, stained, spattered, warped, But nearly always full of easy jokes With honed anger seldom visible; Who you? they would ask; I me, I would say and join in laughter |
In the Jail of ColumbusIn the jail of Columbus, Mississippi,For crimes against the local customs I scarcely need defend myself When a cell brother swings, misses, And collapses onto me Our stinks compounding.
He cannot control one raggy leg
He did not get the bad leg there
As I guide him back to his bunk |
Pastoraleslowing in a jamroutinely constipating an intersection reflecting as I wait on two absurd twigs planted near the curb by my house by a careless crew last month (Bureau of Forestry and Parkways, Chicago) damaging roots and otherwise taking their time in the middle of the riot season but one has three leaves and the other some green shoots my four year-old presses his head with closed eyes on those frail trunks counts up to a hundred by fives and comes looking ready or not so I must reckon them really trees I think of my mountain of paper with my students under it in the noisy chaos of my school (Board of Education, Chicago) wishing luck to everything that shows some potential for growth |
Disasters of Another War(an account of July 31, 1966)
I. Sad Misgivings about Things to Come
II. With Reason or Without
III. You Were Born for This?
IV. They Will Still Be Useful
V. Ravages of War
VI. What More Can Be Done?
the boulevard points
laughing corner boys
riots clear the air
both windows and men
when troops occupied
sweating for pennies
victims angry screams
despair frightens us
in this nightmare world
VIII. The Worst Is Begging
IX. Do They Belong to Another Race?
Mama, now you can see the burning cars
XI. Strange Piety
XII. Truth Is Dead
XIII. Will It Rise Again? |
North Side Mad Songbreakthroughsubway leaps to el clean miracle ilky hair, fishbelly skin white knight has zapped them all
sliding past Uptown
glass walls guard lake
generous sister you tempt me
your graciousness enrages me
but I am no executioner
our good cause is dismembered
grateful for aid and interlude
el redescending |
The Clowns SoliloquyThe play has ended: corpses of the prince,Laertes, Gertrude, and the king are strewn No more upon the stage for your amusement; Only clowns with mops still scrub the floors And sponge the blood from mildewed scenery. Recall me? Im the oaf who digs up Yoricks Skull to set up Hamlets witty speech About the transitory nature of Our lives and trades old jokes with him until Ophelias funeral comes dragging on. If plays went on forever without point As living sometimes seems to do, Id bend My back to dig the holes for four fresh stiffs, Then swell the crowd that welcomes Fortinbras To his new kingdom, watch him shed some tears For those whose gory ends have made his progress To this crown such wondrous easy work, And after settle down to dig more graves Or die in wars proclaimed with certainty By our new king; but I say call a halt To killing for a while and let me speak: I take on five-beat lines to speak to you And not my usual common clownish prose
Because buffoons have tragedies as well |
The StarlingThis morning between clattering trainsAnd above the steady hum of the expressway I heard a rasping chirp and looked out To see close by a long-tailed starling.
Moving to a raw new place
We have shallow roots and few leaves,
Jet black, raucous and shameless,
Adventurous starlings make a welcome
Last spring this was barren plain
Last fall grass like rolls of carpet
Now the laughter of my children |
Lincoln Avenue 1968At Alices Restaurant on a July nightThe poets reshape their recurrent madness, Craftily roaring at no one in particular. Ripples of sound spread out in circles, Losing definition in the steamy darkness On sidewalks too narrow for breathing, Where Poles, Hispanics, and hippies jostle uneasily. This stretch of town, so blindly planned, Has blocks stamped out like dollar bills With a few slant streets like this overlaid Like endless grasping fingers. Across the street The Battle of Algiers Has been fought three times a night for nine weeks, Loudly applauded by hopeful collegians Who will be astonished and frightened When the battle is restaged in Chicago Live and in color with real blood. Facing away on the next street The Wobblies remember a failed truth, Preserving their faith in amber. Meanwhile back at the Biograph Dillingers body is broken again. No plaques or bullet scars adorn the alley, But learned tourists observe the asphalt closely And think they can smell blood in the air; It is the neighborhoods universal myth When the echoes return to Alices Restaurant Where there is nothing to drink that numbs the pain And only the dreaming poets can be heard. |
II. Family, Neighborhood, City |
ObsoletusPetrarch was among the first to useThe sonnet-form and also wrote in Latin So elegantly correct and Ciceronian It killed the tongue for daily use, Confining it to the learned and then To no one when the learned wished To talk to everyone and a universal Tongue meant universal ignorance Of what was being said; the Latin mass Called Tridentine, an adjective from Trent where the Council met to publish it, Is no longer used in churches but is missed By those who recall its sonorous comforts; But it survives because Sebastian Bach And Mozart set it so sublimely that We find it useful to know that Kyrie Elieson is Greek for Lord, have mercy, And Credo Latin for I believe which We can sing though we no longer can.
We file what we no longer use,
Once I stood in odd Lenin Park away |
Dreams of My AncestorsI. BourbonThe jug with cob in neck unstopped and laid On elbow, finger hooked in handle, canted By rising arm until the flow obeyed The law of gravity and nerves are haunted.
The numbing liquor kills some pain, the proof
It is a male thing, women hate like thunder
The women bear the men a heavy grudge;
II. Great Awakening
They gather in the meadow by the stream;
They stay for days and crowd the mourners bench;
Enough for now to blend in rising song;
III. Beyond Trees
Thick turf made winter warm and summer cool,
Rain did not follow plowing, railroads did;
They dreamed of riches, dreamed of heaven, too,
IV. The Last Barber Shop
The shop winked out in nineteen fifty-nine;
Remaining houses sprouted aerials,
In trailer parks the drifters children play |
Toward HomeBehind the summer lilac bushIn a hollow space big enough For hiding from the sun Against the corner of the house With a book about the Hardy Boys, One of twenty I read that year, I also followed the booming And staticky radio soldiers Inching along the arrowed map As I hid from the lawnmower And the dreaded supper table. I was nine years old In the best of shady haunts, But I was not at home.
The two remotes for vcr and |
Celebrating Mozart,
I. |
Remembrances of DrivingHe was always taking roads he had not takenBefore or at least had not taken in years but Almost always in prairie country, he did not like His view obstructed by trees, still less the twists Of mountain roads. Once, though, on a level Straightaway with the Grand Tetons on his left, He said, This is mountain driving the only Way I like it. When he could he would avoid Deserts, swamps, stony ground, anywhere That crops could not be grown, tolerating At most the dry farming country where strips Of crop land alternated with fallow, likewise He did not much like those valleys so wet That grain had to be bagged to keep from sprouting. I reckon that he liked his strangeness familiar, Would study the differences in town water tanks, The shapes of grain elevators, the many Different ways of baling hay, subtle Modulations in silos and milking barns. He bypassed cities although he knew I loved them with their book stores and movie houses And would probably end up in one, rejecting Most things he greatly valued, though I wanted to please him but never ever could.
Years after he died I was driving below the |
The Family Christmas CardMy mothers unique Christmas cards formed a seriesFrom the year of my birth until two years Before her death when the pain of cancer Became too much for her to do them anymore. In the chemical-smelling booth at Woolworths Where you could get four instant portraits for a quarter We posed as she had directed, then she would Trim the heads she had selected, paste them On the bodies she had drawn, with a message Lettered in India ink (she had learned calligraphy At the Art Institute of Chicago in 1922 from A teacher who had taught Vachel Lindsay earlier) The messages were always timely and witty. I recall us in 1943 posed with a newly relevant globe And in 1957 with an orbiting dog in space. Her first grandchild was born too close to Christmas To make 1958, but every year afterward grandchildren Were featured, and when my brother got divorced Grandchildren smiled alone as a solution To the problem of dropping someone without Hurting feelings, which was always a big problem, Because my mother made friends easily and hated To let go, but my father insisted that the list Be kept down to five hundred for the cost of printing Plus stamps and envelopes was over a hundred dollars Even in the 1950s, but people loved them and collected The whole series and knew my mother loved them Because they were still on the list. My brother and I Used to joke that we were sure Mama loved us As long as we were on that Christmas card list. |
JackMy fathers name was John, just John, neverA charming hustler scapegrace Johnny, never Anyones handy trickster buddy Jack, but Our family has often been compound-complex, With children assumed to belong to those who Loved and took care of them, so my father Had a stepbrother bequeathed from his mothers Discarded second husband who was always part Of family gatherings and Uncle Jack Was a Jack and no mistake, handy With tools on the hardest granite, and With a soldiers adventures to recount, Too quick perhaps to join his buddies in Defending an outworn social order, but That was the defect of his virtue, a loyalty that Was always loving even toward the nephew Who favored blacks and Jews, despised Joe McCarthy, And even thought the American Legion fallible.
Now that Jack is long since buried |
PlantingsMy mother-in-law, a just woman,Gave a magnolia from suburban Saint Louis To plant by our Chicago house decades Ago, and it survives despite a tendency To blossom prematurely in our always tricky Spring, doubtless having an atavistic Instinct from its Missouri birthplace, But it has grown tall and gives both Brief beauty and pleasant shade each year.
My mother, who would have lived
According to Orwell, we might forgive |
SurrogateToo good to be true, but true,Stretched way too far, but true, Unfit for a careful book in the Field of popular science, but True, anyhow, despite everything, And it must be preserved somehow.
Kathy, all agree her name was that,
Harlow, the experiments designer, and great
My wife and I heard the story about Kathy
The sculptor had great talents, also
Truth spreads slowly. Our daughter
Harlows breakthroughs had been
Learning is always slow to spread,
I learned much, however, for instance
Harlow lived long enough to catch flak
Thus, the story about loving Kathy |
Magic GardenShe wanted a garden in a day made,The grass smudged on, a living kiss On cement block of plain garage in this Back yard, a temporary work to fade But bright for now, and fun to tint and shade With family pitching in, an artifice Of seasons, ivy climbing just to miss The window, lines dissolving into glade.
Therere lilacs, tulips, daisies in the set; |
BearWhen bear was growing up he got a yenFor kinky sex, for Goldilocks had left Her scent upon his bed and chair, bereft Of counsel (books on sex were unknown then For bears) he found the golden spoor again When Goldy showered; No soap, remove your heft, She yelled. He did, though longing for that cleft, And tried for sex where bears had never been.
Then bear humped moon till sun came back and fled |
Golden ApproachesThe rose grows round the briar from the gravesIn ballads. That is myth. To live entwined For decades is for real, with work that saves The coupling, keeps the distance re-aligned.
To meld the seeing-hearing total world
With luck and habit, care and giving, one
The halting, sagging, laughing, living pair |
Down by the Corner 1991He dont fool me that Colin Powell,They fake him up just like they used to Fake up them moon landings, yes, they did; He really some kind of dark Eyetalian or something They just using to get us to act foolish; A real black man dont pushbutton kill And talk about it on the tv afterwards, A real black man blows up right in your face, I know because Ive done it, yes, I did; I was a regular Staggerlee in my younger days Except I used nothing but fists and teeth; I bit off a mans ear once, yes, I did, Off Fred that hangs here sometimes, Which is why his specs dont sit just right, But we good friends now, yes, we are; We trade lies about our young days; A person needs to do that, yes, he does, And somebody got to listen; that Colin Powell, A million people see him on the tv, But nobody really listening, he got Nothing that is truly his own to say; He saying somebody elses words; Always say your own words and Never let nobody tell you how to talk, Nor how to listen neither, never; I have always done my own listening And my own talking, yes, I have; You dont need a million people, just a few Who really hear you talking to em; Now, my wifes a Sunday morning woman, And I have always been a Saturday night man, But she hear me talking, yes, she does, And I hear her talking right back, Just like I hear you, old neighbor, And old Fred with his floppy ear; But one ear at a time is all I need To hear what I got to say, yes, it is, So you take good care of yourself And use your ears and your brains, Cause they like your private parts: You dont use em, you lose em; Hear me talking to you, yes, you do. |
Newly AmbulatoryFor a two year-old there are never two points,There are an infinity of points and, thus, no point In ever going anywhere in a straight line when Absolutely everything must be explored right now.
This morning he went to the corner store with his father,
His father was pool cue straight and doing his best
Twenty years ago he was all over the court |
EquinoxThe new mail carrier, disregarding regulations,Litters the sidewalk with rubber bands As each bundle is unpacked and at first, It being that time of year, I mistake them For angle worms, but I pick them up despite My stiffness in my seventy-first year because I recall the scrap rubber drives and the absence Of bubble gum during World War Two and Black marks on gym floors from bad synthetics After the Japanese unexpectedly bicycled Down the Malay Peninsula to take Singapore; So I am an old man bending thankfully not over Wounded boys but merely impelled by thrift And memories of a time when gasoline was twenty Cents per gallon. It is now more than ten times That and still going up while boys no older Than my oldest grandchild are blown apart Nearly every day. I look at the power-packed Ugly boxes of my neighbors SUVs and wonder Why some lessons take so much longer than One old mans lifetime to be driven home. |
AprilThe passing hailstorm bruised the blooms and swirledThem blowing over roofs to pave the walks. The heartlands Spring is never sure, pinks whirled Away or frozen, wind that breaks the stalks,
Or squirrels devouring bulbs, but leaves will come
Alarms that shriek when boys in boom cars pass,
We cannot tune things out, we play our role. |
FallIn Marc Chagalls too pale mosaic sceneThe winter and summer are the longest sides. The short beginning and the end of green Are whimsically brief as time divides. That is the way with continental cores; Remove the coal smoke from the air, remove The lead from fuel, and insulate the doors; The weather still proves chancy, records prove. This summer was bone dry, the leaves now drab; Predictions based on greed and wishes just Go wrong, the corn is scant, the liars gab, Disasters happen as disasters must.
Bad wars and storms ignored will doom a fool. |
Gentrification and MemoryI prefer co-ordinates of timeAnd space to be exact even when Populated by ghosts not made by me, So this was on a not particularly unlucky Friday the Thirteenth, June, 2003, When we were on our way to a leaky- Roofed roomful of peaceful people when Peace was unpopular with the president And those who ran him to hear an old Friend and comrade speak feelingly Of past resistances not entirely Lost and plans for futures not Bright but not entirely hopeless.
On Division between Damen and Hoyne
Now they serve little whiskey here except
Once I played poker with Algren
Now old-timers would be busted |
Bruce Goffs CulletHow like him, how very like himTo use his grave marker to teach me A new word: cullet: a lump of fused glass Added to new material to facilitate Melting, a catalyst aiding a process As teachers naturally do, as he did, And now his friends have placed his ashes Under the marker with his angled Geometric script on the lagoon shore Of Chicagos Graceland Cemetery looking To the little island with Burnham Underneath his boulder, near Mies, near Gravity-defying Ruth Page, across From the graceful levels Shaw designed For the Goodmans, down the path From the twining elegance of Sullivans Getty Tomb, among his peers, with that Startling gem-like glass cullet from The destroyed but phoenix-like Price house Back home in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, That still exists in loving pictures. At least it was built, for he had More ideas than patrons, but treated Patrons well, having learned a Modesty that his master did not teach. Neither did he make students worship him, Merely freed their minds to be themselves With his spaces as their examples: Grain elevators that had learned from beehives, An infinity cantilevered from a rooted pole, A spiral echoing with Japanese treasures, A place for worship from Quonset huts, And his own space concealed beneath a stadium Where ideas split and fused like atomic nuclei. I never took his courses. I had no math Or drawing skills, but I was welcome Under the stadium seats on weekend nights, Encountering for the first time the swirling Drips of Jackson Pollock, the talking wound Of Cocteaus poet, the low passageways Of the palace of Eisensteins Ivan, For his spaces were meant to be open To anyone with an opening mind.
I was not there to help him when |
Junkyard FindThe area south of the Loop keeps on gentrifying,The Red Line el before it descends under earth passes Rows and rows of three quarter million dollar condos For dazzling urbanites with no kids, savings, conscience, No sense of the past, not knowing they are on the site Of the Cross of Gold speech, the Everleigh Club, old Yiddish theaters, Big Jim Colosimos, Hinky Dink and Bathhouse Johns First Ward balls, Jack Johnsons bar Inlaid with silver dollars, and things still rattling deep Inside my personal memory like the golden taste of Gefilte fish at Mama Batts, Scurvy Miller in burlesque, And the junkyards, the acres and acres of rusting hulks Guarded by legendary dogs, the huge parts warehouse Labeled Warshawsky and Warshawsky and nearby Another yard called Original Warshawsky. I never Knew the cause of the family quarrel, if there was one, Nor did I ever wander Original Warshawskys yard, But sometimes in my dreams I looked for a tail pipe for A 1946 Studebaker, my first car, which rusted out and Was patched with a too noisy corrugated flexible hose. I am told that sometimes gold was found there: gears For a Chrysler Airflow, a Lincoln Zephyr steering wheel. Original Warshawskys could provide reanimation aids Like Original Frankenstein, but that yard is gone forever. I spent hours with a search engine and only found that Warshawsky and Warshawsky had merged with big timers And has a yard in another low-rent area and that Original Warshawsky has left no trace except in the junkyard in My head where it rusts but refuses to go away, just like Old Carter Family tunes: Lonesome Valley, Wildwood Flower, Will the Circle Be Unbroken? and the rest known Since always, but always began some time. When I heard Them most recently, I searched my junkyard mind: not at Home on the family Crosley, nor the homes of kin. They Were not broadcast in 1940 on Grand Ol Opry or on National Barn Dance but on some border superstation With a transmitter in Mexico to which we did not listen. Then I found it in a dream, lying under more than a Half century of rusted memories. I was six years old, Across the street at the little Fogelsong house, watching Fascinated as Mister Fogelsong operated his mail-order Cigarette rolling machine, wrapping Zig Zag papers around Dukes Mixture or maybe Bugler, while A. P., Sara, and Maybelle Carter sang Will the Circle Be Unbroken? and Mrs. Fogelsong Offered me supper if I cared to stay, and I was part of the Circle with big brother V. K., talented artist Jimmy, and Gene my special friend who spent nights in my back yard Yard when we rolled ourselves in blankets like the cowboys We imagined ourselves to be. The Fogelsongs moved To Anadarko a couple of years later and we lost touch. I tried to locate them today on the web, but they are Not chronicled and there is a nearly even chance by now They are dead except in my mind like Original Warshawsky, But the memory, awakened by those old Carter Family songs Is bright like the imagined tailpipe on a 1946 Studebaker. |
III. Pain, Fear, Hope |
Pain...Pain comes from the darknessAnd we call it wisdom. It is pain. Randall Jarrell, 90 North Describe the pain.
It is just pain, the kind Describe the pain.
A burning, no, a smolder Locate the pain.
In a memory bank that works Describe the trauma.
I took a fall in a country Tell us more.
It has gone on for decades, Tell us what you expect.
You will defraud me and Medicare Tell us what you propose.
I shall discipline my memories, |
To a Young FriendThank you for the offer of morphine,Which I must decline despite the stubborn Reality of my pain and the certainty That the dope was offered with love Expressed the best way you knew how.
The nearness of death scares me,
I have known a kind of unstinted love
I can never assuage your terrific fear |
Vision of an Old WoundInside black glove that fails to mask the lossOf cunning on the frets of a guitar The twisting root of sinister is seen On this left hand whose writhing scars now cross Hairless and pink on leather skin and mean A jury rig of welded bones beneath The blasted flesh, a message trapped between Fused tendons falters, fails to breach a wall.
Five fingers, clumsy, clawlike, and obscene, |
Overwhelming NightmaresThe succubus retreats, the cage breaks throughThe roof to sidle to another street Where halls diffuse and goo engulfs my shoe; Shes gone; I want but we can never meet.
I loved him but I would not be his slave;
The suspects scatter but are rounded up;
The threat roars brainward, revving Harleys, but |
Old Wars, New WarsIn eighteen sixty-six the crows almostDied out, the jellied eyeballs that were once Their gourmet treat had gone, the host Of men put underground had stopped their hunts.
Near where I write neglected stones ring bold
He watched and could do nothing while his friend
All protests futile, blackness shrieks ahead, |
Against Star WarsI honor dying myths but disbelieve the fuseNew mythmakers would build to save belief That pays for priests and tenured chairs, the sheaf Of sacrifice the poor provide, a ruse By foggy clerks to save habitual use Of needy folk bowed down by honest grief, Impending death, and constant woes, a reef Marooning all, their salve I must refuse.
No hope in alchemy, no hope in Jung, |
HistoryWhy, this is history, nor am I out of it,No waking from the nightmare but In death, just something moving maybe on, Not up not out for certain, on, just on, Encoded past in us and all, and things To come no way to ken, just moving on As seen by light that left the sun as long Ago as longest stretch of news between The ads or driving to stuff a snail mail box; That light, all light, must move at this same speed From every source in all directions, faster Never, so we are always trapped in time, A damned brief stretch of it at that, too much And not enough and no way out of it that Most of us will take, at least on sunny days.
The future will be better, maybe so; |
A C Student Reviews HistoryA succubus impressing semen startsThe War of 1812, a drag queen named Enola Gay drops bombs, and that far-famed Romanian rebel Ostend Manifesto darts A spray of blood from bitten hearts On old Boss Tweed, a cool suit often blamed For lax permissiveness and cruelly aimed From envy at our mighty private parts.
I just state facts, that facts can often lie |
First AnniversaryFlitcraft disappeared like a fistWhen you open your hand. Death had Missed him by inches and he had seen The works: existence minus illusion, How close to death our fragile bodies are Always. He tried to make sense of this When found by a detective and Succeeded because the detective lived On the edge and was in love With danger and its embodiments, But the part the detective liked best Was that Flitcrafts new life Mirrored his old one. He had adjusted To death and then to dull dailiness Again while waiting for it. In those days it was easier To drop out and then back in again. Most of us would be quickly found Even if we had the guts to try it. So, on this first anniversary Of fireballs in the steel card houses We have adjusted like Flitcraft, Knowing from old folk wisdom That one will get us some day but That we will not hear it coming. |
Perhaps from NothingRecall from school those huge equations whichWith all the unknowns solved turned out to mean Nothing equals nothing, perhaps some glitch In nothing started all; this might be seen To be a good first myth, except its tough To compass nothing in our thought: the Zen Monks try, but thought fills every void. Enough To trace where things and life have been, Enough to be in awe of all that was And is, know some of how it works, protect Our bit, do not pretend to know the cause Or what the minds that follow should expect.
We think and search until our time has gone. |
NoirThe rumbling el casts shadows from the moon;Some truth must be untangled from the lies; The rats are dying, plague will be here soon.
The low-life bars sound with a wailing tune;
The womans screams now soften to a croon;
The hired thugs get smashed, and thats a boon,
Your questing dick is just a sad buffoon,
Almost too late, you smash through one last goon, |
Columbine Massacre
He stole Chaplins mustache, ruined |
ChoosingOne of the forking pathsLeads to death. That is sure, But when is never sure, and In the meantime we choose, Within narrow limits, but we Choose, choose the flooded city Or the soon bombed one, or bad Times on brown prairie, foul Memories that we knew would Get us some day, knowing that Refusing to sit with a back To a window does no good, And keeping it all in does No good, and letting it out Hurts like hell and is hell, And, what is worse, hurts Others, but we are trapped, Must choose fear, shame, but Not death, not yet, knowing When that path comes, if it Surprises us, we have won. |
The Esthetics of DistanceThey are marvelous at sensing the beautyOf the passing moment, the Japanese, revering The melting Spring snow on the cherry blossoms, Setting up stands in the parks to watch falling Bright leaves, feeling the slight irregularity of A tea cup, standing on roofs to watch what they Called the flowers of Edo as the fire bombs Fell and bloomed fantastically, also beautiful To bomber crews who could not see burnt flesh Or hear the screams and had been taught That these were not quite people like us, just As watchers and burned below were taught About the burned of Nanking and Pearl Harbor.
I sign petitions against the next war which |
SabbathSo I said to the boss: No can do,Sorry, but its carved in stone, A day of rest and prayer for me, And, if I pray in an easy chair with A tall cold one beside me while Watching the kids on their swing set, Its my worship and not your concern.
I told him I had decided to become
And we talk to fellow workers in Spanish,
Thats the future, boss: if youve got to sell,
So thats the way things stand now. |
Amazing GraceI knew from childhood that the greatest chiefsWere named McIntosh, MacGillivray, and Ross, That the greatest entertainer ever was Rogers With just enough white, as he said, to make his Honesty suspect, and the white part was Scottish, That the greatest trailblazer of my home ground Was another Cherokee-Scot named Chisholm, And that was who, where, and why I was.
If you want to put the bottom on the top, first
Movement means mingling and an understanding |
IV. Fellow Traveling |
ObserveYou see, but you do not observe.I bought the two-volume set used In Tulsa for seventy-five cents and walked Up those seventeen steps to a place more Real than real, with bullet holes celebrating V R on her golden jubilee, tobacco in the toe Of a Persian slipper, and all the blessed rest, Imagined only a decade after a wire had said Come here, Mister Watson, I want you, but I never could observe like Holmes. However, I learned Doyles trick of working backward. The next summer I saw a Van Gogh wheat field After seeing real ones from Oklahoma to Manitoba And knew Van Gogh had observed and I had not. I have used the trick since, all over the world: For instance in the Galapagos, feeling soft-spined Cacti, watching the variously beaked finches, Seeing the terrifying subversive inevitability Of Darwins Bible-defying insight; and again In Trier with the wedding-cake episcopal palace Close by the brooding Roman Empire gate below The robber baron cliffs and above the laden river Observed in all their successions by young Marx; Closer to home in a plane above the linking portage Of the Fox and Wisconsin rivers, I missed nothing Because Turner growing up there missed nothing. I believe that someone somewhere is observing: A computer screen in Bangalore, an up to now Unknown orchid in New Guinea, a microscope or Telescope revealing wonders in Kiev or Kinshasa. Observing fends off the speckled band, the hound, Even the giant rat of Sumatra, that is elementary. |
Earthlight/StarlightI.National Geographic shows on a new fold-out map A whole year of collected light from Earth: I can make out my home towns isolated dot; The country between Oklahoma City and Norman Where I was dumped beaten in the rainy dark Fifty years ago by a rich mans hired goons Is now ablaze with light and safe for some, For light means, safety, knowledge, and easeful living. The streak outlining Lake Michigans shores Is thickest where I live, and I would not have it Any other way. The lights may dim soon, For we have been spending too many old fossils, But we have always lived on one edge or another, Avoiding self-destruction by a split hair, and, Because we cannot fully imagine our not being, We have a baseless faith that we must survive. In the meantime banks of Nile and Jordan brighten, The corridor on I 95 swells and extends, Rio, Phoenix, Delhi, Beijing, and Athens spread, Gas flares redden the Persian Gulf, Nigeria glows, And there is bright carnage again on the Tigris Where the oldest records tell of Gilgamesh Trying to avoid death, seeking out the oldest man, The one who survived the flood the gods sent When the torches of night cities disturbed them, But Gilgamesh was told that all of us must die, Although our brief candle may last a while If our trickster fire-bringers serve us well And we learn to save and share before winking out.
II. |
From a Porch Swing
The September hillside north of Plain |
The Cicerone Covering the ActionTo cover the action from beginning to endThe cicerone must invoke a host of dead: Willie preaching through the bullhorn almost Against his will but sorely tempted by gospel, Joanne blind and growling, needing no bullhorn Just a few comrades for action against the beast, Toothless Chris freeing himself after years of Imprisonment by a deaf-blind, unfeeling system, One of the earliest, the kid whose SSI check Got cashed after he died and won us a victory, One of the latest, John with no legs and one finger Driving here by himself, showing off his articulated kids, And the Texas good buddy in war-paint and camouflage Who bonded with the cicerone for three days in jail, Above all Wade with that hippie angelic mop Who healed himself by making others whole; All present, all representing each other, all Living inside the living as action is planned.
Targets are picked, mechanics are alerted, permits
Then a final party with dervish wheelchairs,
The cicerone has never figured out
Ancient and modern sages knew fear |
Golden Gate FogI saw it dazzling white on top andCovering all but the tops of the cables And the towers, moving like a herd of Angel sheep into the bay, what I had Only known from books, movies, and The subtle sound effects of radio drama; Later, inside it on the bus across the bridge, Sensing the mysterious draining of color, Emerging to bright Sausalito and sitting In front of the tourist cabin while my Father smoked and my mother fixed Supper inside, and I rather liked the Saggy couch that was my bed that night, We talked, trying to find subjects That would hurt neither one of us as He picked up my paperback of The Glass Key, read a page, then said, The man Who wrote this was a lunger; one Lunger can always tell another, and he Was right. Dashiell Hammett had rotten Lungs, and neither he nor his heroes Expected to live as long as he did. I am Older than Hammett ever got, and with Luck will live as long as my father who Was eighty-five at his death, although still Sharp and dangerous in my mind with no Fog except the parts I never understood.
The next afternoon I stood on Powell Street
Forty years ago come another September
The fog blurs sights and sounds and |
The Cicerone Feeling the RodinsHis partially sighted friend has permission to feelThe Rodins on the parkway in Philadelphia and The cicerone, guiding her, has scrubbed his hands For the same privilege. They start naturally With The Thinker, cast many times, seen by The cicerone in Tokyo, vandalized in Cleveland, Below ground in the Paris Metro, underneath Another casting in the artists studio which The Philadelphia casting replicates, a clich That somehow has not let fame reduce Its power, now felt, thinking with massive Head on massive workmans hand, thinking With every articulated muscle, rough in The bronze, complete but unfinished, right Elbow on left knee, deep-set eyes that are Looking inward, all features strong, bulging But nothing protruding, all body parts clothed Only in thought reinforcing all other parts; Probing and gliding hands on surface and Crevices, hands reading as well as eyes.
On to portrait busts: Bernard Shaw
He was nearsighted, the cicerone says, |
Traveling with a LoverThis morning I saw Spanish mossDrooping from a liveoak in front Of a computer store flanked by A firm selling Sea Island Real estate and a Christian Science Reading Room, and I Thought of the first time you Saw the hanging moss and ripped Some off and put it in the trunk Of the car and were surprised When no one back home Thought it as wonderful as you did.
You could not take home the
We have the knick-knacks and |
Bridges(a ghazal in the manner of Robert Bly)
Troops crossed the Rhine at Remagen with dry feet
The Tallahatchie River drains poison from the fields.
Blocked at Pettus Bridge by club-wielding horsemen,
Be careful in the Minnesota wind-chill over ice
Driving Interstate Seventy-six across the Delaware into Camden,
Sonny Rollins got over his dry spell by sounding |
Eight Poems Written
I. Mount Ida Evokes Memories |
BergenThe coast wrinkles northFor a thousand more miles, Yet we are north of the Northern tip of Scotland; Sunlight catches in the peaks For twenty hours a day; From the edge of the pier I make out eight streets Stacked one above the other; The spire of the guild hall Is fifty feet below The base of the hotel; The fjord is cats eye green; Somehow this vertiginous place Is balanced and safe for us; Tomorrow we thread channels South to Stavanger which Launched your family west Nine decades ago and Will welcome you back; Then east to Stockholm Or anywhere you like; Didnt I promise you? |
The Cicerone
The ticking of the metronome has awed |
Eyewitness in IraqI. Ameriyah, October 28, 2002
Pray for Ameriyah, a place in Baghdad hit II. Baghdad, October 28, 2002
The eve of Ramadan is a good time III. At the Tomb of Jonah, October 30, 2002
The Tigris runs low, on exposed banks
This mosque is built around the supposed tomb IV. The Yazidis and Hatra, October 31, 2002
The Yazidis are not Satanists although,
A few hours later the group pauses V. Recalling Sacred Places, November 3, 2002
Abraham came out of Ur, smashing idols
Contaminated water causes obsolescent VI. Leaving Iraq, November 4, 2002
Here the frontier is a straight line |
Yachts in CaptivityThe greatest naval historian of my time, HarvardsSamuel Eliot Morison, once lectured in Oklahoma. He had written fifteen volumes on one sea war To which he was a privileged witness and Had duplicated the first Columbus voyage With an all-Ivy League crew. He was appalled That I did not know the rigs and tacks And masts and spars and oriented myself Solely by land signs. He knew his stuff As historians must, but no historian knows Everyones stuff. He did not know prisons, For instance, or anything about the secret ways The powerful, including, I reckon, a crew That is all-Ivy League, can delegate to grunts, Some nasty techniques for staying in control; And that is something I have had to learn To keep on going. At Dublins Kilmainham Gaol Our two specialties crossed: the Asgard Is in the courtyard there. It belonged to Erskine Childers, a master of shoals And dangerous passages of arms who Finally ran aground during the Troubles. Casements yacht is there, too: a great Righter of wrongs and a patriot or A traitor depending on what year it was, He had many fans. The Brits used his diaries, Which showed he was gay, to justify hanging him. They were yachtsmen who knew what old Morison knew and who had to learn what Revolutionaries learn. We honor them for it. |
Approaching Stratford-Upon-AvonThe television aerials amongThe chimney pots, eroding brick Facades on underpasses, baskets hung With early summer blooms; the world is quick.
A tall blonde youth embraces Indian love,
The towns a tourist trap for fans of Will,
Forever blooming, ever full of thrills for us, |
Cuernavaca 1972Sol becoming sombre in the lateMorelos afternoon as the shine boy With the huaraches made from tires Of local manufacture goes among The cantina tables; he sees my Scuffed boots, I nod and look up To the mural on the old palace wall Where on an embedded column Diego Rivera, using old tricks, Has made the eyes of Cortez Appear to follow us everywhere.
Maybe Malcolm Lowry sat here
I drink in the classic manner; tequila
Dead freedom fighters are honored |
YatabaghdaduIt is a real word, a verbIn Arabic, meaning to try To live like the elites of Baghdad in its storied days, Which were still being storied At the Beit al-Iraqi last November when Amal served Tea and a pastry with syrup And cream called kahi, and we Exchanged a few stories and Songs and, of course, did a Little business and talked some Politics and religion, which is What Baghdad has always been about.
A ceramic tablet hangs on my wall,
It is cuneiform, although I cannot tell
The original might be on its way to
War makers should not bomb cities
Now the occupying troops look
There is no real ending to |
I Saw ThisThe headpiece of the dervish flying free,The Maui New Years sunrise hailed with gongs, The nightless night near Barrows Chukchi Sea, The new-fledged voters come alive with song,
The Kyoto garden made of rock and sand,
The slamming jailhouse doors a score of times,
The pages where the words were sometimes tamed,
The north rim of the canyon seen at dawn, |