CHESSMEN

 

My grandfather Joe would sometimes look

At a chessboard and rearrange the pieces

Two black bishops might change places

Some pawns would yearn forward

Others retreat to the back of their squares

Or sit with deadly calm in the exact middle.

When he played he might put a finger on a piece

To see what it wanted to do. Knights, though

He always took by surprise. Never wise

To know what a knight was thinking

A MOMENT ON THE WAY

Passing the house
Where she'd have lived
If she'd taken another road

A FEW INSTRUCTIONS

 

When you wake up 

Look in a mirror and say

"I am no shadow" 

Until you believe it.

Next, gather substance.

Stand without flickering.

Remember not to change size

Too radically.  Hire servants --

You'll need at least four: one

To attend you outdoors; one

To appear by artificial light; one

To be invisible to all but you; the last

You must not acknowledge

When you meet again.

LAMB'S CONDUIT FIELDS

 

At Captain Thomas Coram's Foundling Hospital

There was a side entrance for desperate folk

To leave infants, often with notes or tokens --

A blanket, a toy, a bright bead, some coral.

One morning they found one, small and sick,

Wrapped in a basket with a letter pinned

To his blanket saying "This is Death. Please

Take care of him. I'll come back 

If things ever go better for Me."

BAGHDAD AND CHESS

 

"In Baghdad a thousand years ago," I told the ghost

Of my grandfather Joe, "well-advised men were not

Blacksmiths, butchers, conjurors, policemen,

Night watchmen, dung collectors, tanners,

Bathhouse stokers, makers of women's shoes,

Well diggers, masseurs, pigeon racers or chess players."

"Better-advised men," he said, "left Baghdad

And played chess in peace."

SPARAFUCILE'S COMPLAINT

 

In my career, says Sparafucile, I fulfilled the terms

Of almost every contract. Hire me and your worries

Were gone or replaced at least by ones more interesting;

You could go right home and start thinking

About what to wear to your enemy's funeral.

Really, I was that good. Killing the Duke

Was nothing special for me; I'd killed kings!

I gave Rigoletto a bargain price; I liked him

And yes, I know that I mistook a slender soprano

For a bulky tenor but it was dark and she, remember,

Was trying to fool me. You'd think there'd be operas

About the many times I killed the right victim

But no -- there's not even a poem.

HATS

 

In the picture it is late 1955 and you

Have on an admirable fake-leather hat

With earflaps which I thought

Fairly marked your status as

A seven year old and the oldest

Of us. At half-past three

I, having no say about my headgear,

Wear a shapeless wool thing

Made by an aunt who'd obviously

Accepted her sister's dare

To shut her eyes and knit a hat

While wearing boxing gloves.