Once in a while I write a poem about
My ancestor Aaron of Karlin who could,
According to legend, fly or at least float and who
Might have drifted who knows where if his wife
Hadn't put stones in his pocket. Recently,
I've become more interested in his wife who,
Like me, her descendant, couldn't fly
Or if she could didn't make a fuss about it.
About my ancestor Reb Aaron tradition and my mother
Agree: he could fly. Nothing fancy, mind you;
He wasn't a show off and didn't do Immelmans
Or Figure-8s in the skies over Karlin. Mostly he floated
Just a bit off the ground, rising higher when he prayed
Or was lost in thought. His wife (who was also
My ancestor, come to think ofit) would slip rocks
Into his pockets so he wouldn't float away entirely.
When Virginia Woolf had had enough of being Virginia Woolf she
Put stones into her pocket (quare: pocket or pockets?
How many stones?) and went into the River Scouse
(Thirty-five miles long; considerably polluted now
But probably less so on March 28, 1941)
If you had to guess would you say she walked, dove
Or jumped headlong into the Scouse?
Or did she spin around, looking at the world
(Just then, just there) so she could describe it if it fortuned
That she survived? And tell me something
About those stones -- smooth river-rocks do you think
Picked up idly and then inspiring the thought
"These would do nicely if I wanted to drown"?
Whatever became of those stones? Do they sit
In a vitrine somewhere, next to the bezoars?
"Stones found in a dead writer's pocket; stones
Recovered from the belly of a toad."
In the room a red teapot and
A grey-green rug. Three chairs and
A cat sitting on one of them. A shelf
Filled with sea-shells. A lamp.
Pen and ink and paper on
A thin-legged table. A box
Filled with sand. Old Ono No Komachi
Talking to her much younger self.
In a corner Death quietly listening,
His cup of tea growing cold.
The man whose shadow I am
Has begun to shrink but not rapidly
As would be proper. At high noon
He doesn't disappear and at sunset
He doesn't grow tall. Turn out the light
And he remains! According to him
Plato discovered that all things here
Are shadows of better things elsewhere
So he is a shadow of his true self and I
Am a shadow of the idea of shadowness.
I ask if his true self ever treats shadowness
To a meal or at least a cup of coffee.
He says probably not since his true self
Hasn't the shadow of a thin dime.
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