Monday, December 31, 2018

ON TIME (R)


“time, time,” said old king tut
“is something i ain’t got anything but.”
--archie the cockroach

            I have been reading a book about the Black Death; someone must, or such books will cease being written and the memory of the disaster will fade and fray, until there is only the thought of a grey or yellow death, or perhaps a pale peach death, with stripes, suitable for summer wear. In it, the author mentions a road in Italy where, on certain afternoons, Time can be seen thinking about itself. The image is arresting, and seems to confirm what I have often thought about Time. Not truly an abstraction, we have shaped it and made it a sort of greater cousin of ours, and it shows human tendencies, including a propensity for boredom and self-absorption.

            Consider what generations of observation have taught us. Time is often loath to move; it hangs heavy on the hands. It scorns courtesy; along with the tide, it waits for no man. Ralph Hodgson called it an old gypsy, which seems right enough. Gypsies know time well enough not to be over-awed by it and its pretensions to rule. The bells in a W.H. Auden poem whirr and chime in warning: “Oh, let not Time deceive you! You cannot conquer Time!”

            It has even been known to fly, though no one says whether it flies to or away from something. Perhaps there is a hint in the Latin: Tempus Fugits, wherein Time doesn’t fly but flees, a fugitive (though from what would Time flee? And does it carry us along in simple mercy, so we don’t see the face of what comes after it?) Leigh Hunt called it a thief. John Ford, who wore a melancholy hat, spoke of a man who shook hands with Time. Indeed, Time was very present in great Elizabeth’s day; Walter Raleigh spoke of her as a lady who had been surprised by Time (I doubt she shook Time’s hand, but perhaps she gave it her hand to kiss).

            Shakespeare has little patience with Time, offering in his sonnets to defeat it by the sheer power of his language. Thus, as the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations affirms, he calls it sluttish (Sonnet 17), thievish (Sonnet 77), and possessed of a fell hand (Sonnet 64). It is a cormorant (Love’s Labor Lost), injurious (Troilus and Cressida) and not only envious but prone to calumny (Sonnet 171). It is dangerous to waste it, for it may turn and waste in return (Richard II). Still, Shakespeare’s Time has it’s less fearsome side. It has a wallet (Troilus and Cressida) and a whirligig (Twelfth Night). It sets clocks (King John)  and, though out of joint (Hamlet), is like a fashionable host (Sonnet 165).

            The poets who have sighted Time have given us enough information about its possessions that we could write its will. (Surely it has not long to live? We know that it is twice as old as Petra, that rose-red city half as old as Time). It has horses, a winged chariot, a cave,  a wheel, a river, a trumpet, rags, corridors, whips, a fool, a eunuch, a tooth (and that a sharp one). No wonder Keats saw it aching; the Reverend Richard Jago described Time as having a leaden foot.

            Among the Victorians, Tennyson knew Time for a maniac scattering dust, but Disraeli thought him a good physician, and Gladstone said “Time is on our side.” The important question is, is it the maniac or the physician who is allied with us?

            Time is golden, bald and has a noiseless foot. He is a kind friend, a liar, and (oddly enough) a sandpile. He is a peddler, deals in dust. He will come and take  my love. Though he is said to be money, Shakespeare said he is broke, and he is sometimes threadbare. A detailed index assures me that there is Time to be a saint, to be born, to be happy, to be old, to begin anew, to dance, to die, to hear bird music, to laugh, to mourn, to remember, to weep. There is time to serve and sin, to stand and to stare, to stop a revolution, to wallop and to stigmatize.
           
            Time must have an end.

Friday, December 28, 2018

IN WINTER


Ming the Merciless layers newspaper
Between his shirt and his skin. The bench
He used to sleep on has disappeared.
He wraps himself in shadows and stays awake
Or drowses in a narrow tunnel
Under the 73rd Street overpass

Thursday, December 27, 2018

BODINGS


Of them all only Ming knew for certain
That they were characters in a story
Though Zarkov sometimes dreamed
A talking animal -- a cat, a dog,
A sinister iguana with an Irish brogue --
Warned him to distrust everything.

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

DESCEDENDO


Traditionally, Night's entrance
Is heralded by seven notes
Descending on muted strings.
Lyres do well or lutes or rebecs
Or miniature Spanish guitars
Played by the serious ghosts
Of very small princesses.
But if banjos are what you have
Or ukeleles, twang boldly forth.

Monday, December 24, 2018

SAINTS


St. Mochua has an alias and sometimes
Performs pinchbeck miracles
Under the name of St. Cronan.
Cronan has a pleasant smile
And, between miracles, practices
Tricks with cards and dice. Mochua
Is dour and once drew a line
Hungry lambs couldn't cross
To reach their puzzled dams.
His dark green cloak, at need,
At least once  served as a boat
For thirteen people, two dogs and a cat..

Friday, December 21, 2018

TRANLATED FROM THE UNWRITTEN


This poem you cannot read -- I will read it for you
The absurd beauty of this rough cup -- I will see it
Since you're no longer here suddenly to mark it.
I will appear in the dream you would have had
Startling the other players because even dead
How glad they would have been to see you!

Wednesday, December 19, 2018

STRANGER


The author of a recent book on Covent Garden  thinks
You are a beggar but he has not looked closely
You're cranky, not poor, and you're wearing a shtreiml
A Jew -- a hasid perhaps, or else a Litvak,
Has wandered into Louis Phillipe Boitard's drawing
Of Holbein's Gateway and Jones' Banqueting House.
You've been there, leaning awkwardly against a fence,
Since 1742. Perhaps you hoped my father might see you
And address you in old-fashioned Hebrew, or my mother
Gently ask "Landtsman, vos brengt ir do?" But
There is only me now nor have I the words
To ask what road took you here and why
You’ve put your back to the the Banqueting House,
Your head turned  so sharply from the Gateway.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

HAVING COME INTO MONEY, MING THE MERCILESS VISITS GOLGOTHA



The narrow toe of his embroidered slipper
Delicately moves between the skulls
That have been allowed -- or even encouraged --
To litter the paths which, he notes approvingly,
Are curved; no demon can safely walk them.
He recognizes Flash Gordon's skull
And lifts it gently out of the way. Who knows
When it might again be needed?

Monday, December 17, 2018

HIRED


We went looking for a god among the z's
But Zeus wasn't there nor Zalmoxis
Only Zorro who was not a god at all.
Still, Don Diego de la Vega,
Who never shrank from  a challenge,
Mounted Tornado and rode furiously
Creating the world in mad haste.
When we meet Him now we pretend
The mask and the broad-brimmed hat
Have deceived us utterly.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

GOING TO BIRD COW WOMAN WHEN WE DIE


If God is not really a man why 
Should Heaven be a place instead, say,
Of being a gigantic bird? According 
To the learned Dr. J. Edward Wright
Some Egyptians thought this plausible.
Others, or the same ones later in the day,
Opted for a great cow or a pleasant woman 
Named Nut. Fond though I am of birds
And notwithstanding the great respect 
I have for cows, I think I'll vote for Nut 
(If there's to be an election and I can vote)
Perhaps Heaven changes and folk in the suburbs 
Never know if they'll see a shining city
Or a cow or a bird on the horizon 
Or Nut looking worried and wondering 
Why it's been so long since they've called.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

IMMATERIALISM


People who did not exist were constantly
Running in and out of Karl Marx' house
If you read  -- not his books; no one
Can now read those heavy books whose ink
Has turned red over the years -- but the letters
His daughters wrote you can still see the traces
Of these nonexistent folk. They are unpredictable,
Turning up at the door with an egg or pretending
To be an old friend or a bill collector or even
An old friend seeking to collect a bill. I would like
To grab one by the arm and, holding him fast,
Demand to know how he and his like
Eluded the law which, back then,
Allowed only real people to enter private houses
Except at on bank holidays and after midnight
On St. John's Eve and Boxing Day.

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

TREE


There's a tree which stands a hundred feet beyond my window
It's twice the height of the house next to it which -- this much I can tell –
It strives to ignore. The people in the house think of it as their tree;
The tree doesn't think of them as its people. Every winter
I see the new pattern the year has made from its branches
I've known men (I am not one of them) who'd see at a glance
Why the branches seem so urgently uplifted and why
They sometimes shiver on windless days.

Monday, December 10, 2018

NOT IN THE BOX



When God dropped by last night he brought with him
A woman who said she was Annie Oakley. I have my doubts;
She was quite tall and had a marked Spanish accent;
Oakley was short and came from Ohio. Still, the woman 
Had a pistol with which she shot off the tip of God's cigar.
God urged me to move for the time being into a box
Designed and built by Joseph Cornell. Ms. Oakley 
 (If that's who she was; I suspect she was a miliciana
Weary of fighting in the Spanish Civil War) shook her head
Very slightly, so I declined though a chance to live
In Cassiopeia II would probably not come again.

Thursday, December 6, 2018

POEMS


I went to sleep late, with two poems reciting themselves
Inside my head. All through the night, whenever I woke up,
I'd hear them, changing words, adding or dropping lines,
Trying to prevent the semicolons from sneaking off.
Once, both poems were trying to audition new endings
And my dream, unable to make itself heard, became a pantomime;
(I have no idea why three owls did a sort of ballet nor why
Franz Kafka insisted on standing drinks for everyone.)
This morning, only one poem remained and it
Glared at me truculently when I wrote it down.

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

GATHERING


This year's crimes stroll about the lawn
Some solitary, some with arms linked.
One, beneath a cypress, his wrist 
In a cast, laughs quietly to himself.
They are waiting to be addressed by name
Administered a light stroke upon the chest
And given a few dollars and new shoes.
The year in waiting, soon to come on stage,
Thinks it will have no place for them.

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

DESIRE


This morning
A ghost said look!
That tree
Has flung itself
As high as it can
But wants to go higher still.
Its branches clutch the air;
Its ambition
Knows no limit.

Monday, December 3, 2018

ACQUAINTED


People in my poems apparently know each other 
And may well understand me better than I do them.
There used to be, of course, strict laws about such things;
The characters of different poems could not, officially,
Mix nor make comments about their creators. 
When the ghost of Arthur Henry Hallam
Wanted to visit Mariana in the moated grange 
He had to disguise himself as a beekeeper
Who spoke with a comically thick Suffolk accent
Readers when he was by wondered what this bumpkin
Was doing in the poem -- there seemed to be
No other servants; the grange was extremely dusty
(As a tragic heroine Mariana was, under guild rules,
Forbidden to do any housework.) Most, though,
Were pleased Mariana had someone to listen
To her disquisitions on the dreariness of life.

Thursday, November 29, 2018

AXE


It's hard to imagine he's courting her but
My high school principle Leonard J. Fliedner
Seems often about when I dream of Baba Yaga
(What? You think you never dream of Baba Yaga?
The last time you woke up in wondering tears 
Perhaps it was because she'd looked at you or
Some smoke from her foul pipe was in your eye.)
He is stick-thin still but looks a little healthier 
The other night when I stopped by he had an axe
And was splitting wood for her. He was wearing,
As always, a grey three-piece suit and a blue tie,
His long, thin fingers holding the axe just so.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

16 GAMES OF CHESS

When his wife died in childbirth
On February 25, 1927 my grandfather Joe
Felt his heart stop and then contract
Until it was small and hard and round
And cold as a marble. Ase, his brother,
Brought him home and sat with him.
Joe's deft fingers shook. For three days
He sat in the dark. On the fourth,
My great aunts Jenny and Lena
Brought his chess set from the apartment
Joe never visited again. Jenny opened the blinds
While Lena set up the board. She won
Fifteen games in a row.
She thought she was winning game sixteen
When Joe's eyes narrowed. "Mate in five," he said.
"So you remember how to talk?" said his sister.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

FAITHFUL SERVANT


My shadow thinks to himself
“It would be pleasant to stretch
Over several squares of the sidewalk.
And bask in the afternoon sun” and there I am
Casting him exactly as he wishes.
He regrets that whatever plans I had
Have been set aside. Deeming me faithful,
He sighs over how I’ll miss him some day
And means to remember me in his will.

Monday, November 26, 2018

THE REFLECTION


Some observant folk thought my grandfather Joe 
Was a vampire because his reflection usually arrived
A few minutes after Joe had passed by. Reflected Joe 
Would shake his head in disgust or shrug.
Folks were surprised to see in the mirror
The frowsy image of a man who'd left the room.
I imagine the two had once been indistinguishable 
But while Joe remained upright and dapper
His reflection grew his hair long and wore
Old clothes,with cigarette holes burnt in them.
At Joe's funeral, his reflection suddenly appeared,
Red-eyed and distraught, in the tiny mirror
Of my Great-Aunt Mabel's face-powder compact
Until she closed it with a snap.

Wednesday, November 21, 2018

AN UPTOWN SCHRAFTS, 1956 OR SO



Through the mid 1950s afternoons
Were still in short supply. You’d take
What arrived without looking too closely
At the deliverymen. Sometimes
There might be a bespoke hour or two
Found after the war in storage depots
They were sold by weight.
Sounds during such hours travelled
At a civilized pace; questons
Would hover patiently in the Schrafts
That used to be on 114th Street
Allowing you to sip a cup of chocolate
And eat half a buttered muffin
While you assembled an answer,
Wound it up and set it going
Click-clack-click around the table.

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

SMOKING MIRROR


On nights when no one's in the mood
To answer prayers, the gods on late shift
Slip one by one out of the office
And drift into their usual places
At the all-night bar and diner down the block.
The office boy and the girl from I.T.
Amuse themselves by shuffling files
So your desperate plea for understanding
Is  answered by Tezcatlipoca
With visions of storms and jaguars.

Monday, November 19, 2018

PERSONNEL


The Archangel Corelli could be seen sometimes

As a shadowy figure on the edge of a crowd

Huddled around a winter's night fire

Burning in a trash barrel. It was known

That he and God were no longer speaking.

He could never be seen whole. You might

See two eyes glitter and then turn dark

Or a hand reaching from a coat's ragged cuff,

Prestidigitator's fingers spread wide. Once,

I saw a sword, or at least a scabbard,

Dangling at his waist and thought I heard

The blade begging to be set free.

                                                    It's been years

Since I've seen a street fire and years

Since I've seen the Archangel Corelli.

Friday, November 16, 2018

NOVEMBER SNOW


Crow time comes; November snow
Sifts down; the sky is monochromeous.
River birch waves his arms, thinking 
I should be warned, not knowing
What I should be warned about.
My hand rehearses warding gestures,
The wrist turning just so, the fingers
Twisting and untwisting in rapid sequence. 
Things invisible to see strain to hear
Nights dim heart, knocking irregularly.

Thursday, November 15, 2018

A VISIT FROM JC


Jesus came one night
To Lizzie Croucher
With a chipped blue vase.
"Heaven," he said 
"Would like this vase
Mended and washed."
Miss Croucher did her best
But couldn't quite match
The shade of blue.
She reported this 
To her niece Bettina,
Who expressed surprise
That Heaven had vases
And that these vases
Could be chipped.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

FROM THE GREENROOM


Rachel Baptiste, an African woman who sang
In Dublin in the 18th Century, has been waiting 
For me to write about her. To pass the time, she
Has struck up a friendship with Daniel Wildman 
A Jew who washed up in Georgian Devon;
He could talk to bees and also listen. (Bees
Took Wildman seriously but were never,
Despite general opinion, bound to obey him.
They just liked him.) 
When Plymouth farmfolk died, Wildman 
Would pick the best time to inform the bees
Who, everyone knew, resented not being told.

If my father were alive I'd tell him of these two:
Ms. Baptiste, standing  on the stage at Smock Alley 
The guttering candlelight making her yellow silk dress
Seem to flicker while she sang "Fair Kitty,
Beautiful and Young," and Mr. Wildman wondering 
If he and nine bees could pray as a minyan.
Some time later the yellow dress and the singer 
Might have appeared in a story my father told 
Or it might turn out that in Devonshire certain bees 
Still rest on the Sabbath. 

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

AND THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE?


Line by line
You add detail.
Shadows turn up
Claiming you
Have cast them.
Be cautious; the unwary
Believe themselves real.

Monday, November 12, 2018

MONDAY


Don’t tell him but
My reflection
Is looking grey.
Perhaps he worries.

Friday, November 9, 2018

WE VALUE YOUR BUSINESS


The god you are attempting to reach
Is not in service. Please stay on the line
And the next available god will take your prayer
Or, perhaps, totally ignore it. Even a default god
Working the phones on a holiday night
Will do what she wants. Take my advice:
Hang up now. If it's been a rough shift
She might technically grant your prayer
With results coming down anywhere between
The mildly amusing and the conditionally tragic.

Thursday, November 8, 2018

QUANTUM


In our current iteration God
Is approximate, something like 
An electron that's here or there 
And both and neither. Having no place 
He is a cross between possibility
And vicinity. This has put him
Thoroughly out of temper. Now
Is not the time to mention we took
One of His hours and put it in storage 
Then ignored six months
Of angry demands to be released.