Tuesday, February 27, 2018

OR




I woke up tomorrow, straggled myself
From the chair I'd slept in, showered
And came down to make breakfast
But tomorrow had left the house
And last night slipped in again.
Eleven o'clock is not pleased,
Having made plans for the evening

Monday, February 26, 2018

Maigret

Commissaire Maigret ate and drank
More than he should. Mysteries
Attended him, hoping to be solved.
After he died, he took an office
In an old building with narrow stairs.
His bulky ghost, monochrome
And slow stepped, makes its way
Through crowds of ephemeral folk.
His services cost far more
Than you can afford and, in the end
He'll tell Madame Maigret
He found the criminal to be
Good company  - tres sympathetique.

Friday, February 23, 2018

AESRED HAS THE NUMBERS SOMEWHERE



In 1338 Venice counted each household’s
Men, women, boys, girls, servants, 
Livestock, windows and gondolas. The dogs 
Reluctantly subscribed themselves
As "servants." Most cats
Insisted they were the Doge. Others
Were content to pass as gondolas.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

EMPLOYEE

My old friend has hired
The ghost of Sigmund Freud
As her typist. He’s grumpy
And sometimes translates
Her writing into literary German
Still, it seems to work. Judges -
She’s a lawyer -- are used
To looking grave over papers
They don’t understand.
When she asks him why
He’s returned from beyond
To type for such meager pay
He only nods and says
" Warum stellst du diese Frage?"

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

WHO'S THERE



This version of me insists
He’s the real one, the others
Having been provisional. Just wait!
When the final version – who’ll have
Shouldered the other mes aside
(The swine!) and declared that he’s
The last for which the first was made –
Has ceased then all we others
Will have at last our coequal day.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

THE GRATE




Over time, those sharing the steam grate
Where St. Jerome sleeps on cold nights
Have become minor variants. Their Latin
Has an Illyrian lilt. Wrens and cats
Keep track of them. They’re working,
When sober, on translating
Silent certainties into quiet doubts.

Monday, February 19, 2018

BODGED



Traditionally, bodgers
Wandered about making chairs
From beech wood. They used
Wooden lathes made from saplings.
The word "bodge" is related
To "botch." Dreaming
Of bodged chairs is a sign
That the handmade gods
Have been thinking about you.
Make no plans; do not rely
On remaining yourself.

Friday, February 16, 2018

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CANAL



The bridge was torn down long ago
If you must cross it, Canaletto
Painted it; the picture shows Venice;
You’ll find it in Montreal.
First, you must make friends
With some of Canaletto’s staffage –
Those figures populating his pictures
So the buildings won’t feel lonely.
(Try for some of the early ones; he later
Just painted vaguely human blobs
Who have no vices and rarely smile)
Enveloped in a red cape, you’ll pass
As one of the Doge’s entourage.
If you wish to return, Canaletto
Cannot help you. Seek, but do not trust,
Some master of chiaroscuro.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

VALENTINE REVISITED

As I understand it, Valentine is one of the more dour saints, and he probably does not much look forward to his day. He gets up and can barely push his door open; every one of the eleven thousand virgins who attend St. Ursula has left a piece of chocolate outside his room. (This happens every year; St. Christopher will come by later and carry the chocolates away). St. Sebastian will leave him an arrow, on which he’ll cut his finger; St. Apollonia will pass him in the hall; gaze at him wordlessly, and then press a tooth into his hand. He will be besieged by prayers, which he will conscientiously try to answer, although he is fairly clueless on the mysteries of human love. This explains the number of puzzled looks one sees as the day goes on, as people find Valentine’s answers popping into their heads. “I find speaking about the martyrdom of St. Gelasius is generally a good way to break the ice;” “I believe you mean ‘inamorata’ – ‘inamaretto’ refers to someone who loves almond liqueurs, which is probably a sin and is, anyway, fattening;” “I asked St. Barbara and she said a howitzer is a small, light cannon used to deliver shells with a curved trajectory while a bazooka is a portable electrically-fired rocket launcher. Do your parents know about your interest in artillery?”
(For those who were thinking of asking, St. Crescentia is still the patron of this blog. If you run into her on an elevated subway, try discussing the martyrdom of St. Gelasius.)

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

SCRATCHMARKS




Cats don’t enter my poems but simply
Decide to let me know they’ve been there
From the beginning. I am not alone in this;
Everyone in the Iliad is so touchy
Because they’re having to fight a war
While trying to avoid stepping on cats.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

RETURNED



Some time before 1827 someone
Scratched off the paint covering
The woman in the red cloak,
A refugee from an earlier painting
Suspected by scholars to be Dido
Or Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra.
Whoever she is, she does her best
Resting a hand on Joseph's shoulder
While feigning interest in the baby
Who is not for an instant fooled.

Monday, February 12, 2018

THINA'S POEM



Along the way to school there were angels
Watching her from roofs or perched
On streetlights, mailboxes, awnings,
Car hoods, window ledges and alder trees.
They weren't hostile, as on some days,
Seemed, in fact, rather bored. One of them
Was drying his great wings by gentle flaps,
Disturbing the pigeons. Another was idly
Carving the first fourteen hundred letters
Of God's unpronounceable name
On a brown shard of glass abandoned
By a tattered crow, unlucky in his affairs.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

VIRTUAL



My tablet offers a font that imitates
Brushstrokes. Over time, a virtual soul
Has built itself to guide the brush.
The Seven Gods of Calligraphy are meeting
To determine its status. Meanwhile,
It amuses itself by renaming my files.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

A LOST PIECE OF LITERARY HISTORY



One half the dreams of the poet Anna A------
Took place in the house she lived in
When she was nine. Rooms moved about;
Walls found themselves covered
With the bright red wallpaper she'd discovered
Nine layers down during a long night
Spent at an inn in Simbirsk. While she wrote
Her book on Aleksandr P----, he lived in the attic
Except for the years he'd been in exile
Which he spent in her garden shed.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

CROWDED



The thoughts I had thought the night before
Were waiting for me in my bed, insisting
I think them again. They had apparently
Spent the entire day just lying about
And looked dissipated. One of them
Was smoking a fake meerschaum pipe
That I’d thrown away in 1987. Another,
Wore a preposterous hat, a cross somehow
Between a floppy musketeer sort of thing
And the odd felt crown Jughead wears
To go careening down a Riverdale street
In a bathtub while Archie attempts to steer.
Then there was the one who insisted
She had been personally brushed aside
By Catherine the Great and had spent
Three years trapped in an unfinished dream
Of the beautiful Princess Dashkova. 

I found this awkward as I had invited
A crowd of much higher-class thoughts
To join me. (One of them was almost new;
The rest could pass for new in a kindly light)
They could not be put off; we all crowded in.
I got little sleep; my head never found the pillow.
When I finally dozed I was poked awake
By the idea with a hat; he and the Russian thought
(I considered her accent a little exaggerated, myself)
Were in love and wished me, as captain of the bed,
To marry them. The other thoughts were members
Of the wedding party. Some of them had swords
(Which fact rather worries me) and made an alley
For the bride and groom. All of them
Have gone along on the honeymoon leaving me
Completely thoughtless. Worse, they’ve taken
Half the covers and the pillow with them.

Monday, February 5, 2018

VISITING



Others own the house where I never lived
But when I visit it the old furnishings
Do their best to reassemble themselves
From dust and splinters and the light
Peculiar to late Sunday afternoons.

Friday, February 2, 2018

FOR ONE OR FEWER GUITARS



The slow pavanna provides
Music enough to filigree the silence;
The more austere angels begin to dance
Long ago they stopped wondering
About the terms on which they exist
Or if they exist at all. Now if ever
They will answer if you will ask.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

REGISTERED



Something's happened; you must react
But can’t. Now is not the time,
Or you don’t know what to feel or do.
Perhaps you’re not the person to whom,
Before whom, about whom, this thing
Should have happened. The hour has come
But not the man, the woman, the child,
The brindled cat with one eye who could,
If he chose to, speak flawless English
And make himself understood in koine,
But he never does chose to. So you say “hm”
Just that and no more. (Even another m
Would be too much). It’s enough;
When time allows, when you know more,
When you're the right person or cat at last
You will do or feel exactly what you should.