DEUS

The condition is so common it has a generic name: Deus Absconditus –the God Abscounded. A weighty, complicated notion, even if it does have an absurd quasi-echo in the Frito Bandito. (Stop here for a moment and try to imagine some Lord of All Creation hawking salted chips. Surprisingly easy, actually).  From what, though, does god flee? From himself, perhaps, or from his followers whose prayers and curses hold him in place. Not easy, then, to slip such chains, of self, of others, setting off to find someplace where you aren’t already.

          Imagine yourself, then, as the abscounding god. You’re not simply the lazy god, or the futile god – you’d be Otiosus, not Absconditus -- nor the deaf, dim god (Deus Surdus). You’ve abscounded, run off, fled. Perhaps a posse is on your trail, grim-faced angels or heartless priests, determined to drag you back to omnipotence. Worse, it may be that You, Yourself, are tracking You down. You dare not sleep (Deus Dormitus), for the Hounds of Heaven can smell your dreams.

          Still, you have hope. Men, it is said, are created in Your image, and what man has ever breathed who was not a master at self-deception? Speed, cunning, confusion: these are your chosen weapons. Everywhere and nowhere; you are the shadow of a leaf in the forest, the light of an unborn star, a mountain, a mouse, a frightened child, a brave woman’s heart. Every one of these is found and put to the question, and each one confesses that it was You, but cannot say where You’ve gone.

SV'S GREAT-AUNT

Since in life her spine
Bent her forward, pride forbids
Her ghost to stand erect.
She methodically set out
To be vain and frivolous;
Understanding the languages
Of rooks and worms and mice
Seemed to her to be
Quite pointless.

75 KILOMETERS

A long day's walk from Sambor to Lvov;
Dawn will see you on your way and stars
Of uncertain omen will watch you enter
Either through the tall gates the Tatars
Carried off in 1241 or climbing the wall
The Austrians took down in 1770.
The guards may ask for money; ignore them;
They work for a king whom scholars
Strongly suspect never existed

FROM SOUTH FERRY, RUNNING NORTH

After the last night has been uncreated again
The unsaying words which made it not be echo
For a moment or two. Stars slowly flicker on;
Feathers conjure themselves into birds;
The dead who'll soon have never died embrace.
The shadow of the Third Avenue El casts
Thirty miles of track and seventeen stations
Before remembering the line's remains
Were hauled off during the Fall of 1956.

A CONVERSATION

The werewolf, Brother Gerald writes, spoke reasonably
About God. There is no record, though, of what
He -- an Irish man when not an Irish wolf --
Actually said nor how the conversation turned
To theology. Perhaps the werewolf asked the monk
What odds he might give that the Wolf of Gubbio
Was allowed to chase rabbits in Heaven

EDITIING (REV)

My father, since he died, feels free
To walk into any of my poems

And look around. He knows that when
My mother comes by, missing him,
He'll turn and smile to see her.
For now, though, he taps three fingers
Against a conceit, listening to hear
If it’s as solid as its maker warranted.
He talks with the punctuation marks
To see if they're content or if some comma,
Doing the work of a semi-colon,
Feels it deserves more pay. Occasionally

He’ll very gently take a word aside
To suggest it might be happier elsewhere.

TOWARDS DUSK

On benches at the edge of Heaven
If the weather permits, infirm souls sit
Leaning towards Hell not
To gloat nor to compare the ways
Folk embrace their damnations,
But to listen for long-lost voices
That gave them sometimes  pieces
Of wonderfully bad advice

AN EXTRA

Shepsie, my grandfather's friend,
Was also his follower, his crony,
His acolyte and his factotum
I don't know how they met

Nor why a tailor needed
A follower who could was also
An acolyte and a factotum.
Still, my aunts all agreed
That Shepsie turned up
When he was needed
And also when he wasn't
He's not buried with his family
But mine.

REMEMBERING LD (R)

The other Larry in my class
Was smart and broad and black
And kind. His ancient car
Would take a friend
Anywhere.
He could look fierce
For a few seconds
And then he'd laugh.
On the spur of the moment
He invented histories
For his friends. I owe to him
My college football career
So surprisingly cut short
By my arrest for treason.
A classmate became a prince
Because Larry said he was;
There is still
Something royal about Tony.
Larry died so obscurely
That my law school --
Which keeps careful track
So it can dun us for donations --
Didn't find out for years.
There is no trace of him
On the internet, so I
Must tell you about him.

HINGES

The goddess of hinges

Does not demand much

In the way of sacrifice

A few drops of oil

Are sufficient

Or a word of thanks

When the cupboard door

Doesn’t come off

At your impatient tug.

What better day than

July 4th to celebrate

So quiet a goddess?

MARGARET FULLER TOO, PERHAPS

Someone wrote that I look down
When I look for truths. Lately a friend
Used a word -- descendental --
I didn't know. It turns out to mean,
The OED assures me, the opposite
Of transcendental. It’s just as well
I never visit Concord.
Emerson and Thoreau would be there
Making signs against my entrance.

REASON ENOUGH

In the end I'll forgive my sister

And she'll forgive me

B

  e

    c

      a

        u

          s

            e

I remember

When she was a baby

She got a bad case

Of athlete's foot

Except on a baby

The rash reaches

Up to the neck

She was dipped

In a bucket

Of

p                                             e

  o                                          t

    t                                      a

      a                                  n

        s                              a

          s                           g

            i                       n

               um    perma

Leaving her

A wonderful shade

Of purple.

NOT HERE

A poem came by about an hour ago

It looked pretty good to me -- solemn,

A bit pompous but it knew it was pompous

So that was alright. If just then I'd had some way

To write it down I would have. A bird sang, c, f,

A car shushed by and the poem rode away.

If it hadn't arrived quite complete, if I

Had had to spin and solder it into being

There'd be scraps and I might conjure

It back but it left nothing but that it was here

And then it wasn't

SEEING THE CORONATION

Monteverdi, seeing I was glum, suggested
We go see  L'incoronazione di Poppea
Isn't that about the Emperor Nero? The Nero
Who killed his mother? Well yes, but
Some time before the opera opens.
The Nero who kicked Poppea to death?
Yes, but after the opera is over. The Nero
Who makes his old friend Seneca
Commit suicide on stage? Yes, but life
Cannot be all cream and peaches.
You're right; let's go to Venice
Perhaps it will cheer me up. How
Should I dress for a warm night in 1643?

THE FOUR OF THEM

"FOUR children, representing our Saviour, St. JOHN, an ANGEL and a little GIRL."
I haven't seen the picture being described. Just as well, though.
I like honest bafflement and can well imagine the author,
Richard Cowdry, studiously working things out. "This one
Must be Jesus; he's holding two sticks crossed. And this one, a bit older,
Is probably John Baptist -- he has a honeycomb and is splashing Jesus.
Alright, the next one, looking rather weary, has small wings; call him an angel.
And then there is ... there is ... there is ... a little GIRL. Why
Are Jesus, St. John and an angel hanging about with a little girl?
Perhaps they’re bored with each other; perhaps they hope she will
Soon tell them a story that will simply amaze them."

VISITING VIBIUS VARUS

This small guidebook will be invaluable

For preparing to visit the Earl’s home

In 1753. I will look for the Apollo who is

Not only beautiful but good humored

(I imagine he regrets releasing plague

Among the Greeks besieging Troy;

He was a younger god then and prickly

Always trying to make folk forget his start

As the only god who understood mice.)

There, too, will be curious objects of virtu

And bustos of Vibius Varus, Caligula,

And Marcia Octacilla. In the Great Hall

May be seen “The Statue of Didia Clara,

Daughter to the Emperor Didius Julianus,

Bigger than the Life, sitting in a Chair. She

Holds a Senatorial Roll, in a genteel Posture.

The Drapery of her Cloathing is very fine.”

Also, there will be two sarcophagi

One of them with Corinthian columns,

Two griffins and a door. This door

Is partially open allowing the occupant

To wander around the Elysian Fields or,

In case of rain, idle away a few hours

Haunting his descendants.

ANOTHER OF AESRED'S

God made the North Wind deaf,
A strong old man in a torn coat
Whose pockets are filled
With bones and the souls of birds
Who wished for wind.

A YOUNG ACTOR

The actor who played me when I was 14

Died the other day; he rated a few lines

And an old photograph in the newspaper

Which showed none of the quiet humor

I remembered. Apparently he was gay;

I hadn’t suspected.

                                    For a season he woke

From my dreams, went to school,

Pretended to struggle with French

Though he was fluent and well understood

The cranks and mysteries of the passe compose.

He kept scrupulous notes for his successor

(Not me; I came along almost 40 years on

And seem likely to continue until the series

Is cancelled or my character written out.)

CAT POEM

Tired of dissembling, the orange cat
Gave up crouching before he jumped
And grunting when he landed. Sometimes
He'd float up to the window ledge
Other times he'd teleport so quickly
He could hiss from a bookshelf
At himself on the ground. Just once
He missed his mark and slid down the wall.

TIZIANO VECELLI'S LAST PIETA

Pushing  past the watchers
Magdalene's off, mouth agape.
On her way out of the museum
Miniature Magdalenes join her
Racing from gift shop postcards.
Outside, they hop on a gondola
The large Mary pushes the pole
Supported by her tiny simulacra.
(It's early morning in Venice;
The coffee drinkers don't spill a drop.)

Back in the painting Jesus
Thinks "I'm dead right now; I
Don't have to deal with this."
St. Jerome has never understood
Why he's witness to an event
Centuries before his birth. Now
He wonders "A few words of comfort;
Would that’ve been so hard to say?"