CUSTOM

At twelve on New Years Eve, lamenting

By the rules, I'll be on the roof

Calling the names of the dead. They

Have their own customs though,and may

Be in the basement, breaking into the wine.

MAKESHIFT

About midnight the old day's supply of time 

Is like to run out. If the new's not arrived 

We make do with space, hammered thin.

VISITATION

The cat comes by, asking me

To do something about the dead 

Who've taken to appearing

In her corner of the basement

Urging her to avenge them.

VISITING

The café is filled 

With demons who are,

Most of them, off duty. 

Waiters bring them endless

Cups of dark coffee. Max,

My grandfather, nods to me

From his seat in a corner.

He'll not tell his son 

Nor I my father that we

Are comfortable with demons.

READER

At an imaginary university a hypothetical student

Has begun, is deeply into, has decided not to start 

An intensive study of my oeuvre. In an attempt to learn

Something, Sparafucile the assassin has been contacted 

Through a fictional room-mate's ouija board.

The student asks how Sparafucile and I met

And whether he, at least, likes the poems

I write about him. Unfortunately, he's never looked at them;

But dimly remembers reading and not much liking

A long something that involved Verlaine's unborn brothers

HISTORY

On the 22nd of January Parson Woodforde 

Visited friends where he had for dinner 

A Leg of Mutton boiled and Capers,

Some Brawn, a Turkey roasted 

And Mince pies. About four he left

To bury Thos. Mack of North-Tuddenham

Who'd fallen from his horse while in liquor.

Many people were at the funeral; the parson 

Received  a Silk hat band and gloves

And his usual fee of ten shillings, sixpence.

He rode back to his friends' house and had

A late night playing cards at which

He neither won nor lost. On February 4th 

He gave the sixpence to a poor old Man

That plays the dulcimer.

 

PURCHASING

It was almost dark when I reached
The chancery and the great machines
Where they manufacture chance had
Fallen silent. The day's production
Had been sold save for some broken,
Irregular odds and ends -- not enough
For a person or a black cat but perhaps
Sufficient for a party of thin gods
Planning a trip to the Pleasure Quarters.

OWL LIGHT

Truth slants in and 

Leans against a wall and 

Lights a cigarette by 

Staring at it. That's how

It is some days. You want 

Revelations; you get

Party tricks.

A LIVING

It's not easy being 

A freelance caryatid

One day holding up

A Greek temple

The next a large basket

Of wet laundry.

Stand straight; don't blink

Don't poke other caryatids.

AN OLD STATUE

In Lvov there is a statue 

That has forgotten 

Who it's meant to honor.

It calls to passersby:

"Look! I hold a small shield

Or perhaps a large pot lid.

Was I a warrior? A cook?"

Other statues feel sorry for it.

On moonless nights Diana 

Borrows a lantern from

The memorial to the inventors

Of the petroleum lamp

And visits for a while;

Ivan Pidkova tells him

That if the thing in his hand

Is a shield he really should

Hold it just a bit higher.

PINNEY

No one ever said just how

Pinney and I were related 

But my best guess is that 

He was the most shadowy 

Of my grandfather's brothers --

The one who had to return

For folk to notice he'd left.

Somehow, questions about him 

Weren't really answered except 

"Who is that?" “Pinney, of course.”

There is nothing sinister 

In my memories of him. Quiet. 

Small. Grey. Battered. A ghost 

Who'd crept into a family 

Without the heart to evict him.

If I'd ever demanded my mother 

Tell three stories about Pinney

The third would've made him real 

Or more than real, given him a voice 

To fix an aching heart or

The very saddest eyes in the world.

RELATIVE

When no one of my mother's kin 

Was thinking of him, Pinney

Did not exist. He found this 

Inconvenient but accepted it

As a condition of his nature.

I knew him a little -- just enough

To sometimes hear his tired voice

Saying "Yes? What is it you want?"

ALTERATION

When he was young his shadow 

Bullied him, making him 

Stand in certain lights

Or assume odd postures

To amuse other shadows

When he was old, though,

Who but his shadow

Wandered the streets

Bringing back the stories

And scraps on which they lived?

TIME

This night is too long by

Two minutes the moon

Paused to read 

Engraved words

On an old tin watch

DISEMBODIED VOICE

Dying, my father found himself on air 

At the Brooklyn College Radio Guild. 

Since it was  1946 again and a holiday 

Deceased and almost deceased staffers 

Had been invited back. With no script 

He told stories and urged listeners

To appreciate the Dodgers and trolleys 

Since they'd both someday be gone.

MUSICIANS

At my behest the woman, 

Dead these many years, 

Dances on to the stage

Wears a pale yellow dress,

Plays a banjo, sings a song.

Because I ask it of him 

My high school principal 

Shoots his cuffs and invites

Scott Joplin, whom he once met,

To join him at the piano.

Well and good but who asked

The skinny girl with a guitar 

I watched fifty years ago

For nine, maybe ten, minutes

To play so loudly, furious 

At being among the dead?

HORSE

My father joined the Brooklyn College Radio Guild 

As a writer but everyone did everything there 

So he acted and sold ads and read the news

He was so good at clopclopping coconut shells 

That horses sometimes turned up in shows

Just so my father could bring one on at a gallop

Then slow down and slow down and slow down

And finally stop with an expressive whicker.

HERITED

The beadle's job is not to

Appear in poems or as staffage

Adding proportion and

A bit of animation to a painting.

He does these things for me

Out of sheer good nature.

He never gossips never says 

Why my father, of all men,

Should have had a beadle

Whom I inherited nor why 

The gods intended for him

Unending woe, but beadles

And gods seldom agree.

STUNG

 A bee whisperer, hired to tell the hive

Of a death in the family decides 

To break it gently to them but they,

Knowing of it already, plan

To attend the funeral where

They'll sting the beadle -- once before

And once just after the service.

COURT ROUTINES

Every dawn a large angel, his head bent 

To avoid scraping the ceiling, brings Shah Rukh

Six undeniable truths. At dusk a smaller angel

Wraps the truths in black wool and a demon

Smaller still, carries them away.

Once the moon fully rises three old men

Come sit by his bed, whispering lies

So the Shah may fall asleep at last.

 

ASYLUM

The orderly died long ago of some disease 

Which you won't find now or at least

Not living under the same name. Still,

His shadow makes the rounds of

The deserted hospital whose high ceilings 

And empty beds make it attractive

To ghosts who'd otherwise be reduced

To haunting bowling alleys and billiard halls.

You can't keep echoes out of such a place;

The shadow doesn't try but softly wakes them 

Disposing of the dead ones decently.

HER AGAIN

November fourth. Outside my house 

A goddess grown old leans on her spear 

Blinking in the thin morning light

After another night spent 

In the company of feral shadows 

And men willing to offer prayers 

To whoever buys the next drink.

An untidy heap of dirty feathers 

Becomes an owl standing awkwardly 

Behind her. He sees me watching 

And shakes his head.

 

ON SET

Suppose God a director who must

Move infinitely fast since He 

Must be always watching, coaching,

Ordering everything everywhere.

"A bit  more indeterminacy, electron!

Remember -- location or velocity

Never both! Good work, dead leaf,

But do you think you could look

A bit more forlorn? Smooth stone 

At the bottom of the ocean, get ready;

Only six thousand years until 

You're washed on shore. (Cue the child 

Who'll toss it back again). People?

People? Go on with what  you're doing;

I'll get back to you."

ON THE ROAD

Having often read that if

You wish to find God in Rome 

You must bring Him with you 

I've set off. The whole way

He's complained. The shrine

I've set up in the back seat

Of my Honda Civic is not

Gaudy enough; my praisesong

Isn't sincere and I sing it 

Off-key. To amuse Himself

He's created new sorts of creatures

Out of fire or ash or chicken-wire

Who cast multi-colored shadows

Or juggle in their sleep. After dying

They move to the glove compartment

To dwell among shredded maps 

And insurance papers. To be fair, God 

Has so far paid most of the tolls

And split the cost of gas with me.

 

TODAY'S

There is a poem written 

For you alone. It solves 

All your mysteries 

And answers the questions 

You should have asked.

Count yourself fortunate;

This is not that poem.

 

UXORES

The secondary wife sits outside of Heaven

Selling muffins and buns from a basket.

The tertiary wife can weave any pattern

But only with her eyes tightly shut.

The quaternary wife can, when the moon

Is full, juggle four open bottles filled

With red wine and not spill a drop.

The quinary wife disappeared ages ago.

The senary and septenary wives 

Have detective licenses and intend

To find her. There is no octonary wife;

The nonary wife is a ventriloquist.

SPIDERS

Whenever He visited Norfolk 

(Which wasn't often; the wet weather 

Depressed Him) the God of Jonathan Edwards

Lodged with James Woodforde's God,

Spending hours glumly watching the rain. 

The Two of Them spent long evenings

Crafting miniature bespoke miracles or 

Debating the proper use of spiders. 

Jonathan Edward's God insisted

Spiders were meant to be held over 

Huge fires with gloating detestation,

Symbols for the infinite hatred 

He felt for mankind. Woodforde's God

Rather liked spiders. Also people.

PROGRESS

 

A thrifty spirit

Gather substances

Finds himself real

As pale light

On wind-touched water.

Perhaps, in a while

Home-seeking shadows, 

Who have no homes,

Will spare memories

Of heavy coins

Or of an old

Ten dollar bill

Loosed from an envelope

Plan and gather

But spend sometimes 

Funds are swiftmelting

At last there may be

Memories to furnish 

A slender man

With sufficient store

To maintain a used

But serviceable reflection.

 

 

 

ARISTI CTHONIA

Among the ancient dead

Much rejoicing --Persephone,

Long missing, has returned!

True, she's decided to retain

The form of a cat but

Who can dictate to a goddess 

How she should appear?

As befits, she is a pretty cat

And quite friendly. Most shades 

Are pleased when she interrupts

Their suffering with nudges;

Some few find it undignified

For Hell's queen to purr

When her head is skritched

By the memory of fingers.

 

FOUND IN THE DIARY OF PARSON JAMES WOODFORDE

I caught a remarkable 

Large spider in my Wash Place

This morning and put him 

In a small glass decanter 

And fed him with some bread

And intend keeping him.

HISTORY

On April 15, 1778 two pigs 

Living with Parson James Woodforde 

Drank most of a barrel of beer

As Woodforde wrote in his diary 

"I never saw Piggs so drunk in my life"

(What sort of life, do you suppose,

Makes a parson able to speak assuredly 

On the comparative drunkenness of pigs?)

That same day, John Adams wrote 

Inquiring after a pair of his son's pants 

Possibly left behind at a friend's house.

If found, wrote Adams, give the pants 

To the poor after taking from the waistband 

The eight or more guineas I hid there. 

Woodforde's pigs still staggered 

On the morning of April 16th but later

They were tolerably sober. 

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

In place of my order of fine words 

There came a parcel of factory seconds  

Hastily jumbled together and, I think,

Damaged in transit. When shoved  

Into rough arrangements, they 

Immediately broke ranks, insisting 

On not meaning what I wanted them to.

Please be patient; while negotiations 

Are in process oafish servitors

Will pass among you carrying

Empty trays and broken glasses.

 

VOLUME

After my father died many of his books

Came to live with me. Some of them 

Settled in comfortably, finding places 

Among there peers, making friends.

Others held themselves sternly aloof.

Wherever I put them they'd complain

They were misfiled or had been

Hidden deliberately behind others. A set

Of six yellow volumes -- S. D. Gotein's

A Mediterranean Society -- never spoke but

Whenever I separated them found their way

Back together. If placed in the back row 

Of double shelved books they'd push 

Those in front of them to the floor. Today

I picked up volume one. It said

"Almost eleven years he's been dead;

Suddenly now you decide to read me?"

ASSIGNMENT

God, almost sure that He

Did not make Baba Yaga, 

Has asked Leonard Fliedner,

My old high school principal,

To investigate. As Baba Yaga

Often shows up in my dreams

Dr. Fliedner, sometimes with 

A silver-shot cape draped

Over his high shoulders or

Disguised as himself, takes

Whatever part is available 

In order to observe her. 

Most of his roles are minor 

But his performance as

Slocum, Lord of the Owls,

Won strong reviews.

BAROQUE ASSUMPTION

In Egid Quirin Asam's statue

(Surely that name alone 

Is worth the price of the poem)

Mary's assumption has run 

Into problems. The angels --

Just two of them and undersized --

Are quite plainly struggling 

To hoist her heavenwards.

Mary, looking annoyed, 

Has raised one hand to try

Conjuring up a flying cab

To take her home. Soon,

She'll try Jedi mind tricks 

"This is not the Mother of God

You're looking for"

EX MACHINA

The machine appears 

As scheduled at the end

Of Act Three but

The wrong god

Steps out. "Give me,"

He says,"a reason 

To make things end

Happily.EX MACHINA

SUPPLY

Needing to get through customs  

The very old muse has brought 

Just the space between words 

 

HYDE PARK

The princess was real enough 

But her tower was just a round room 

Perched towards the top

Of an ordinary house. Ghosts

Passing by seldom paused

Or thought they heard echoes

Of music they once knew.

The tree beside the house

Had not appeared suddenly from

A piece of stone or seed slipping 

Through a hole in a magician's pocket

(What sort of magician has pockets?)

But over many years. Given how often I 

Visited it you might think I'd know

What kind of tree it was but 

I'd no idea at all then 

Nor have I learned since.

NEWS

Exactly one hundred sixty-three years

Before my father's birth James Woodforde

Gave his sister Jenny four hundred needles,

Four papers of pins and two steel-top thimbles.

Such facts come by from time to time

Thinking I might make some use of them.

If only whoever told me this had gone on

To say Jenny had used her needles to sew

Pockets in shrouds and her pins to torture 

Wax figures of her unfortunate lovers 

We'd have a poem. As it is, I  can only thuink

Four hundred sounds like a lot of needles.

SOLAR

It was felt that giving Baba Yaga a defined set of duties 

Might make it easier to keep her under control.

The Horses of the Sun were tracked down and harnessed. 

For an old woman, Baba Yaga leapt pretty gracefully 

Into the chariot, her short pipe held firmly in place 

Between her toothless gums, and set off furiously.

Several days went by or at least they would have

If the Sun hadn't gone missing; we ran 

An old day, built before the war, over and over

Until Baba Yaga returned without the chariot 

And just one limping horse, painfully dragging  

Ra-Harakhty's boat across the sky.

PRESENCE

My mother's death, almost 15,

Says she wants no gift this year.

I always deny I want things too

But am pleased to get them.

Three photobooth photographs 

Of my mother at 15

Show her head a bit tilted 

With one eyebrow arched

As she auditions versions 

Of a small and world-weary smile.

Her lipstick looks very red

(A nice trick since the photo

Is black and white)

Her friend Estie dared her, I  think,

To put some on and then 

Loaned her a tissue to remove it

Before they went home.

PERFORMANCE

A Chinese poem made Latin

By a Jesuit in mandarin ‘s robes

Then Englished decades later

Has filed for repatriation.

The ominous nightingale

Which appears in the last lines

Says it's grown too old

For another translation

A young grackle, eager 

To break into poetry,

Will serve in its place.

BUZZING

You'd think, said the bee,

They'd have mentioned

The one sting then 

You die rule.

But if they did

I missed it.

Really, if I'd known 

I'd have stuck with

Rude noises or

Sarcasm.

 

GOD CONSULTS HIS ATTORNEY

To be one with the universe is,

By the terms of this contract,

To be stretched to the limit

Of endurance. If You

Could extend any more 

The beginning would be farther 

From the end. Time and space

Are racks on which You'll hang.

The job is no sinecure.

MATERIALS

The Evening Crow sits down

To write a poem praising 

Himself but finds that 

The Morning Crow -- 

Inconsiderate as ever! --

Has used up all the adverbs

And left only three adjectives

Shriveled, bent and blemished.

DIFFICULT COMMISSION

The ghost of former Governor 

Thomas E. Dewey has submitted

A proposal that he be the subject 

Of a poem or at least a poem-like

Assemblage of words. It would be

Easier to comply if he would consent

To being called something

Other than the ghost of former 

Governor Thomas E. Dewey. 

Also, time has left of him

A well-trimmed mustache,

A throughway, a medal

Given to outstanding assistant

District attorneys, and a white-shoe

Law firm now gone bankrupt.