My shadow said normally
I've better things to do
Than read poems but
I read yours about
Me juggling and I'll
Have you know that I
Am quite capable of
Washing dishes and when
I feel like it combing
My hair parting
It on the right
As for my not
Having money whose
Fault is that?
My shadow seldom
Seems to have money
He doesn't comb his hair
For months at a time
So far as I know
He's never washed a dish.
He limps but cannot
Remember to favor
The same leg I do.
Now someone --
Probably meaning well --
Has taught him to juggle.
He tries the hard stunts
On cloudy days
So I can't keep count
Of missed catches or jeer
At his pitiful reverse cascades.
Baba Yaga says she needs a cat but
Doesn't say what for. Ignore her ad.
St. Crescentia is planning an expedition
To the court of the King of Locusts.
Exciting but foolish; it's known everywhere
That the locusts have no king. Aesred
Wants a discrete cat able to carry messages
And perform miracles. This sounds promising
Aesred usually exists just on Wednesdays ;
Leaving you free to sleep on laptops
Purr loudly and do a bit of light haunting
The other nine days of the week.
Suppose unhappiness
To be a stone. Sisyphus
Carries it uphill. Michelangelo
Sees in it an elephant
Who, once freed, will lift
His outrageous trunk and
Challenge the Duomo.
But you, who no longer
Win smiles, put it in
Your pocket and check
Three times a day to see
If it's still there.
********
My father would
Successfully break eggs
Tapping them
With a fork. The eggs
Wanted to please him.
When I tap just so
The egg ignores me
Or just snickers.
My mother would
Crack eggs one-handed
Without looking
And without fail. This
I don't even try.
********
Sometimes the leech
Aspires and has
Composed but not submitted
Elaborate petitions
To the highest powers.
God, he has heard, has
Problems of His Own.
The station where trains
No longer call is filled
With angels -- tall, thin,
Tense. They look
Very like the ones
Stevie Smith drew. They
Perform no miracles but allow
You to use their sharp wings
To open cans from which
Soup pours out, assuming
There was soup in them
To begin with or some
Fleeing bit of Omnipotence
Muttered in passing
Let there be soup.
Every object wishes
You'd move it
Someplace else.
Every open door
Wants you to shut it.
Every shut door
Wants you to open it.
Shut drawers wish
To be open.
Open drawers do too.
There is no point
In being a button
If no one pushes you.
 |
Pilate's wife had a maid
Called Fluff who,
Meeting Satan,
Fell in love with him.
What if the other things
Happening then
Trials, scourgings,
Signs, wonders,
Crosses, sponges,
Spears and vinegar
Are distractions?
Keep your eye
On Fluff and
Her split-footed love.
In a seminar on modern women's poetry
(Fall Term, 1970) we felt it would be
Appropriate, or at least fun,
To summon up the ghosts of
Emily Dickinson and Stevie Smith.
Miss Dickinson sent a polite note
That she didn't feel she was modern
And was uncertain whether a ghost
Could rightly claim to be something
So intrinsically living as a woman.
The wry ghost of Stevie Smith
Answered a few questions before
The indignant poet came to collect
Telling us her death wasn't scheduled
Until some time in 1971.
My father's ghost worries
That I'll forget his father
Who died when I was four.
He comes by to tell me this
But gets distracted
And asks why I'm writing
Poems about asphalt.
The word "asphalt"
Comes from Middle English
Which took it from French
Which took it from Late Latin
Which took it from Greek.
It may mean
"Not causing to fall."
Experiments show it drips
Like cold molasses.
It is mostly made of polar
And naphthene aromatics;
Saturated hydrocarbons
Determine its softening point.
It should not be confused
With coal tar, "a visually similar black,
Thermoplastic material produced
By the destructive distillation of coal."
During World War II an ersatz
And unsatisfactory form of asphalt
Was made from old memories.
Stettheimer's father, Joseph, had five children with Rosetta Walter but deserted his family for Australia."
--Wikipedia entry
It is hard enough
To lose a husband
To another
But losing him
To a continent --
Even a small one --
Is humiliating.
Years later
At a reception,
Australia apologized
And said Joseph
Had moved on
And was living
With Antarctica.
Given the haste with which
We made this world -- We
Were not the first choice or
Even the second -- We think
It does Us credit. Certain shortcuts
Were unavoidable -- some stars
Hang from thumb-tacks and
We had to use twine to enforce
The bonds between lovers.
My shadow was
Indisposed and
The one I rented
So infirm that
I had to put it
In a wagon and
Haul it behind
Or push it ahead.
After a while
It began waving
Regally to the
Walking shadows and
Pleading
For their votes.
