CHANGE

I'm turning, the mirror says,

Into Hans Holbein's Friedrich III

With the cool, wary eyes of

A man born to be fooled and

A square-cut beard. Really,

I wonder, how could Pope Leo

Or Martin Luther have put

Any faith in me at all?

LOW COMPANY

The Pharaoh Senwosret usually walked

With the personification of his pharaohness

Who looked like Senwosret but

Had larger eyes and a brighter smile

Also, he was carved from stone.

Evenings, when the pharaoh slept,

The statue would slip away --

To the extent anyone carved from diorite

Can be said to slip away -- and roll dice

With the pharaoh's cook and with

The man who carried Senwosret's sandals.

THE SECOND POEM ABOUT A GIANT NAKED STATUE OF NAPOLEON (REV)

 

The sea coal fires make London fogs
Thicker, more palpable, than all others
Condensing sometimes into dogs or hippogriffs
Or megalosaur1, silently patrolling the streets
Until, for a while, the fog consents to lift.
Tonight, the fog has made a constable
With a tipstaff and an unlit lantern
(Fog , with no love for fire, casually extinguishes
Unwary streetlamps that sputter too proudly)
Fog scorns detail but works to a large scale
So the constable is 8 feet tall. Still, he is puny
Compared to the giant nude statue of Napoleon
Who stands in Portland Terrace, looking up
"Mon ami," says the statue, "I break no laws 

 Save those of probability and you, I think,
Are not innocent of that either. Just now,
On the world’s other side, the Emperor has died
Of poison, of boredom, of grief.  In Corsica

When great men die the brothers of death bring tapers
And muffled drums, sweeping through the streets
Clearing the way for his passage. It would be ungracious
For the Emperor's soul not to bid Ajaccio farewell

And I believe I will see it flying across the moon's face.
You, my friend, will give benighted men nightmares
And then vanish back into the fog that made you.
Dawn will find me, as usual, at Apsley House
Where Wellington will scowl to witness again

How calm and regal Canova made me.
Neither of us is here; stand watch with me;
Who knows but that the Emperor will notice us
Saluting him amidst his favorite enemies?"

ROOD

The ungracious rood at Boxley

Used to roll its eyes and

Shout insults at passersby.

It revealed secrets and

In harsh weather could be heard 

Muttering "I'm an unfortunate 

Statue. When will the Reformation 

Arrive, letting me come down 

And be burned as firewood?"

OLD POETRY

From three poems away the stone horse -- 

All that's left of the Jade Prince's glory --

Listens to the thin notes of a Tatar flute.

Tu Fu considers pawning his clothes 

To buy wine.

Realizing he's now a character in a poem

Written centuries ago, he sighs.

The wine will be sour and the pun --

That very brilliant pun! -- he wrote 

In 752 will be lost on me since I

Read him in translation.

CASTING

Having appeared in adjacent poems

My grandfather Joe and the assassin 

Sparafucile have struck up

A sort of friendship. They've come up

With a proposal for a poem in which 

They could appear together.

I can't quite fit it in so I've hired 

Another writer who likes Sparafucile 

(Everyone likes Sparafucile except

A woman in Ohio) but has problems

With Joe. It's been proposed that Max,

My other grandfather, take his place

And we try for a sort of Ernest Lubitsch

Light-comedy effect. Baba Yaga's agent

Says she's interested in playing

Sparafucile's daffy girlfriend.

FLIGHT

My grandfather Joe's first wife's

Great-great grandfather 

Could, witnesses say,

Fly or, at the very least,

Drift upwards off the ground.

In Joe's eyes you could see 

The thought that the trick 

Was to pretend that gravity

Was something you obeyed.

RETURNED

Hieronymo Sparafucile 

Returns to Mantua

Sings his own name

Offers to work

As an assassin. 

His shadow

Struts four steps behind,

Through nights

Moonless and overcast 

Playing a ridiculous flute

Picked up on their travels.

DRIFTER

Having lost  his home 

In the afterlife 

My grandfather Joe 

Spends nights nights 

In unused dreams, 

Falling asleep among the props.

Mermaids have never 

Figured much in my dreams 

Working sometimes 

In supporting roles.

Joe has begun teaching

A few of them to play chess.

PRUDENCE

From the Swat Valley a Buddha

Was brought by Vikings to Sverige

Since these were times 

When no wise man or god

Walked about unprotected, 

He was found wearing

Some pieces of leather armor.

TRANSLATION

 

Yesterday my granddaughter 

Spent seven minutes learning

The language of cats. 

(You learn Cat quickly 

Or not at all.) Testing her,

I told a story; line after line

She translated it into

Mews, growls, purrs and hisses.

The tortoise-shell feigned sleep

But was, I assume, spellbound, 

When poets drop by to point out

That they win medals,

Get published, know what rhymes

With orange, I'll answer, "True but

"Which of your works

Has been translated into Cat?"

ON THE BORDER

 

The Chicago train left between 3 and 4

In the afternoon and arrived about 10

The next morning. At some point

Near the westmost edge of Indiana

Time moved back to repeat an hour.

If I want to visit myself as I was,

An hour spent not here or there 

Between wake and sleep will do

So long as I remember that he,

Has his own absorbing concerns 

(Not least the girl sleeping next to him

Her dark head against his shoulder)

And no intent in particular 

Of growing up to be me.

AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH

I remember the ball; six stars

Evenly spaced, separated by

A double chevron stripe 

At the equator. In the picture 

My brother -- I'm not born yet --

Sits well back on a couch;

His feet don't reach the edge. 

The ball's in a pot, the pot's 

On his lap, carefully held.

Read his eyes: "Ball, you and Pot

Must stand by me always."