Look at any large family photo album and,
Sooner or later, some version of my mother
Will be looking back at you with sharp brown eyes
Over an unmistakable small nose. I am particularly fond
Of my mother when she was a Turkish woman
Posing at a typewriter in an Istanbul office
Around 1936 (anyone claiming to be my mother
Must be able to type accurately and with
Terrifying speed, her head turned a bit to the left
As she talks to whoever is in the room with her or,
If no one is, whoever is in the next room).
The mother I know best was 9 that year, in Brooklyn,
And would have been pleased to know another her
Was making her own way, taking no guff
And walking with her friends at dusk,
Standing in the shadow of the Galata Tower or seeing
What the Bosphorus was getting up to now.
The shadow walking past
Where there used to be a bakery
Lifts his hand and the shadow
On a bench rises and joins him
They travel down Middleneck Road
In no great hurry. From a gazebo
Two shadows emerge; another one
Has been admiring the trees
Near the library's duck pond
But becomes part of the procession.
A learned shadow leaves the synagogue
Arguing with fugitives from Snediker Avenue.
An old shadow gets off the 8:17 from Penn Station;
The conductor hesitates;tears one last ticket
Before admitting he too is a shadow.
As you enter into the city you see
Another entering ahead of you. Her eyes,
Are unnecessarily bright
Her manner too alert; she will see
Pretty much everything worth seeing.
Hurry -- perhaps you'll be first to find
A broken statue, an old lamp,
A cook on Fourth Street who once
Kicked Ernest Hemingway's shin
Though he doesn't remember why.
Nagoya Sanzaburo's ghost
Lingered so long that
The kabuki troupe's manager,
His lover, the priestess Okuni,
Put him under contract.
My father would ask
What roles did he play?
My mother would ask
Where did he go
When the show was over?
By definition Aristotle's Unmoved Mover
Is everywhere and nowhere and
Cannot be moved. This is not always convenient;
Highways need to be rerouted; rivers need
To flow uphill; offices need to give Him an office,
A title, a salary and frequent raises. Efforts
To put the Unmoved Mover on wheels
Have so far been unsuccessful. They have, though,
Occasioned several interesting disasters
And a reality show that ran six seasons.
As you enter into the city
The statues over the gate
Turn their heads away.
As you enter into the city
A candle blows itself out;
The gods finish repairing
A cracked sidewalk on Ware Street.
As you enter into the city
A dog stops in mid-bark,
Wondering if he'd rather be
A small greybrown bird
Or a snake sleeping under a rock.
As you enter into the city
A cat last seen in 1926
Reappears and announces
It's plans to run for public office.
As you enter into the city
A woman, floating away,
Drops a sealed red envelope.
My ghost haunts my old office
Working on files closed long ago.
I tell the new occupant that she
Must exorcise him herself;
I'm not going near that place.
Too much evidence points to my being
Myself; it makes me suspicious.
Who's being protected? Who might
Be framing me, whoever I am?
Having little money, I can't retain
Philip Marlowe or Kinsey Milhone;
Lord Peter Wimsey works for free
But finds my case uninteresting.
The best I can afford to hire
Is Curious George who, it turns out,
Might be a very decent detective
If he'd stop having ludicrous adventures
Involving machinery or balloons and wasn't
So easily distracted by pieces of ripe fruit.
This woman in Hokusai's print is not looking at you
To make it clear how very much she's not looking at you
She is peering through a red telescope aimed
Somewhere far to your left. Worse, she's brought a friend
To carry an umbrella and to also not look at you.
If you choose to linger and look at them,
That's hardly their fault now, is it?
This woman in Hokusai's print is not looking at you
To make it clear how very much she's not looking at you
She is peering through a red telescope aimed
Somewhere far to your left. Worse, she's brought a friend
To carry an umbrella and to also not look at you.
If you choose to linger and look at them,
That's hardly their fault, is it?
I have never met your grandfather so
I will loan you one of mine for
The duration of this poem. Would
You rather the good-humored tailor who
Died locked inside himself or the
Moody, suspicious watchmaker who
Died praising this well-made world?
