AVISO!

 

The very old muse has not for a while 

Brought me a poem that only works

In Linear B or in Ural-Altaic. Today,

Looking pleased, she brought a poem

In a living language but one of which

I know only a handful of words. It's true

That I can give an eloquent warning

Due to years of reading subway doors:

Aviso! La via del tren subterraneo

Es peligrosa! It has great dignity, I think

Be advised! The way of the underground train

Is perilous! Not only perilous but with perils

Who are female -- peligosa, not peligroso.

Still, unless the poem means to urge young folk

To generally avoid walking on subway tracks

It should probably find another poet.

DEMONS AND MY FATHER

 

That the world is filled with demons

Didn't surprise my father nor alarm him;

Having nothing against them he assumed

They felt no personal ill will towards him. 

They were just there, needing occasionally

To be brushed aside, like clouds of gnats.

He became interested after he retired

In the economics of being a demon

What they sought and why and what they did

In their free time. They liked him for this.

One of them told him "If we'd much free time

We probably wouldn't be demons."

VISITS

 

My family's banshee (don't ask me how Jews

Came to have a banshee -- we just do)

Knows when I'm doing laundry and comes by

To tell me I'm doing it all wrong and should

Find a river and, wailing, batter my clothes with rocks

(Gets out the blood something wonderful, she says.)

Sometimes, if the Immovable Wisdom King drives, 

She brings along her friend Corn Woman --

Still depressed over the death of her last priest

Three hundred and six years ago.

TIME OFF

 

Shadows in hospitals are made to work

For their keep but union rules require

Occasional time off so my grandfather's --

The one he lost track of when the Army

Requisitioned it during the Great War -- 

Drifts by once in a while. He asks if I've recalled

Any new details of what my grandfather did

After they parted. I had to show him photographs

Before he'd admit I didn't make up the mustache.

THEORIES

 

You ask why shadows accumulate

In hospitals. Some experts say hospitals

Are both more real than the world

And less. A rootless shadow

Might feel comfortable there; 

One left behind and not reclaimed

Might have no place to go. Other experts

Insist the first experts are full of hooey.

CELESTIAL BUDGET CONSTRAINTS

 

The worst thing about changes to Kabuki Heaven is that

Each actor no longer has a boy on stage holding a candle

To make him visible to the audience. The little flashlights

We shine on each other or ourselves are not the same.

BACKGROUND CHARACTERS

 

None of the finished angels were available

So an outline with a little color brushed in

Was sent to tell Hagar that she has

Been traded and will now belong

To another story. Unfinished

Has no voice but acts out seventeen

Possible ways Hagar's new life may go

Ending all but one with a touching death

Hoping she'll choose the one in which she

Learns from him how to take long flights

On a blurred suggestion of wings.

TALENT

 

Suppose they say to you "Rembrandt,

You will be Rembrandt for the next five years;

After that you'll have to find work -- innkeeper, perhaps,

Or a miller, like your father? -- and be called

The Man Who Used to be Rembrandt. Still,

Quite a lot can be done in five years. Set to!

Do you think the Polish Rider will paint himself?

DOGE

 

An Irish penny from 1941 has been in my pocket

For years. On one side there is a rooster and on the other

There is a harp but lately the rooster has been trying

To transform himself into a picture of me in case

A thin margin of the ghosts of Venetian senators

Elect me doge requiring me at dawn the next day

To throw coins with my image on them to the crowd.

The harp reminds him there's been no doge 

Since 1797 but the rooster says we should be prepared

I tell them I'm impressed figures on an Irish coin know so much

About Venice and its customs; they say what's remarkable

Is my ignorance about them.

A COMMISSION

 

My morning self -- that scoundrel! -- has accepted a fee

From my Aunt Edith to write of her and now

Expects me to honor his bargain. She died, though,

Of statistics when she was a few months old 

Leaving me the merest scraps from which to work.

She made a successful career as a ghost, appearing

As an extra shadow in photographs or as a stern-looking stranger

With wings and a string-bag who has featured

In her siblings' dreams in a bewildering variety

Of supporting roles. By the time I was born

She was semi-retired and had mellowed

Into the good-humored ghost of a pretty woman

Two inches taller than her next-biggest sister,

Adding to the difference by tottering in high heels

And wearing hats, costlier and more exuberant

Than Rosie's or Sadie's or Doris' or even Anne's.

She and my morning self seem fond of each other;

I'm not sure why he doesn't write of her himself

Nor why he took money for a job

He expects me to do for him.

TALKING IN THE GALLERY 2

 

Such a little dragon! Not worth

Saint George's time, let alone that

Of his horse. The princess 

In her marvelous dress, woven

Of rainbow cloth, could have

Stamped her small foot

And shooed it away with a towel

MY MOTHER COULD TALK TO ANYONE

 

So, said my mother, where are you from?

Nowhere at all said Death. I'm an abstract concept,

An absence, an act, an end and not to be confused

With an actual being. Fine, my mother said,

But where are you from and what made you choose

To be Death? If you must know (Of course I must, she said)

Patchogue. I'm from Patchogue but also from Harbin

And Port Arthur. I know Patchogue, my mother said,

An unfinished sort of place and Harbin I've been to --

Very cold there! Port Arthur I would've seen

If I'd lived longer. Tell me something about it!

Death closes his eyes (since when does he have eyes?)

And says I don't have time to talk about Port Arthur

Nor inclination nor even ability. Abstract concept, yes?

Shahh, my mother says, talk a bit. I'm dead; you're Death;

Surely we're related? --I remember seeing you

The day I was born, talking to my mother

But you glanced at me. You were much the same

As now but younger. Paler. Not smiling but your face

Almost remembered what a smile was.

...... What color were my eyes that day?

ROADSHOW

 

Will Gosling kept a small Jerusalem

In a wheelbarrow which he pushed

From one place to another. For a penny or two

He'd pull back the tarpaulin and show

The wonders of the place. At some point

Miniature people moved in; sometimes

God would move buildings about

Or arrange marriages. When Gosling was ill

God took his place, pushing the barrow,

Removing the tarp, accepting the pennies,

Stowing them away safely, wrapped in a cloth/