EDITOR

 

I've been trying to write a poem

About the Death of Dido but my tablet,

Having no respect for the classics,

Keeps  changing it to the Death of Fido

Which would be a different thing entirely.

AN ENCOUNTER

 

A stone in the middle of a sidewalk square

About an inch and a third long by three quarters

Of an inch wide. A little scuffed; if a rock

Can lead a hard life this one has. I pick it up

Of course -- I've been picking up rocks for most

Of my life. When I was a kid I'd bang them open

With a bigger rock not because I'd the makings

Of a geologist but to see the inside and to smell

The gunpowder smell two rocks pounded together make.

A grey stone, flat on one side, rounded on the other.

It can't have been on the sidewalk long; someone

Would have kicked it into the grass or the street.

Waiting for me, then. The round side fits

Into the hollow of my fingers, the flat accepts

My thumb rubbing it. A worry stone, perhaps.

I put it in my pocket. It may be that this stone

Was meant not for me but for Rebbe Aaron

My ancestor who was kept from floating off

By the stones in his pocket . He died in 1772 

But stones, notoriously, have only hazy notions of time.

FAMILY

 

Once in a while I write a poem about

My ancestor Aaron of Karlin who could,

According to legend, fly or at least float and who

Might have drifted who knows where if his wife

Hadn't put stones in his pocket. Recently,

I've become more interested in his wife who,

Like me, her descendant, couldn't fly

Or if she could didn't make a fuss about it.

DESCENT

 

About my  ancestor Reb Aaron tradition and my mother

Agree: he could fly. Nothing fancy, mind you;

He wasn't a show off and didn't do Immelmans

Or Figure-8s in the skies over Karlin. Mostly he floated

Just a bit off the ground, rising higher when he prayed

Or was lost in thought. His wife (who was also

My ancestor, come to think ofit) would slip rocks

Into his pockets so he wouldn't float away entirely.

STONES AND THE RIVER SCOUSE

 

When Virginia Woolf had had enough of being Virginia Woolf she

Put stones into her pocket (quare: pocket or pockets?

How many stones?) and went into the River Scouse

(Thirty-five miles long; considerably polluted now

But probably less so on March 28, 1941)

If you had to guess would you say she walked, dove

Or jumped headlong into the Scouse?

Or did she spin around, looking at the world 

(Just then, just there) so she could describe it if it fortuned

That she survived? And tell me something

About those stones -- smooth river-rocks do you think

Picked up idly and then inspiring the thought

"These would do nicely if I wanted to drown"?

Whatever became of those stones? Do they sit

In a vitrine somewhere, next to the bezoars?

"Stones found in a dead writer's pocket; stones

Recovered from the belly of a toad."

ITEMS

 

In the room a red teapot and

A grey-green rug. Three chairs and

A cat sitting on one of them. A shelf

Filled with sea-shells. A lamp.

Pen and ink and paper on

A thin-legged table. A box

Filled with sand. Old Ono No Komachi

Talking to her much younger self.

In a corner Death quietly listening,

His cup of tea growing cold.

SOME SHADE

 

The man whose shadow I am

Has begun to shrink but not rapidly

As would be proper. At high noon

He doesn't disappear and at sunset

He doesn't grow tall. Turn out the light

And he remains! According to him

Plato discovered that all things here

Are shadows of better things elsewhere 

So he is a shadow of his true self and I

Am a shadow of the idea of shadowness.

I ask if his true self ever treats shadowness

To a meal or at least a cup of coffee.

He says probably not since his true self

Hasn't the shadow of a thin dime.

NOTA BENE

 

Like the curate's egg

Parts of me 

Are excellent

The rest. though,

Are poison. Don't say

You've not been warned.

WIND UP

 

Old Man and his conscience never
Liked each other much so when it
Didn’t return from errands one day he
Shrugged and got the other old men
To build him a clockwork one. Mostly
It sat in the attic with the old-fashioned gear his
Grandfather had left behind but he dusted it and
Wound it up for formal occasions and all
Went well until the clockwork conscience built
Another one and they learned how to wind
Each other up and started bothering Old Man
In shifts except for Thursday afternoons when
They played card games and tried to fix an old

Radio to tune in programs off the air since 1956. 

ESTHER

 

When my grandmother was young

And hadn't met the man she didn't like

But married anyway she lived in an orphanage

Though only half an orphan and worked

In a cigarette factory in Lvov. She now refuses

To appear in my dreams as I remember her --

Small and grey; smaller and greyer

Every time I saw her -- but only as she was

At fifteen -- quick, sharp-tongued, defiant --

And the one girl who understood the workings

Of the tempermental Bonsack Cigarette Roller

Which could roll 5000 cigarettes an hour

If made to feel loved and appreciated.

LORETTA WANTS THERE TO BE A POEM ABOUT HER

 

There's a poem right now that's

Nohow mine but keeps buzzing around

Saying I should write it down before

Its words faint from exhaustion and leave

Punctuation marks hanging in the air.

It's for sure not one of my poems and seems to be

About a girl named Loretta. Loretta has

Her points and her problems but the poetry of her

Gets right by me. I try to go back to my book but Loretta,

Who thinks I should be writing, looks through my eyes

And wants to know what makes the book more interesting

Than she is. It's not that, I'm sure the right author

(Who isn't me) will come along and turn you 

Into a National Book Award and a life of

Reciting you at colleges and book clubs and

Perhaps a bowling alley. What's your book about? she says

And I say it's about Carnival season in Venice in

1755 and Casanova's having an affair with a nun

Who dresses as a man sometimes. How's it come out? she says

And I say Unhappily. The nun falls in love with

Another nun who leaves her for the French ambassador 

And Casanova grows old, sitting in a library and writing books.

POSING

 

Arcadio, the studio assistant who calls himself an apprentice,

Was dressed as Mary so we could do preliminary sketches

For an Annunciation  -- a big job and a rushed one

So those of us who had a right to call ourselves apprentices

Had all been pressed into service. We intended later

To put some wings on Cardio and a harness for more sketches

But then an intrusive angel turned up -- they were, that summer,

Everywhere in Florence -- telling us in that queer echoless voice

The angels all seem to share that he brought news of great joy.

Arcadio hiked up his skirts and ran off. None of us blamed him.

HOW THINGS WORK IN HIROSHIGE PRINTS

 

The nobleman has given it

The merest toe-tap but the ball

Soars into the sky where it hangs

Pretending its a stitch-seamed moon

BERNINI'S ANGEL WITH A SCROLL

 

A finished sculpture

Of an unfinished angel

One wing is entire

The other stops halfway

Allowing him to fly

Only in circles so that

He walks when tasked

With some miracle or,

If it's urgent, runs. 

FLIGHT

 

The Portuguese writer Antonio Lobo Antunes 

Often dreamed of flying as did my father;

Lobo Antunes flew by himself; my father

With the assistance of angels. Sometimes,

If they were in a hurry, the angels

Would toss my father back into his bed

Through an open window.

This never happened to Lobo Antunes

Who had, however, problems of his own.

REFLECTIONS

 

Shunsho once drew a samurai glaring

At a young geisha looking back at him

From his mirror. He obviously thinks

He's being poorly served but at least

The geisha has a clever look to her

And is probably good company.

My mirror parades ragged old men

Who seem distressed -- helpless creatures

Who can't even comb their hair properly.

Any of their originals -- surely a sorry lot! --

Are welcome to come fetch them. I'll  make do

Until my reflection returns. (I assume he's in jail;

He'd better not be hanging out with geishas.)

DRAGON CONJURED FROM A CUP OF TEA

 

I don't know if my grandfather Joe

Frequented all-night diners but since he died

It's where I generally see him in dreams --

Often multiplied so that he's most

Of the customers, quietly chatting

With himself in a booth, waiting

For a seat at the counter, glaring

At the change the cashier is giving him.

The next time we meet I mean to show him

Harunobu's picture of a girl conjuring

A dragon from a cup of tea.

STRATEGIES

 

Death, wanting to be loved,

Has learned how to make an omelet

And to do a very creditable

Imitation of a crow though not

At the same time. This, he believes,

Is why his strategy has so far failed.

SOMEONE HAS TO DO IT

 

Formerly, my cat Casey (deceased)

Was responsible for looking from

An upstairs window every morning

To make sure the world was still there.

I never thanked her. Now the job's mine

And nobody thanks me either.

HIROSHIGE SKETCH

 

The nobleman has given it

The merest toe-tap but the ball

Has soared into the sky where it hangs

Pretending to be a stitch-seamed moon

VEHICLES

 

In their perverse metal hearts some cars

Dream of being hearses, slowmoving,

Leading long processions of other cars

With their lights on in the daytime, ignoring

Traffic lights since no cop tickets a hearse.

Hearses, though, wish to be ambulances

Screamshouting on desperate missions.

Ambulances make no wishes, have no dreams.

TROPE

 

Since I am generally held to be

The Good Son the smart money is that

I'm actually evil or that, put to the test

I will crumble under pressure. At best,

I can hope to prove a weaselly hypocrite

Or to have a serious drinking problem.

HAMMER

 

Sometimes, do you see, an angel

Would come by with a hammer and

Knock down a house -- he'd say he had

Orders but I think he just woke feeling

Mean. He'd work steady, stopping

For a cigarette or two (Angels

Don't have souls and don't get

Lung cancer) and leave the district

When the house was down, Once in a ways

Gangs of angels - - three of them, maybe four --

Would come and build another house there

Or the same one that had been there

Or a house that had been there a long time ago

THE WAY OF IT

 

Somewhere a shadow

Digs my grave. He's in no hurry

But the thing gets slowly deeper.

I try to distract him, pretend

To feel sympathy. "Poor chap!

Out in such weather!" 

I offer to trade a tea-spoon

For his shovel saying

He'd be a fool to refuse

An elegant utensil, made

From genuine silver-plated tin.

When he's not looking,

I kick some dirt back in.

DIRECTION

 

There was a time, years ago, when I

Was constantly asked for directions

Then it stopped -- my look became

Less trustworthy perhaps. Now

I'm being asked again, in languages

I don't know; I answer anyway

Really, I'll have to follow someone

To see where they wind up.

A FEW WORDS

 

Fog. Shadows take the place

Of workers, safe at home.

DAY WORKER

 

Going to my job I'd usually

Walk through a passage that

Was either a dark, narrow street or

A broad, well-lit alley. Partway,

The shadow I wore at home

Would slip off, nodding to the utility player

Who'd dog my steps at work. Protocol

Demanded I pretend not to notice.

SOMETHING YOU COULD DANCE TO

 

A small bird -- possibly a female robin --

Called to me that she was the legal representative

Of Sara Teasdale and that I should know

Her client had insisted that her books of poems

Include a notice that "For permission to set

Any of the poems to music, application

Should be made to the author." I said I

Had no intention of setting anyone's poems to music

Any anyway Sara Teasdale has been dead

Since 1933. The bird said "We're working on that and,

In any event, we're putting you on notice. There is

Something about your eyes we don't trust; something

That says  'I wonder what the October poem

Would sound like as a maxixe?'"

HYDE PARK

 

A half-hundred years ago I 

Took long winter walks

Up the Midway or along

Fifty-Seventh Street or down

Cottage Grove Avenue. The sidewalk

Rang under my feet and winds

Blew from Lake Michigan 

The perfect, said Plato,

Cannot change which, if true,

Would be reason to avoid it.