MARTYR

He sits down on a log that will,
In a few minutes, be part of the pyre
On which he'll burn and takes off his coat .
After shaking out the wrinkles
He folds it neatly  and sets it down.

CORVINE

 

Corvids or corvidae are

Oscine passerine birds including

Crows, ravens, jays, grackles,

Rooks, magpies, jackdaws,

Treepies, choughs and nutcrackers

And, on certain days, me.

I then speak grackle flawlessly;

Get by in crow, raven and jay (I have

Only a few words of treepie but who

Wants to talk much with treepies?)

I display, sometimes, an almost human intelligence 

And the ability to use simple tools.

CHECKING IN

 

My father had three jobs so he rarely

Had time to watch an entire ball game;

He'd turn on the tv late to watch an inning

Or two, reassured that the great game of which

Every game was a part continued.

APPEARANCE SAKE

 

Since Old Man is deaf

His shadow's begun

Covering its ears

Against thunder.

CRITIC

 

The wind says it doesn't really mean

To be rude but it's noticed that you

Are doing a very poor job of impersonating

Yourself today. Your right eye is two or three shades

Too dark. You've combed your wrong-colored hair

Unbecomingly. You're should be

Pulling on your beard while trying to think

Not scratching your ear. Go on like this

And you won't fool anyone, not even 

Virginia McC., who'll believe anything.

SOME CORRECTIONS

 

An obituary last Sunday about the poet Mark Strand referred incorrectly in some copies to his survivors. He did not have any brothers; he is not survived by a brother Thomas.

From the November 19th, 2014 New York Times obituary for Mark Strand

The poet Mark Strand had no brothers

He especially had no brothers

Named Thomas. He also never

Owned a dog and certainly not

One called Rusty who chased cats

And was a pale yellowy-red.

Rusty --not Mark Strand's dog --

Never caught any cats including

Farfel who didn't live next door

When Mark Strand was six.

Mark Strand was never six;

He was five and then he was seven;

Then he was 65 and being given

A Pulitzer Prize. He had no brothers

So none of them sent him a telegram

Saying "Nice work, Bro!"

Thomas, Rusty and Farfel are not among

Those who survived Mark Strand.

 

GOING AWOL

 

It's cold and windy in the harbor and the Statue

Has deserted her post, walking the length of Manhattan

To Grant's Tomb. She cannot stand up in it

But fits if she leaves her torch outside

And scrunches, resting her head on her knees.

Occasionally, she drinks from an enormous bottle

Of Mad Dog 2020, frustrating the teetotal ghost

Of General Grant who says she can stay for

A little while. Tomorrow, she promises,

She'll start looking for a new job.

SLOW DAY

 

No one's in the market today 

To be haunted. The ghosts

Crowd together, perched

In trees or standing

Under wet awnings.

From my father's pocket

A ghost-kitten pokes its head.

ON THE STYX

 

Though the weight of a ghost is slight it isn't

Nothing and 175 entering at once have made

The boat ride low in the water. At first

The children are impressed by how serious

It is to be dead, looking over the edges

("They're called gunwales," says Dina)

At the skeletal fish or up at the grey birds

Hovering in the windless sky but then

Laila makes a face at the other Laila

And they both start giggling helplessly.

MEETING AN ANGEL

 

My father knew the languages of men

And ducks and cats and dogs and would surely

Have spoken to an angel outright if he met one

Afterwards, my mother would have said

"Nat, what was the angel's name and why

Was he standing in the rain? Does he like

Being an angel? Does he like his boss?

Does he get lonely?"

                                        My father would've answered

"Patroosh, we didn't talk about any of that."

"Tchah! He was waiting for you to ask;

Next time, I'll go with you."

TWENTY-SEVEN

 

The old moon's attendants roll her out

From the storage shed and, not without effort,

Hoist her back into the sky

PARKWOOD

 

An angel has been hanging about Parkwood Cemetery
For weeks now, standing by this grave or that
Occasionally doing absurdly small miracles --
Coaxing a dead weed back to life, fixing a gravestone's crack
Or inserting questions marks at the end of epitaphs.

Sometimes he choreographs the rain
So it falls in checkerboard fashion
Or only on people born in years ending in 6.
There’ve been complaints but the superintendent
Says he's powerless unless the angel violates
Rule 713(h), governing unlicensed resurrections.

TRANSLATION

 

My machine, set to the task of translating

Joseph Roth, sends me a note that Roth's ghost,

Currently haunting the rooms he'd have rented

If he'd fled to New York in 1939 instead

Of staying in Paris to drink himself to death,

Has offered to do the job cheaper and better.

APPARITION

 

The ghost has arrived on time or almost

But seems in no hurry to begin his routine

He blinks a few times, stretches, looks out

The open window at the night where a bird

And a bat are hospitably sharing a branch.

"Well," says the woman sitting bolt upright

(She rarely sits any other way) on her bed

"Can we get on with it? Let's see some haunting!

I'm prepared to be harrowed; I'm more than ready

To experience agonies of remorse or grief. My heart

Is resigned to burning in my breast; my soul

Has prudently taken a holiday. My nerves, though, 

Cannot long abide this foolish delay."

MOVING

 

Through a crack in the frame the image of my father

Makes his way out of the picture.  He's in

No hurry to make his escape; he knew that someday 

There'd be just such a crack. He means

To check on folks in other pictures, perhaps

Seeing how his folks are doing in that photo

Taken at a seder in 1947 but pauses,

Waiting for my mother's image to come with him.

BOREAS

 

The North Wind has been taking subtlety lessons

From the old women who practice tai chi

Behind the Federal Courthouse on Centre Street.

After holding himself infinitely still He

Gently flicks the uttermost end of one thin branch.

ANOTHER MUSE

 

Hesychia, silence's muse, can be found

Just where she's been since 1928, living

With her pet, a rust-colored spider

In a small room in Elmira, New York. 

The rest of the house has been gone

For many years so visitors must first climb

The memory of a staircase, avoiding

The middle of third one from the top

Which always squeaked.

VISIONS

 

Daruma never 

Sleeps

Doesn't even close

His eyes.

The dreams

He doesn't have

Wander about or

Put themselves up 

For sale.

You sometimes find

Crowds of them by

The vanished gates

Of the old Yoshiwara

QUELLER

 

I bought the demon queller

When I was ten because

I had a dollar and its orangeness

Appealed to me. It was meant

To quell Japanese demons

But mischance had brought it

To a Brooklyn giftshop.

American demons, thinking it's

One of their own, imitate

It's lidless glare and leave it gifts.

Mostly resigned, it sometimes dreams

A Japanese demon will turn up --,

Perhaps trying to sell me something --

And find itself quelled.

UNDOING

 

It wasn't the weaving

She'd miss so much

As the unweaving

The unpatterning.

Long night hours

The light of a candle

Held by a maid

(Later hung 

Her pale legs kicking)

If the sly king

Had drowned at sea

She'd have learned

To unspin wool

Unshear sheep

Unstring minutes

Hoping another Penelope

Might string them again

String them better.

MARKETING

There used to be
A fish market here
But they packed it up
Ghosts and all and
Moved it to the Bronx.
Now, very early
Muses buy and sell
Ideas for poems
My usual muse
(Quite old but sly)
Often leaves with
A small wrapped idea
And two or three others
Which somehow
Found themselves
In her purse's
Deepest depths. 

ON LINE

 

On the long line for admission

To Hell stands a child. It's hard

To imagine why she's there 

But there she is, fidgeting,

Holding the memory of a toy

That was blown up with her 

One damned soul makes faces 

To amuse her. Another starts 

A long story about an elephant 

And a lizard and a flying boat.

It's a very long line and, really,

What else have we to do?

VETERANS

 

Some saints spend so long in the field that at last

They're worn down, almost featureless, like spoons

With unreadable monograms and twisting handles

Which might be anything -- writhing Cupids, sleepy mermaids,

Apostles, even. Their attributes are lost or mere blobs,

Their miracles pointless, giving a duck, say, the power

To heal shattered bones and twisted hearts

Or making puddles rain themselves back into the sky.

A COUSIN

During the War my mother's cousin Simon
Was a solider and wrote brave letters
Sometimes and funny ones other times
He'd type an original and six carbons
Sending my mother carbon four.
When he was in college he lived
In my grandparents' house and Joe
My grandfather gave him a dime
Every morning for carfare. Most mornings
Si walked so he could spend the dime
On cigarettes and coffee. He came home
With a whole heart but three years later
It broke and then his spirit went flat
And he smoked cheap tobacco in a pipe.
When I found his war letters I wondered
What had happened to make him
Scared of everything. My mother thought
It was a girl named Gretchen or perhaps
Just bad luck of which Simon always had
Enough and more than enough.

MESSAGES

 

The old amulet says

"Demon! If you are hungry

Eat. If you are thirsty

Drink. If you aren't hungry

Or thirsty: Go away!"

What, though, if the demon

Just wants a few minutes

To tell you what it's like

Being an itinerant demon  

Or to ask if you'd consider

Walking with him

Just to the next town?

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD, PART TWO

 

My father, I ask you to look out for

A small girl, recently dead. No kin

Of ours but, out of your kindness,

Help her; she'll be so confused

That grownups took the trouble

To kill a five year old.

While you lived you could never

Ignore a child's distress; even Death,

I think, couldn't  change that in you.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD

 

A young child, a girl, dead,

Asks why I'm writing a poem

When I should be bringing her back.

Young children do not know

That anything's impossible. There will

Be ducks on the pond that she

Won't ever see. The honking geese

Won't startle or amuse her; won't 

Make her clutch small hands together

And say Oh! No cricket will bring her

Good fortune; no grandchild 

Ask her why cats don't have kings.

STEALING

 

Kooser, if you look

At that poem of yours

You'll find your fan

Missing. I have it because

My poem needed it.

If you want, come by

And bring some spoons

(The ones the ghosts stole

From your aunt will do.)

APPLIANCES

 

The electric fan has ingrained dust

On its blades. It sometimes wakes itself 

On a cold winter day and whirrs officiously.

Older even than the broiler I took to school

It has outlived so many appliances

Even the Grundig radio that, on clear nights,

Brought Canada and Wheeling, West Virginia

To suburban New York. If the old fan thinks

I need cooling when it's 14 degrees

Who on earth am I to say it's not right?

CLOTHO WILL NOT BE PLEASED

 

Lawrence Silver <ashurbanipal@gmail.com>	Sun, Jan 25, 2:53 PM (3 days ago)
to Jane, bcc: me

In the middle of a very heavy

Snowstorm there is a knock on the

Door. A god -- a small one --

Stands there, brushing off snow, and

Says "A few of us, for no good

Reason -- we gods need none

For what we do -- have been

Slowly changing your fate. You've heard

That even gods can't alter fate?

We say this because it's hard and

We're most of us lazy. Still, we have

Built you something interesting which

Begins as soon as you leave your

House with me. C'mon! I've shoveled

Your walk and hotwired your car."

CRULLER

 

Because He doesn't always bother to distinguish

Levels of reality, when God is awake at 3 AM

He is likely to tun up in a reproduction of

Edward Hopper's Nighthawks demanding

Some coffee and a cruller. It does no good

For the counterman to protest that he

Is merely a copy of a figure in a painting

So he shrugs and, for the first time, turns the tap

On the coffee urn behind him and shouts to where

He hopes there is a kitchen and a cook

To see if there are any more crullers.

EMPLOYMENT

In those hard times God,
Not having two nickels
To rub together, took a job
With my Grandfather Max.
He did good work but
Nothing extraordinary, saving
Miracles for His off hours.
When things got better
He quit and resumed
Being God full-time.

ANGELS

 

The angels changing shifts use ladders

To go between Earth and Heaven. You'd think

They'd fly or at least use escalators but no;

They climb up and down ladders. Worse,

There are no ladders just for going up and

None for just going down so they must

Push past each other. When an angel going off-shift

Has news for his replacement, everyone on their ladder

Waits, commending themselves on how patiently they're waiting.