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."