HISTORY

On the 22nd of January Parson Woodforde 

Visited friends where he had for dinner 

A Leg of Mutton boiled and Capers,

Some Brawn, a Turkey roasted 

And Mince pies. About four he left

To bury Thos. Mack of North-Tuddenham

Who'd fallen from his horse while in liquor.

Many people were at the funeral; the parson 

Received  a Silk hat band and gloves

And his usual fee of ten shillings, sixpence.

He rode back to his friends' house and had

A late night playing cards at which

He neither won nor lost. On February 4th 

He gave the sixpence to a poor old Man

That plays the dulcimer.

 

PURCHASING

It was almost dark when I reached
The chancery and the great machines
Where they manufacture chance had
Fallen silent. The day's production
Had been sold save for some broken,
Irregular odds and ends -- not enough
For a person or a black cat but perhaps
Sufficient for a party of thin gods
Planning a trip to the Pleasure Quarters.

OWL LIGHT

Truth slants in and 

Leans against a wall and 

Lights a cigarette by 

Staring at it. That's how

It is some days. You want 

Revelations; you get

Party tricks.

A LIVING

It's not easy being 

A freelance caryatid

One day holding up

A Greek temple

The next a large basket

Of wet laundry.

Stand straight; don't blink

Don't poke other caryatids.

AN OLD STATUE

In Lvov there is a statue 

That has forgotten 

Who it's meant to honor.

It calls to passersby:

"Look! I hold a small shield

Or perhaps a large pot lid.

Was I a warrior? A cook?"

Other statues feel sorry for it.

On moonless nights Diana 

Borrows a lantern from

The memorial to the inventors

Of the petroleum lamp

And visits for a while;

Ivan Pidkova tells him

That if the thing in his hand

Is a shield he really should

Hold it just a bit higher.

PINNEY

No one ever said just how

Pinney and I were related 

But my best guess is that 

He was the most shadowy 

Of my grandfather's brothers --

The one who had to return

For folk to notice he'd left.

Somehow, questions about him 

Weren't really answered except 

"Who is that?" “Pinney, of course.”

There is nothing sinister 

In my memories of him. Quiet. 

Small. Grey. Battered. A ghost 

Who'd crept into a family 

Without the heart to evict him.

If I'd ever demanded my mother 

Tell three stories about Pinney

The third would've made him real 

Or more than real, given him a voice 

To fix an aching heart or

The very saddest eyes in the world.

RELATIVE

When no one of my mother's kin 

Was thinking of him, Pinney

Did not exist. He found this 

Inconvenient but accepted it

As a condition of his nature.

I knew him a little -- just enough

To sometimes hear his tired voice

Saying "Yes? What is it you want?"