Eating Poetry Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is
no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her
eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The
dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The
poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick
her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
----------------------------------- Man and Camel On the eve of my
fortieth birthday I sat on the porch having a smoke when out of the blue a man and a camel happened by. Neither uttered
a sound at first, but as they drifted up the street and out of town the two of them began to sing. Yet what they
sang is still a mystery to me— the words were indistinct and the tune too ornamental to recall. Into the desert they
went and as they went their voices rose as one above the sifting sound of windblown sand. The wonder of their singing, its
elusive blend of man and camel, seemed an ideal image for all uncommon couples. Was this the night that I had waited
for so long? I wanted to believe it was, but just as they were vanishing, the man and camel ceased to sing, and galloped back
to town. They stood before my porch, staring up at me with beady eyes, and said: "You ruined it. You ruined it forever." --------------------------------------- My
Mother on an Evening in Late Summer 1 When the moon appears and a few wind-stricken
barns stand out in the low-domed hills and shine with a light that is veiled and dust-filled and that floats upon
the fields, my mother, with her hair in a bun, her face in shadow, and the smoke from her cigarette coiling close to
the faint yellow sheen of her dress, stands near the house and watches the seepage of late light down through the
sedges, the last gray islands of cloud taken from view, and the wind ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat on the
black bay.
2 Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send small carpets of lampglow into
the haze and the bay will begin its loud heaving and the pines, frayed finials climbing the hill, will seem to graze the
dim cinders of heaven. And my mother will stare into the starlanes, the endless tunnels of nothing, and as she gazes, under
the hour's spell, she will think how we yield each night to the soundless storms of decay that tear at the folding
flesh, and she will not know why she is here or what she is prisoner of if not the conditions of love that brought
her to this.
3 My mother will go indoors and the fields, the bare stones will drift in peace, small
creatures -- the mouse and the swift -- will sleep at opposite ends of the house. Only the cricket will be up, repeating
its one shrill note to the rotten boards of the porch, to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark, to
the sea that keeps to itself. Why should my mother awake? The earth is not yet a garden about to be turned. The stars are
not yet bells that ring at night for the lost. It is much too late.
-------------------------- The
Marriage
The wind comes from opposite poles, traveling slowly.
She turns in the deep
air. He walks in the clouds.
She readies herself, shakes out her hair,
makes
up her eyes, smiles.
The sun warms her teeth, the tip of her tongue moistens them.
He
brushes the dust from his suit and straightens his tie.
He smokes. Soon they will meet.
The
wind carries them closer. They wave.
Closer, closer. They embrace.
She is
making a bed. He is pulling off his pants.
They marry and have a child.
The wind carries them off
in different directions.
The wind is strong, he thinks as he straightens his tie.
I like
this wind, she says as she puts on her dress.
The wind unfolds. The wind is everything to them.
-------------------------------
The Prediction
That night the moon drifted over the pond, turning the water to
milk, and under the boughs of the trees, the blue trees, a young woman walked, and for an
instant
the future came to her: rain falling on her husband’s grave, rain falling on the
lawns of her children, her own mouth filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,
a man in her room
writing a poem, the moon drifting into it, a woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death, thinking
of him thinking of her, and the wind rising and taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.
-------------------------------- The
End
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end, Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what
it will seem like When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end, Or what he shall hope
for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll
discover instead. When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light,
and the stories of cirrus And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight, Not every man knows
what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
-------------------------------- The
Garden
for Robert Penn Warren It shines in the garden, in the white foliage
of the chestnut tree, in the brim of my father’s hat as he walks on the gravel.
In the garden
suspended in time my mother sits in a redwood chair: light fills the sky, the folds of
her dress, the roses tangled beside her.
And when my father bends to whisper in her ear, when they rise
to leave and the swallows dart and the moon and stars have drifted off together, it shines.
Even as you
lean over this page, late and alone, it shines: even now in the moment before it disappears.
------------------------------------------------
Mirror
A white room and a party going on and I was standing with some friends under a large
gilt-framed mirror that tilted slightly forward over the fireplace. We were drinking whiskey and some of us, feeling
no pain, were trying to decide what precise shade of yellow the setting sun turned our drinks. I closed my eyes
briefly, then looked up into the mirror: a woman in a green dress leaned against the far wall. She seemed distracted, the
fingers of one hand fidgeted with her necklace, and she was staring into the mirror, not at me, but past me, into
a space that might be filled by someone yet to arrive, who at that moment could be starting the journey which
would lead eventually to her. Then, suddenly, my friends said it was time to move on. This was years ago, and
though I have forgotten where we went and who we all were, I still recall that moment of looking up and seeing the
woman stare past me into a place I could only imagine, and each time it is with a pang, as if just then I were stepping from
the depths of the mirror into that white room, breathless and eager, only to discover too late that she is not there.
|