Stars fade into dawn
hazy sunlight’s fuzzy descent
but the pock-marked moon is still full,
gigantic, perfectly round, luminous
I lean against the railing
and dully watch the sullen lilt
the mighty East River makes
wave upon rippling wave
savage love,
vehement love,
violent, valiant love
wave upon glistening wave
Through my deep slumber
somebody calls my name
she waits for me among the violence and violins
reaches for me in the slur
The wail of sirens and I awaken,
help for someone, help is on the way
The things she thought she loved about me
now only irritate
The things she professed to most admire
now fill her mind with hate
-December 31, 2007-
This is a language I no longer speak—
this easy exchange of phrases
from these bland, accessible, eager and amiable faces
drinks in their hands and
each one of them wishing me well
So I left myself for a time
to see if I couldn’t find
the wellspring
I don’t wish to know them
At first she was my lover—
then she became my muse...
I’ll find other lovers
I don’t know what I wish
I always find sadness
whenever I see her
This is what I wish
I did nothing wrong
but it all came out wrong
I did everything wrong
I used to love her
This music, my love, was written
over two hundred years ago
It was written in a different place
But it feels like it was written here
and it could have been written today
-November 18, 2007-
(After Richard Powers’ “The Time of Our Singing”)
Matt gambled, everyday—for him
the throw of the dice
made wondrous shapes in the air
and the clop, clop, clopping of horses
lightened his anguish
Here’s a love song:
“I don’t care that you’re old
and I don’t care that you’re crazy…”
Wavelengths vary, wherever you gaze,
they do, but only if you really see—
those wondrous shapes are real
Sing again:
“I’m older and crazier than you...”
Don’t you get it?
Love’s just a word some of us use
when we want something
we throw it right out there, like dice
“I’m older and crazier than you…”
What ill force makes us discard
the very thing we most fear to lose?
Who taught us that?
“I don’t care that you’re old
and I don’t care that you’re crazy…”
Here’s what the optimist says:
“Whatever you love more than your life
must finally belong to you
What you come to know better than your
own way home, is yours”
-October 15, 2007-
In this soft twilight place
with its round white moon smile
you may scar your heart forever
I pay and I pay
for every mistake
papers, deft writings, so important
even days ago
like old train tickets
distant schedules,
past reservations
honored in their time
or disgraced
so important, these papers, once
like time’s orange streaking arrows
brilliant, relentless
like blistering darting thoughts
or faded newsprint
tales of old fights
on fragile yellowed papers
past explosions
like a love lost before it could begin
or a damaged friend
I pay and I pay
for every mistake
What was once important
isn’t important now
what once excited
has vanished
I pay and I pay
for every mistake
I see various shades of orange in my head
moving to the sounds of violins
Whenever I hear violins
I see various shades of orange
Always have for some reason
Always have
Music always turns back on itself
It belongs, and does not belong,
to one place
-September 25, 2007-
In the musty brown liquor shop
dusty,
rare dusty bottles on their sides
faded labels
and a wizened white bearded mariner
the proprietor of the shop
who knew me, at least by face,
showing me bottles of particular value, good deals,
interesting bottles
as though I had, at least for special occasions
sometimes bought expensive liquor there
who knew me well
as one who, though not rich,
though not an important collector
could appreciate a rare bottle or bargain
My new son was there in his carriage
my three old brothers were also there
waiting for me in the shop, sometimes passing me
in silence, looking at dust covered bottles
faded curiosities
our young parents were not there, but
my wife was there waiting patiently by the carriage as I
carefully surveyed the wares
Then,
three black dolphins
their backs arching at once
from some harsh nether world of a sea
into soft light like a small ship
at the horizon, where the sun turns orange
to these old eyes, a small black ship
with three black sails, in the
placid undulation
Envoy
A small black ship sails near the horizon
shining orange to these old eyes
with three black sails
it’s called “the three dolphins”
it lives in this dream
like a family of drifters passing
-September 21, 2007-
(after Marguerite Yourcenar’s “Memoirs of Hadrian”)
Each of us is dedicated
to our own gods
and in the course of this brief life will choose
between an endless striving
and a wise resignation
between the delights of disorder and order
I have never belonged wholly to one place
When Dad died I was 12 and
plunged into grief, seeing only for years
this chaotic house,
a mother’s tears
and my terror
But what happened to you, girl, that you
grew up weak, selfish and mean?
Whole nations have perished for want
of generosity...
What the hell happened to you?
The iron gray sky
is indifferent to our wants and joys alike
Dedicated to her own gods
she grew frail without ceasing to be hard
Life’s atrocious sometimes, as we all know
and the mediocre will always outnumber the wise
and at least one fool
will reign over us per century
Still, I didn’t love her less
I loved her more
but the weight of that love
like a gentle tender arm around her shoulders
became too heavy to bear
If endless servitude ever ends
and unnecessary misfortune ever ends
there will still be these horrors:
death, old age, incurable sickness
love unrequited and friendships betrayed
the mediocrity of a life less vast
than our projects, far
duller than our dreams
Why are we afraid of ghosts
when we are so ready to speak with the dead
when we welcome them back in our hearts?
My true lovers have left me more than I them
for I have never understood how
one can ever have enough of true love
-July 27, 2007-
In the very middle of winter
they wildly shred my skin to pieces and
utterly crush my bones
She betrays me again and
no one then knows which part of me
is fish or flesh
Goddess of light, goddess of light
After years of loneliness, I took a wife
and loved her for a good long while
but she filled my house with spite and stuff
until there was no room left
Goddess of light, goddess of light
In Spring they say, the wild pink trout
becomes puffed up, exuberant and joyful
he can’t keep still and he
erotically leaps above the water to feel
the ecstasy of air on his gills
Goddess of light, goddess of light
Then I found the love of my life
and though I came to her in disguise
she easily recognized me by my wounds
and tried to starve me to death
It wasn’t until after the third blow
that I died
Goddess of light, goddess of light
I can no longer blame you for anything, my dear
for in our dream I saw
the meanness of your heart
and the black rats gnawing at
your soul
-July 3, 2007-
This time of year
New York City streets are cold
and unforgiving
Runners here often
run hurt
There’s nothing to look forward to right now
nothing to explain
Old hag winter is here to stay
with her atrophying muscles
and her rigid wrinkled face
When things go well for you, child,
and your health is good
those cold blue eyes of yours shine
These acid angels terrify--
if they could they’d burn the scars
right off my heart
and curse this raging child
We will meet again in gladness
which will, even to me,
seem sacred
In this space unworldly bell-like whispers
we can barely hear, barely perceive, but listen
the joyful bells are light and
the mournful bells are sweet
-December 14, 2007-
If I could hold death in my hands
like a talisman or a toy
and my vicious anger too
and our tenderness
If I could hold death in my hands like a toy
then, maybe, even your loss my dear
wouldn’t faze me
If you cry out and no one answers,
or, if you cry out
and the wrong person answers
The bride has golden hair
red painted nails
and luminous brown eyes
In that afternoon
when you came to make love
and you were on top
and you started to cry
did you know that we were finally done?
Did you really want to hurt me?
What did you want?
This is despair:
to finally throw the rigid crutches down
only to find that you still can’t walk
to get up from the wheelchair at last
without moving
There is a vibrant wreck in my hands
ever shifting, vibrant,
everything slips through my hands
everything right
My angel, my terror, my night...
-May 9, 2007-
(after Joseph von Eichendorff)
These days it is usual
for the sad and restless
to climb above the tips of clouds and go
to distant foreign lands
Here a glorious pink trout
easily glides in a wild blue pool
and above, in the air, our wild goddess swells
in golden light
How soon will the quiet time come?
In the distance it barely speaks, it seems,
of great future happiness
What do you tell us cold wind?
What do you tell us bleak night?
The moonbeams dart over me as I swim
It seems as if you still wait for me
in a garden of roses
even though you are long dead
I will sing us a song of happiness
but inside the tears scorch my heart
Everyone who hears it will smile
and no one will know its deep sorrow
If you have a friend on earth
don’t trust her
much may go wrong in the night
be aware, be alert, stay wide awake
Migrating birds are passing above the clouds
below the thorns of earth begin to bloom
I can at last rejoice
and in this distant foreign land
my alien heart won’t break
You are mine, you are mine, at last
-March 10, 2007-