I Don't Remember My Dreams
Does everyone have a
canon of dream remembrances—
a kind of testament, if not scriptural?
a kind of testament, if not scriptural?
Mine starts with the usual
giant in the basement; maze
of flooded department store rooms.
giant in the basement; maze
of flooded department store rooms.
Frightening the poverty of what I'd rather not
remember! My scarecrow parents
(who else?) living in their ash heap—
remember! My scarecrow parents
(who else?) living in their ash heap—
worse than Hamm and Clove.
But never without a measure of love,
no matter how bitter the dream.
But never without a measure of love,
no matter how bitter the dream.
When I wake up and do not remember,
I am glad of the light of day.
I am glad of the light of day.
Early Crossroads
My mother’s rage was my name for fear
when I would come in from the back yard
with a caterpillar in my hair.
But it was my father not me she
hated. I won the Oedipal war
without a fight, and possessed my stern
Jocasta without guilt, without cause
to stab my eyes dark with her brooch pins.
when I would come in from the back yard
with a caterpillar in my hair.
But it was my father not me she
hated. I won the Oedipal war
without a fight, and possessed my stern
Jocasta without guilt, without cause
to stab my eyes dark with her brooch pins.
What could be so terrifying as
a victory so clear? Boney in
the Kremlin, pacing. No one arriving
to sign his treaties. Only villains
and whores still at large in the city.
And now the great houses are burning.
a victory so clear? Boney in
the Kremlin, pacing. No one arriving
to sign his treaties. Only villains
and whores still at large in the city.
And now the great houses are burning.
Duende
There’s
a word from Lorca—duende—
pretty trendy now in the poetry community—
taken to mean somehow
deep, dark, hyper-passionate, black,
reeking of death and dire fate.
Somehow, it’s that core of quivering
emotional reality
we try to plumb as poets. When I
pretty trendy now in the poetry community—
taken to mean somehow
deep, dark, hyper-passionate, black,
reeking of death and dire fate.
Somehow, it’s that core of quivering
emotional reality
we try to plumb as poets. When I
look
at the source text, though,
I find that Lorca associated duende
with great flamenco dancers and guitar players.
He meant that deep intention in performance
that makes it impossible
not to listen.
I find that Lorca associated duende
with great flamenco dancers and guitar players.
He meant that deep intention in performance
that makes it impossible
not to listen.
Obituary for Blok’s Ear
There’s a Photoshop trick—you can cut people out of photos,
leaving white blanks with human shapes.
My brother-in-law posted a couple this morning.
Someone thought of Stalin. In the beautiful Hemschemeyer
leaving white blanks with human shapes.
My brother-in-law posted a couple this morning.
Someone thought of Stalin. In the beautiful Hemschemeyer
Akhmatova book, there’s a photo of Alexander Blok
and Korney Chukovsky. Their right hands
are clasped. Blok is looking at Korney’s face. Korney’s eyes
are glancing furtively at a spot to the left of the camera. If
and Korney Chukovsky. Their right hands
are clasped. Blok is looking at Korney’s face. Korney’s eyes
are glancing furtively at a spot to the left of the camera. If
Blok’s silhouette were whited out, we might still
recognize him from his nose and brow. The photo was taken
in 1921, Blok’s death year, the year he famously said:
recognize him from his nose and brow. The photo was taken
in 1921, Blok’s death year, the year he famously said:
There are no sounds
any more. Can’t you hear
that there are no sounds? Korney had a wonderful career
through the Stalin years—the Soviet Dr. Seuss.
that there are no sounds? Korney had a wonderful career
through the Stalin years—the Soviet Dr. Seuss.
January Thaw
Waiting for lunch in
a hamburger joint—
I notice a woman walking outside,
dragging three bags through the tar-black slush,
then pausing a while at the door.
I notice a woman walking outside,
dragging three bags through the tar-black slush,
then pausing a while at the door.
Now she heaves
herself in and sits
down at a table in back—light streaming
through the unshaded windows
onto her upturned face.
down at a table in back—light streaming
through the unshaded windows
onto her upturned face.
All in a heap, head
at a tilt,
lids shut tight like the valves of two clams—a black
bruise on her chin, as from falling in the street.
lids shut tight like the valves of two clams—a black
bruise on her chin, as from falling in the street.
shaft of light—a marble ecstasy of tiredness,
in the late sunshine.
in the late sunshine.
Immanuel
Having my espresso, looking out
a big front window onto Washington Avenue.
Saw a gaunt woman approaching from the
light-rail tracks—cardboard sign reading, Anything
a big front window onto Washington Avenue.
Saw a gaunt woman approaching from the
light-rail tracks—cardboard sign reading, Anything
will help. Leaving
my coffee on the table, walked
up the street to where the woman
was fleeing after being rebuffed
by a frowning white-haired man. I got
up the street to where the woman
was fleeing after being rebuffed
by a frowning white-haired man. I got
her attention and handed her the three dollars I had left
after paying for my cup.
I appreciate it, God bless you, she said.
after paying for my cup.
I appreciate it, God bless you, she said.
God bless you too, I said, feeling like a hypocrite.
But it was OK. God
was with us in that moment.
But it was OK. God
was with us in that moment.
Baby Poet (Store-Bought Garnets)
Having torn 'em from the card and rubbed off the glue,
I put 'em with some other rocks
in a little sectioned, labeled box
and brought 'em to school for Show-and-Tell.
The box had a transparent cellophane
cover designed to discourage fingers,
but the next day I had to complain to the teacher—
Mrs. Eggering—that my little green
garnets were missing—the cellophane
breached. Mrs. Eggering
must have been fed up with my rock collections,
because, instead of showing concern,
she bluntly asked me to please stop bringing
my boxes of rocks to school.
in a little sectioned, labeled box
and brought 'em to school for Show-and-Tell.
The box had a transparent cellophane
cover designed to discourage fingers,
but the next day I had to complain to the teacher—
Mrs. Eggering—that my little green
garnets were missing—the cellophane
breached. Mrs. Eggering
must have been fed up with my rock collections,
because, instead of showing concern,
she bluntly asked me to please stop bringing
my boxes of rocks to school.
The Sheet of Tin (for Dáithí Sproule)
When I gave up alcohol,
my world flattened
to a hammered sheet of tin
shining in the sun.
my world flattened
to a hammered sheet of tin
shining in the sun.
Luckily, the man holding the tin
was none other than Johnny Doherty himself—
Traveler, tinsmith,
great Donegal fiddler—
was none other than Johnny Doherty himself—
Traveler, tinsmith,
great Donegal fiddler—
welcome everywhere, always presentably dressed,
always at his best.
Sitting on a concrete stoop,
always at his best.
Sitting on a concrete stoop,
legs stretched out in front him,
he holds the sheet of tin in his hands,
measuring and cutting.
