GOING TO THE BIG CITY
Finger jutting nonchalantly upwards
he stands at a country bus stop
sucking a stem of grass
watching the cars go by
checking them off
casual glance identifying
make, model, numberplate combinations
at seventeen, time’s on his side
Sweeping her hair out of her eyes
she stands at a country bus stop
watching the cars go by
conscious of how her young body
stands out against the trees
casual glance brushing the driver’s eyes
feeling what they think of her
at seventeen, time’s on her side
Squeezed one against the other
in the back row of the bus
they avoid looking at one another
not even a casual glance
each locked between his own eyes
two children of the open air
heading for the dream
the big city thrill
to stand in elevators
looking at the mirror
ride a subway
reading a newspaper or a book
drink a big city beer
smoke a big city joint
at seventeen, time’s on their side
Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
big city lost children
they turn this way and that
seeking a fit and finding only
unmatched anonymity
their time begins running out
MONA LISA AND DAVID
She was the match that lit the fire
that burns down the centuries
a darkish sweet mystery
her serene smile
so well known so loved
her thoughts her private existence
so little understood
where did she go after work?
And he
whose manly curves grace
a thousand books
was there a nice fire
glowing unseen in the background
to lull him into immobility?
into which world did he step
after donning his robes
what kind of manuscripts did he enjoy
reading in the lonely evenings?
Had they lived on
as their effigies do
perhaps they may have met in the street
had a cup of coffee, a pizza, fallen in love
her match might have lit the coals of his fire
he might have bought her a ring
and she him a jock strap
Such are the flames of culture
that brighten the halls of the world
while we comfort ourselves anonymously
in their warmth
before going on our way
NIGHTS OF MIRRORS
Expressionless she unfolded herself
viewing the years as they flew
years of a thousand men
considered, reviewed, rejected
in hotel rooms filled with mirrors
each reflecting a different image of herself
each corridor, hallway, every room
.. empty
Taking off her shoes, her bra, her wig
she was bald and shaven
so that the reflections
could show through behind
her grimaces
the plastic surgery of endless
nights of coffee, small talk
eyes behind the glass
trying to understand
why each facet lasted only once
each encounter inconclusive
barren nights of crosswords
she’d invited to fill in the blanks
Once, behind the trance
behind the mantra
there was a house
with four bears
Papa bear, sister bear, baby bear
it was worthless to consider it further
worthless, wretched!
huddling in a corner of a mirror
sitting alone, dejected
her best dress clasped
behind clenched knees…
The psychologist had said
that it was not her fault
called the family dysfunctional
but she knew better
somewhere behind the mirror
lurked love
TAINTED ENTANGLEMENT
It was always like that after he came home
from his business trips with the same far-away eyes
the same two-for-the-price-of-one toilet water from
the Duty Free, the same black underwear that he
never used at home because she liked him to wear only white.
They would have the same conversations into the night,
endless negotiations of probing and unvoiced allegations
which later he would re-live, holding them up
to the light of his mind like wine glasses after drying
inspecting them for any tiny unnoticed speck or stain
There was something about the questions she asked
throwing them into court in an almost casual manner
like new tennis balls from the pockets of her shorts;
something about her spiky handwriting that looked like
a spider had crawled over the page, and about which the
graphologist he took it to for analysis remarked that
she was manipulative and hyper-critical.
They had sex on Friday mornings at half-past ten
or sometimes a little later while he waited outside
her bedroom door for her to complete her
exercise routine; years later after the divorce
he would think about those exercises, lying there
legs stretched backwards behind her head, the outline of
her crotch taut against her tights while he fidgeted
through telephone conversations with her friends,
discussions about obscure political trivia.
Much later he came across a poem he had
written to her and a tiny silver heart on
a thin chain that she had buried in the depths
of a drawer, then returned to him
because she didn’t understand it
and because she only wore gold jewelry.
He re-read the awkward phrases apologizing
for misdemeanors he had never committed,
begging for a grain of affection;
for the hundredth time he realized how
completely he had never understood her,
perhaps he should call and find out how she was,
a lot of the time these days
he really missed her
TWO MEN IN A TUXEDO
Two men in a tuxedo
one black, one white
one all starched and pressed
one quite wobbly and depressed
getting almost any place
looked like a three legged race
Black and white, one of a kind
two guys sharing one mixed up mind
he/they puppet prototypes of hesitation
jerking around in earnest deliberation
each day one long internal discussion
held now in French and then in Russian
Still he was one of the nicest chaps
a gentleman no less (perhaps)
his opinions laced with apologetic doubt
seemed to take forever to come out
yet I should mention in his defense
that sometimes its wise to sit on the fence
He didn’t have a lot of friends
and couldn’t grasp the latest trends
but his most redeeming thing
women found him…interesting.
THE 45 MINUTE HOUR
Well professor here we are again
I with my half bewildered fog, you
with your notebook and your pen
It’s as if no time at all has passed
since last we met, no time that I recall
you understand, no incident to mark the land
Fold back the paper to that place
where clouds begin to clear again and
trees appear along the mountain tops and birds
Chorus a melody that never stops
no matter time of day, insistent now as then
associations coming clearer, as you check
Your watch, recap your pen, yes I know
our time is up today, but wait I beg
a few more minutes before you leave
It’s coming clearer now I do believe
next Monday? See you then, back in that fog
from 9:15 ‘til 10 am.
PRECOCIOUS
Afternoon light is streaming through the windows
of the salon where the children spend so much time
Marianne, five, is standing on her head on the couch
skirt drifting round her neck, knickers pointing to the ceiling
she contemplates life upside down— her younger sister
whom she wishes fervently would disappear or die
is nonchalantly chewing chocolate coated animal biscuits
while reciting nursery rhymes that unbeknown to her
originated in sixteenth century royal court misdemeanors.
Papa arrives back from work with a laptop and a sheaf
of PowerPoint printouts, disguising some undisclosed fucking
he is doing every Thursday with a girl from marketing
while claiming he is mountain biking— Mama is reheating
some leftovers which all of them will shortly refuse.
She goes upstairs for a cigarette while Papa chops some
salad greens— Marianne has been chanting constantly
for the last fifteen minutes “I want my marshmallows now”
but no one is paying any attention— on the TV comic figures
race across choreographed plastic flower beds with musical
accompaniment, Mama and Papa aren’t talking again, the food
begins to burn— after dinner Mama shows the grandparents
some of Marianne’s paintings from nursery school— they are
brilliant, complex landscapes of a child’s inner world, three
pairs of inquisitive eyes peer out from behind tangled foliage.
One of these paintings hides a riddle Marianne poses about God.
At age thirty three Marianne will pay several therapists who will not be able to
unravel the riddle, at age thirty nine her poetry will be nominated
for a Pulitzer prize, six months later she will attempt suicide.
Her younger sister will marry an insurance agent and live
in a small country town where she will raise three children
who will be perfectly regular, play baseball, watch a lot
of TV, hate their art and music teachers and never read books.
MANNEQUIN
the special at sixty nine ninety nine
has been downgraded
winter has melted into spring
three piece outfits are past
now she stands in a corner
watching the greens and blues parading
feeling overdressed and ridiculous
in her ochres and maroons
already beginning to become
old fashioned before her time,
it’s small compensation
that she’s marked not a sou over forty
she recalls seasons lost when
with only three tiny triangles to cover herself
she’d posed at nineteen ninety nine
tall and tanned beneath a neon sun
oh how she’d glowed the longing gaze
of weight watchers
the lustful leers
of wallet-clasping husbands
following overburdened partners
to corset counters
and quick change cubicles
underneath it all she muses, we’re all the same
stripped of color, cloth and label, what are we?
identical casts of plaster, plastic
bare, bald,
sexless in our innocence
underneath it all, we’re all the same
bereft of jealousy, shame or regret
ageless
priceless
HORACE
Horace had command
at his fingertips, he’d studied
with a lexicographer, expatriate
from the University of Basel
a precocious juggler with fourteen
European, Semitic and Helvetican
vernaculars, Horace could quote the ink off
the remotest hint of an umlaut,
fill in indelible crossword puzzles. Already at
age six he’d consistently scored twenty
at test your word power on the bus to school
It was clear from the beginning to his parents
that Horace would one day become
a great scholar, an attorney general, composer
of a new translation of Rosetta,
or at the very least, represent his country
at the United Nations contest
of deceit, but to his mother’s great disgust,
swerving in mid vocabularic outpour
he entered a monastery, took a vow of silence
and spent the balance of his days
studying the speechlessness of stars, filling in
the dots between the dust motes,
tying and untying the sparkling white soundless
knots between the Aleph and the Om
MY JOB
It’s my job
to look ahead
to prepare
to make lists
to buy, to peel
to cook a meal
It’s my job
to tend, to mend
to smooth away the tears
to calm the fears
It’s my job
to bring, to fetch
to fix, to put things right
to listen and correct
to give opinions
whispered or roared
knowing they’ll be ignored
It’s my lot
to hear recriminations
be accused
I lack consideration
It’s my job
like He so meek
to turn the other cheek
I’m a cog
a wheel
a piston
a dab of grease
an aspirin
and for my pain
take pride in knowing
that without me
to whom
to whom
would you complain?
FORTUNE TELLER
there’s a certain disfigurement
about her
she’s sharp yet
the planes of her face
don’t line
up
in proper triangles or tetrahedrons
the outlines of her S m i L e s and
g r i M a c e s
end off in space
hatchet strokes
like cracks in a glacier
more like safetyglass after a blow
hanging together but distorted
as if she doesn’t belong
to herself,
to this generation
hologram eyes looking out at you
from the barrel of a kaleidoscope
your secret thoughts
that you never revealed
even to yourself
and then she’s tracing blunt fingertips
across the lines of your palm: counting, explaining—
your life, loves, the number of your unborn children—
widening fissures under a clouded magnifying glass—
cracks in the caked floor of a lake that dried up
incarnations ago
all interlaced under her probing forefinger
and suddenly
you don’t want any more
of this scalpel scraping
this semi-private disfigurement and as you
pull your hand from her grasp
she s h a t t e r s into a thousand pieces
of flying glass, razor sharp, shrapnel cutting you
layer inside layer and you know
that if you ever survive
you will hear the cackle of her mirth
dissecting you tomorrow and next year
until the time that all your raw edges
like her’s
end off sharply pointing into
empty space
THE VISITORS
She asked me for the recipe
refused a pen saying she would remember
I explained how to char the eggplant,
chop the garlic, add olive oil, balsamic vinegar
sugar, the exact quantity of salt
her eyes pried my words swallowing everything
she smiled, I saw capped teeth, cracked lipstick
she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin
After dinner, coffee in the lounge
how exquisite these biscuits, she smiled
at my wife, you must tell me your secret
I saw her eying the paintings, fingering
the tablecloth, the curtains, she exchanged
a glance with her husband, yes; flour, eggs,
vanilla sugar, chocolate chips, delightful
Have another cookie, I offered,
you hardly ate any of your dinner.
Oh I did! Everything was so delicious,
she smiled at my wife, dabbed her lipstick.
You must show us around your beautiful home
BANGKOK CANDLE LADY
These candles are for lovemaking
she said, scented musk and ambergris
purples, deep blush, darkness burners
These ones for romantic meals
wands, multi soft petals glistening
she held them upright in her fingers
sparkle of wine, table settings, summer nights
These white ones, thick and masculine
can be used for any moment that
pleases you to indulge a warm earth glow
She said, running her thumb and index finger
gently down its wick-topped length
She looked up, eyes pools of quiet flame
I almost fell for it and then
I saw she was a man
HE MARRIED A GIRL TWENTY YEARS HIS JUNIOR
His eyes are filled with whiskey fumes and tears
He sits beside the phone and waits its ring
His wife has left him for another man
But she still loves him yes he’s sure of that
His wife has left him for another man
She’s taken all the furniture she liked
At first he felt a sense of great relief
But now the house feels empty cold and bleak
He sits beside the phone and waits its ring
New boyfriend left for Washington this week
Perhaps she’ll still call in they’ll have a drink
Perhaps she’ll come back home to him he thinks
Yes she still loves him, he’s quite sure of that
Why only yesterday she called him up
She’s taken all the furniture she liked
Perhaps there’s one small thing that she forgot
Eyes filled with whiskey fumes he sits and waits
Perhaps she’ll call him up today he thinks
And then the phone rings and she’s on the line
There are a few small things she’s left behind
Perhaps she’ll still come back to him he thinks
She’s still in love with him he’s sure of that
She’ll come to fetch her things and they’ll embrace
They’ll have a drink and talk about mistakes
His wife has left him for another man
And there’s a suitcase that she left behind
She’ll come to fetch her things he thinks, embrace
Get it delivered quickly she requests
He sits beside the phone and waits its ring
He’s sixty five and feels like seventeen
His wife has left him for a younger man
His eyes are filled with whiskey fumes and tears
NORTHAMPTON CHILDHOOD REVISITED
Perhaps one day I shall revisit
the town where I was raised
and climb again Beech hill
steep up from home
to where cracked steps
led up to the ice-cream shop
smelling of vanilla, peppermint and lime
where coins sometimes fell beneath
the fridge and promised free ices
to furtive six year old eyes
Ah there’s the phone slicing my wandering thoughts
it’s my sister calling from Australia
she’s postponed the surgery on her collapsing hip
for yet another time, not yet she says, not yet
perhaps I can still get around on it a bit longer
and how are the boys, their lives, their news
their preoccupations, how is Uncle Jeff
and Auntie Rose and this one and that one
she remembers them all, ticks them off
down to the last cousin
I’m off again, over the road was the big park
where once a year a traveling circus parked painted wagons
pitched tents under a horse-chestnut moon
where scary rides, fish on magnets, fat ladies
and walls that whirled you into them until
all the park was a blur, all vied for our three-penny bits
where in winter I dared to skate the iced lake in my
new Wellingtons then slipped and lost one when it cracked
where my sister three years old attempted to climb
a wall and I astride it, pulled her up only to drop her on
her back - to cry until my punishment arrived
She’s on the line again from Melbourne
over sixty and still looking for lost relatives
would I perhaps remember Mother’s cousins
from Northampton and do I by chance have
a copy of her birth certificate, she’s constructing
a family tree, jig-sawing back to the old country
How sad I don’t recall any of them
with their watch-the-birdie smiles and sepia
hairstyles all fading unnamed and prim
into dusty albums
And how sad she doesn’t touch the tree trunks
we climbed, doesn’t watch the tadpoles we fished
doesn’t feel the swish of conkers on strings
striking each other, doesn’t hear the brass of
the circus band, doesn’t smell the sweat of horses
under the big tent
And how we steamed away from it all
over the ocean to our new life
coming down to breakfast from the deck
ordering two eggs no bacon
well perhaps just a tiny piece
THE CONDUCTOR
My baton gripped
between fifteen year old fingers
cork and cane quivering
with exuberance
leading, restraining,
pointing out precise
punctuation of each phrase,
before my mirror
I conducted Swan Lake,
Elvira Madigan, Night on
a Bald Mountain, the Eroica.
I was Klemperer, Feuchtwanger,
Toscanini exhorting the NBC
with express train Italian tempi
into another explosive performance
I was masterful
orchestras in rapt admiration
followed my every
nuance. Perfect!
I have never been so famous
as then, so proud of my own
brilliance. the world worshipped me,
audiences from New York to
St. Petersburg applauded
Until my father
straining to catch
the weather forecast
told me to turn
the bloody thing down
A MOVING STORY
The pictures framed in glass arrived broken
paintings I had laboriously packed
in cardboard, layer upon layer,
front to front as I had been instructed
each wrapped and re-wrapped
in board, towels and blankets
Streets scoured for suitably sized cartons
hauled, cut to exact measurements, bent,
folded, parceled, packaged, secured with
yards of adhesive tape, stout string knotted
and wound around and around to secure
Alas, the paintings framed in glass arrived broken
Yet my glass framed Picasso print somehow
seemed intact but as I dusted it off and hung it
on my office wall I noticed that the corner
of the glass was also cracked
Oh dear, I thought, the stalwart movers
had stuffed the cartons into an overloaded van
behind the dog kennel, the pot plants for which
the driver had been coerced to make room
So the paintings framed in glass arrived broken
After three sweating complaining laborers
had lugged them up four flights of stairs
and dumped them on the floor,
After the driver demanded an extra tip for each
in reward for somehow squeezing in the dog’s kennel
which the dog had never used, overlooking
the agreement that the price quoted included tips
The pictures framed in glass arrived broken
my back was broken, my spirit broken,
the frame of my Picasso broken
Poetic justice, said my wife
AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME
Walking down Main Street absorbed
in dreaming up some text
for a condominium marketing brochure
I nearly bumped into this British fellow
whose bicycle, propped against a tree,
carried a large placard decorated
With photographs of three large castles
surrounded by lawns, gardens and rivers.
He was expounding the virtues of castles,
Castles as homes, castles as investments,
in a loud Hyde Park voice while handing
out brochures to the crowd that had gathered
Of course it was all a dream, but on waking
to the news of tumbling markets and failures
of real estate corporations, I couldn’t help
Thinking that a castle would probably be
quite a good investment, able to withstand
the vagaries of changing economic winds
My wife pointed out that it was a rather
proverbial dream, but all the same I think
I’ll check the listings for any foreclosed castles
You know what they say about ill winds
BLUE RIBBON NIGHT
The sky was burnt raisin,
lightning flashed thin vermicelli trails
like marbled chocolate mix she thought
pulling on her grease proof paper coat
Not a night to be out in
hurrying down path awash
with floating grape leaf shadows
wrenching open door of her
tiny sardine can car, pushing
Key in slot, no response, a silent
prayer, a half swallowed plea, then
engine turns over once, twice, a rusty
food mixer in stubborn dough
left too long in the bowl, finally
catching in a whirring egg whisk sound
Thunder crashes, pudding bowl heavens
open pour their contents on to
her world: road lamps blurring, house
windows pea-soup then splitting again
in scrape-scrape of wipers across
whirling cookbook vista recipes,
traffic lights, intersections, directions
all merging into menus of unintelligible
instructions, confusing as a sushi bar
conveyor belt spinning faster, faster
out of control
Unbelievably she was there, storm over,
pavements steaming appetizing gurgles.
She ran up steps drying off in perfect
vanilla cocoa layers, stripping off her
foil protection, pausing, applying caramel
icing make-up, raspberry lipstick, then
fragrant, triumphant opening door, stepping
in to a dusting of applause
Cordon bleu lady strikes again she sings
to herself as they all hurry to have a taste