Secrets 4
Second: secrets of (and this is hard to translate)
secrets of estate-water-fountain secrets-for lack of a better term
secrets which pertain to people in the flow of it all
unaffected by the course of desire
of woes never having never been earned per se
what might be an example? Let's see:
that so and so is getting a yellow slip,
that so and so is up to her ears in debt,
that someone is not well:
these must be conserved for half a year
under pain of the most abysmal Karma
and leaked to no more than two informees
themselves bid to secrecy for a similar time
the better to slow the secret's progress through a curious world-
the better to calm the snakes, to calm their hissing.
Conducting these secrets, one must burn the ghostly berries of mistletoe
Don't ask me why, I didn't make the rules,
I am just repeating what I read.
But the third kind of secret
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An Intruder 3
Let me say straightaway, pigeons don't do it for me.
Maybe I've lived in the city too long.
If men can be called opportunists in the world of nature
Pigeons might be called the same in the world of men-
Having no clear role but to propagate the species
Which they appear to do with gusto,
Day and night, all seasons of the year, unlike men.
Unless perhaps to serve as falcon-fodder.
They speak no intelligible language, don't sing, and mightily puffed,
Drag their lecharous tails through the dust of August
Bill-cooing and straddling each other in a lovey-dovey way.
Their nests scarcely masterpieces of avian architecture-
In fact, they seem the air-buses of the earthier bird world
Weak-footed, bottom-heavy:
But this pigeon seemed different-
It was clean, pearley gray and, though motionless, industrious,
And bore a mirror of irridescence at its throat;
Minded its own business,
Bent, it seemed, on following the dictates of instinct
And wanting no trouble.
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Epistle ll
everything's interconnected:
sex and procreation unlinked
then faith in immortality is shaken-
how nervous we get!
for faith relies on earthly correlates
via blood-lines and genome, does it not?
question that and you question
the point of life itself.
there go the churches and temples.
there go coercion, guilt, shame.
there go the shifting backdrops of existence
so depended upon as cues.
there goes the price of gasoline.
there go advertising and the press.
there goes television and magazines.
And, approaching the Pascalian paradigm
we even begin to wonder what
on earth we're doing this for-
getting up in the morning and so forth-
since the distraction of that willing bondage
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A True Story l
At a quarter past the hour there came a knock at the door-
it was Giorgio, late as usual.
'Giorgio, you're late', I yelled from my chair.
I knew it was him. He had a very personal knock.
Besides, I was expecting him.
It was getting dark. That's not true-it was dark already.
Traffic on the Avenue was jammed. Horns were wailing.
Head lights, street lights, on, on.
What excuse would he give this time?
Giorgio was what we called a 'space cadet',
come from what you might well call 'generation text',
as any my age would readily agree.
Brooklyn-born and bred, his name despite,
Giorgio was ultra-likeable, if distractible,
but I was unprepared for what came next.
'Doc, there was this fascinating show on TV-
I mean FAS-cinating. I couldn't stop watching.'
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This And/Or That
When my masculine talks to your masculine, watch out-
We wind up butting heads and can agree on nothing,
Both eager to lead, slow to follow.
When my feminine talks to your feminine, beware-
We horrify each other's apathy and get nothing done,
Each inclined to leave it up to the other.
But when my masculine talks to your feminine
Or when your masculine lectures my feminine
Then we have something, Bonnie. Then we walk together.
How rude of Western lore to say, sticking a pin in a map,
'Here-you are here.' As if our human hearts were a subway
And we needed to be told where we be.
It's not like what silly religions say-
Those murderous carry-overs from a former day
When everyone plowed or milked cows and dwelt on farms.
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Histrionic Personality Disorder
'If it exists, you've got it', she said,
closing the file and swiveling my way
so that the five-flights-up Italian sunshine fell in her face.
I was impressed. These old buildings have granduer. Windowsills.
This she said carefully, through a translator: 's'il existe, dunque....'
Her lipstick-lined lips mouthed the words. I've always liked Milan-
and its 'porcupine of a cathedral', as Lawrence called it...felt happy there.
It has an Alpine brace and busyness missing in the south. But 'disgratia',
The rest of her remark was lost. My Italian's not that good.
'Gosh', I thought, 'I'm talking to the world's expert on HPD-
(having flown halfway 'round the world for a consultation,
and, not incidently, to hear an opera)
But to the translater I wondered what she meant 'if it exists',
speculating that if I'd waited two days I'd have gotten a better fee.
He translated the question. 'Essatamente', she replied, coolly,
'E s'il non existe...' Exasperating! Italian doctors now seemed as vague
as their American counterparts. The translater seemed embarrassed-
He coughed and looked down. 'Allora'. 'But, but...'
Being the expert, she was supposed to know, wasn't she?
Looking at the floor, the translater clarified a point.
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Remembering Christmas 2
No, she never wanted to fly the reindeer
Even as many times as she's seen it done
It's the Master's schtick-who needs it-
The turbulent descent, the wind, the ashes
In the tertiary bronchioles-forget it. Besides,
It's been years since she's been down a chimney.
It's his show. Then, they're expecting him, the old man-
Expectation being the essence of the season.
The light on the frozen snow is astral.
Overshining the meager sheen from the kliegs.
It reminds her of something that happened long ago
Darned if she could say what it was now, though.
The interview is over-the crew is packing up.
Now the plane is loaded, all hands aboard
Goodbye, goodbye. The co-pilot signals back
Over the tundra taxies the little plane
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Trees l
Hustled onto First overnight
the trees have arrived
from Quebec
van-borne via veldts,
of piney, dark eddies
flowing up hillsides flanking
castles of lore;
arriving either earlier
or later than expected,
or at precisely the moment called 'right'
'round which all expectation gathers-
you decide. Bound tight, corsetted
quite in plastic snoods,
the branches which are their faces
covering their faces
as if they took lessons from a pine cone
and the child were indeed
father to the man;
as if they were shell-bound-
shell-bound
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The Wet Monkey lll
The sheet spread behind me on the green
like a detachable white train. I
studied the in-trouble monkey
flailing feebly, spinning or just drifting,
its squirrelly face fixed on the sky,
mouth open, fangs showing, caught
in the grip of the meniscus, barely keeping afloat,
my ten, square toes curled over the edge,
several new minutes of sun-up
having added their gold to the trough.
Did I want to be the savior of a monkey, I thought,
that would never thank me?
but that would otherwise drown
and need to be fished out dead with a long pole
leaving the jungle less one monkey, of which there were lots,
and that probably carried a disease?
That was the question.
In one day there's time for lots of good deeds
most of them pass un-noticed.
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Stuart
His birthday was the same as Shelly's.
He played John Field nocturnes on the piano.
Twice a year he supported public radio.
He knew everyone worth knowing in Philly.
He betook Hamlet, Denmark's mad prince
At Michigan or Harvard or some such place,
And his papered wall did grace
A signed page of 'Tiny Alice'.
His was the magic of making aspic.
Strange when the murk of fishy broth
And bays, clarified through cheesecloth
Emerged limpid as the dew in a crystal bowl.
His dinners were symposiums
Of the clever and the pretty, laughing-
Only right, for should such bums
Be dined and wined for nothing?
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