(On this page.)
Joe Iturbi and Other Ghosts
The Bangkok Lady Visits Champlain
Macedonia
John Berryman in the Village
Halloween
Poetry at Fourpeaks. (A Complete Poetry Index.)
JOSE ITURBI AND OTHER GHOSTS
Part One.
The mountain has a hole in it and the sides
Are vertical and flat with hollow stripes
At regular intervals where the drill
Cut through the rock for blasting it.
Thinskin young pine and popple volunteer to fill
The empty space with colonies of sumac rough grasses.
They mow it every season to keep it clear
And where it's difficult or too steep
The sides are lined with gravel and crushed stone.
To improve the reception I pull up the antenna
And experience a brief sense of order and beauty
Listening to the rounded statements of antique music
The voices calling to one another in even sentences
Horns and strings alternating each telling their part.
Percussion marks the periods of the sprightly message.
There is more information about this period
In musical history at nau.edu.mush.
The old road connects population centers
As a simple track a wagon road
Improved in time with logs dirt and stone
Concrete and asphalt later on. Not enough room for it
The new one heads for open spaces moving mountains.
At high speed yellow stripes are a prominent feature.
Cracks in the concrete are tarred over
Making glossy splotches on the even surface.
Railroad tracks and side roads cross over
On concrete bridges of uniform design.
When the baroque concerto gets out of range
The scanner finds a romantic piano
With strong fingers and loud crescendos for me.
The melody is repeated without variation for several bars
And the piece is marked by well defined chords
Rising in progressions that I can easily predict.
The piece concludes with strong bass notes.
I decide to talk about the Fall colors.
A Spanish Republican without a home
Comes to the U.S. as a movie celebrity.
When the war was on his sense of purpose
In life and his music were clearer.
He is swallowed up in a huge art decco set
A victim of the political decadence he despised.
Enemies of the revolution get him a job as a piano player.
In formal attire at the keyboard by 52
His style is stale with severe technical flaws.
The interpretive voice is muddy and I don't get
The further comments about the Iberian composer.
In Albany there's a restaurant with a tropical garden in back.
Cars stream by and white pine along the fence
Contort themselves reaching for the sun
In too many directions the branches swirling in bent curves.
I order pork omelette Singh beer hot pepper in fish sauce
And the guy asks if I've been to Thailand.
A couple with a hardon have a converation about his car
The young girl speaking with an open face and red hair at him.
A threesome on lunch break from a State office building talk
Deal with Russian relations and Moscow gangsters.
The one with the beard speaks firmly like a college professor.
The lady is small and looks up at him.
The back of the third one is toward me and I can't see.
A big man sits at a little table over his meal.
His belt has dropped down under his belly.
On a shelf above a buddha shrine with artificial flowers
Has a Chinese lantern with an electric lamp inside.
Filled with food and drink I car nap in the sun
Waking an hour later in a sweat from the heat.
It takes a few minutes with the door
And windows open to get back to normal.
When I go in to take a leak the place is empty
And the boss and kitchen guy are having lunch.
I wash with liquid soap and wake up with cold water.
The garden has a low wall of cement block
With concrete caps and flagstone facing in front
And maple leaves are floating in the shallow pool inside.
I remember having a greater reserve of personal energy.
The paint is peeling off the trees starting
At top where wind and water hit them
And the sap first lets go providing nutrition.
Oak is orange and birch is yellow.
A blanket of fallen leaves cover the mowed places.
Some are already bare sticks with nothing at all.
As far as I can see into it the understory is filled
With a friendly clutter some of it still green.
Where it's wet the tops of waterplants are white with seed
The stalks swaying together on a breeze.
Sumac holds its fruit right through Winter.
The last stretch sun makes long shadows on the surface ahead
And backlights the woods colors making them glow.
The program comes to us from the studios of RFE
The radio station of the University of Southern California.
Part Two.
There's a long delay at the 7th Avenue local
And people are eight deep on the platform.
When they finally get moving it changes to Express
And many of them get out. Next stop Chambers!
An architectural student sketches a building front
In a day book with photos and clippings pasted in
With written entries and drawings in an intricate hand.
A guy in just a tank top and shorts
Has sharpcut sideburns and a pointed beard.
A blonde lady smiles and a black old guy
Hangs out by an open door that roars at him.
A full schedule of events plus the latest community postings
May be viewed at nysha.org.newyorkhistorymonth.
I take a cab to St. Marks for the Open.
The Pakistani driver is turbanned and dark
Speaking his lingo into the radio phone
And there is no barrier shield behind his seat.
Hacking commission rules have made it optional
And he has no need of this form of protection from harm.
The chairs are still on rolling racks and a few helpers
Set them out on the newly finished maple floor.
One of them heard the feature poet Wednesday night.
"He put his poetry up on slides--Cool!"
An art show is hanging on the freshly painted walls
Two or three entries each in a clearly defined style.
The girl is chocolate with long string hair
And a broad smile with baby eyes that sparkle at you
Over the nose and mouth that cover completely
The front of her face from side to side.
The curator of the event her voice is pleasant and young.
The ponytail guy next to me has been there 30 years
Celebrating his loneliness at age eighteen
And a wife who did it with the super in the living room.
His accent is Southern and his shirt
Opens to a hairy chest and a bolo.
A crooked man with a beer tummy reads his poems
From a three-ring binder with plastic sheets
And two girls in miniskirts black shiny boots
And skinny legs share the American Dream together.
"I've got to quit New York. It's too sexy!"
At the Japanese Restaurant on 23rd
The small girl with the bad complexion and lots of hair
Speaks Cantonese to the sushi chef.
She's from Malaysia. When I ask for something off the menu
She calls over a big girl with a round face
And a good education from mainland China.
I call my wife from the hotel before turning in
And share with her the idea of the city
As a palette with an extraordinary range of colors
Some of them muddied by accident or proximity over time.
For breakfast at the bagel place across the street
When I tell the guy that Ecuador is linda
I picture in my mind long avenues of tropical shade
Sugar cane bananas and small coffee trees on a high mountain.
Fast for the city he waits on two at a time
And he makes the coffee sweet. The other men
Are Spanish too each from a pais differente.
Above them a row of success bouquets are hung
High on the wall with little of the original color left
Their dry stalks bound with faded ribbon.
The elevator is full of ordinary tourists
Who pay attention to the opening doors the operation
Of the conveyance shifting position as necessary
Briefly making eye contact in a polite manner.
I'm surprised that the words they speak to one another
Though smoothly produced by regular facial expressions
Are entirely unintelligible to me no matter how hard I listen.
Crossing the street to the park when I step aside
For an energetic foursome totally absorbed
In the green Michelin for New York
I can't make out a word they're saying.
The hero of a South American rebellion
Looks down at me from a rearing horse.
Horse drawn carriages line up along the street
Waiting for a fare the drivers in top hats
Cleaning their rigs and speaking together in jargon.
A white horse feeds oats from a canvas bag
Upon the ground and grey pigeons in a flock
Surround him flying in to eat their share
Each time he lifts his head to chew.
As he slowly lowers his head again
The brave ones stay on not jumping out
Into the air until the last possible moment.
I find an empty bench along the bridle path
across from a man in a sports cap and team jacket
With bold white lettering on it who is is sitting up
Resting his head in his hands maybe asleep.
A horse stops at the water trough and a threesome
Climb out of the cabriolet to take some pictures with it.
There are flowers in the vase and the horse
With big hooves walks slowly like a steam engine.
The couple pose and the single guy takes the snap for them.
It's cloudy the girl is slight and it will be
Like this for them in the prints of it when they get home.
A couple stop nearby with a telephoto lens
And the subject stirs yawning and stretching thoroughly
Takes out a cigarette puts back his head
And folds his hands behind but doesn't light it.
He gets up to take a leak and asks the time politely.
A mature stand of sycamore dominates the site
Their yellow leaves covering the walk in patterns
And concentrations that vary with the distance
From individual specimens high overhead.
He spreads a layer of cardboard down
And rests his head on a folded arm for a pillow.
A fresh wind comes up and blows them around.
At 70th a vision appears with a classic roof
But the Frick is closed for Election Day.
A well dressed outdoor type is reading the sign.
He makes no response to my remark
Pointing and explaining volubly to them
In a Slavic language when he rejoins his group.
I head for Columbus Circle and a Thai place from years ago.
Below the stylized carved mahogany figures
And floral decorations of intense green orange and blue
A ghost with long white hair in back and a trimmed beard
Sits at a side table in a Navy suit white shirt
And a colorful yellow and black print tie.
His skin has brown spots and his movements are slow
But he navigates the exotic dishes still
With a familiar sense of pleasure and control.
Jay 4/24/98
THE BANGKOK LADY VISITS CHAMPLAIN
They find room for the English Department
In an old hospital building with stone stairs.
The narrow corridors have institutional glass doors
With ventilation windows above them and oak frames.
They move in and hang bulletin boards
In all the blank spaces on the yellow walls
And pin up stale posters and typed notices
Into the cork surfaces in a jumble.
Some have on blouses with floor length calico skirts
Others team jackets and caps with a mean curl.
Their young faces as they find their way
Into the ancient room are smooth and unworried.
She wins the National Award for 1991
And makes a living from it on the Visiting Poets circuit.
Statuesque she is born here but maintains
The Latvian spelling in her name and lives in Brooklyn.
A bleeding heart in the Vietnam War she visits
After it's over in a display of feeling--
A white girl alone in a sea of yellow and brown.
She is titillated by the sexual implications.
Trekking in Cambodia through difficult terrain
The guide is gone on dope or drink most of the time.
On the last day at four in the morning
He takes her in the jungle for the wild monkeys.
They are both surprised at a remote track when he
Successfully makes his move on her in the dense growth.
On the way home in Indonesia on the tarmack
She hires a boy for her in just a T-shirt and shorts.
Considering the propriety of using this material
For her verse she makes the only decision possible.
When it's over she fields some questions from them
In the brightly lit room with wide doors.
The parquet around the wooden floor is still good
But the most traveled portion is scarred through
By the rolling tables that transported them
Through the pain and confusion of the moment.
They break up abruptly after the handshakes
Heading out in a column under the lighted globes
While the host offers her coat in a wide gesture
Plus a ride to the place she's staying for the night.
Jay 10/23/97
MACEDONIA
McBurney "Y"
The elevator is down two days so everybody
Gets to know the man on the freight side.
A white guy waits too long and has a riff with him
When he takes care of a brother first.
The one with the cowboy coat gets a warm compliment.
Walking down eight flights of stairs twice a day
With the lady in the next room they talk about
Elevators and exercise but there's nothing between them.
Buddha Restaurant
The big Yank sits down his feet not fitting under the table.
A little Chinese girl in tight pants gives him a smile.
Where your treasure is your heart is also.
Close to the border between a world of dreams
And the minor gratifications of this experience
He curls up in a cheap book while the food waits.
Pulled back into life he speaks from a slouch
Asking to have it wrapped for a future
Which he will realize with a distinct effort.
He thinks about landfills and spends a lot of time
In the men's room. Take advantage of your
Great imagination. It will serve you well.
A coarse guy with bare arms eats with both hands
And talks down to a blonde in her twenties.
He handles the conversation about his loves
And separations in a competent manner.
His stomach keeps him away fom the table.
Listening closely to him she folds one knee
Up under her body as she sits on the chair.
She wears a wedding band and says it's ok
For him to talk like this. They share the food.
A lifetime of happiness lies ahead of you.
Getting back late I ride the "F" train with Nick
The animal activist and a perrennial poet who can't spell.
Everything is closed except the takeout with night people
Crawling around under flourescent lights.
I buy food I won't eat and have wine with it
Back in the room. You will hear pleasant news.
Seventh Avenue
Black ladies have a style with long coats down to their heels
And braided hair that hangs over the collar in back.
You have to guess what's going on inside.
A fresh guy in a four-wheeler stops in traffic
And gestures at one of them honking his horn.
He stands in the doorway of the narrow storefront
Watching them pass by. His home is in Greece.
When the Germans come he leaves the mountains the pines
And the house he owns to his sister.
He joins the Greek Navy and patrols the Suez Canal.
He comes to America after the war bussing at the Stork Club
Until the Union breaks it in a strike that lasts for years.
He buys a barber shop from a homesick Italian
And gets chased from neighborhood to neighborhood
By new buildings with high rents. In a picture
He's a young guy in his shop on the West Side
With an old man who comes for a regular shave. He lives
In Ridgewood where it's quiet. The city is no place.
New York 11/94
JOHN BERRYMAN IN THE VILLAGE (19-- to 1995)
Students party liners and the only friend
Make a tribute for him in an evening of superlatives.
Tonight for an hour you won't hear anything
About Diana and the paparazzis. Waves of pleasure
Appear grow in substance and cross over them
In a regular pattern. A culture Hero in a series
Of extended Dreams he fortells the bitter end.
She follows him to an abandoned beach.
Is it murder or suicide? The powder burns
Are never admitted in evidence. Mr. Bones
Plays blackface. The horribles applaud like sheep.
Henry makes love to a married woman and exposes her
In sonnets. He holds Milton and Dante close to his heart.
As a midwestern poet from Oklahoma or Minnesota
He speaks to God in the dramatic third person.
He visits the gardens in Kyoto for the stones
And sees closeup Ganges lepers the fire and smoke
In the funeral pyres they build for them.
Alone at the end with the longest poem the desk
And floor cluttered with odd slips some only half written
In bad script he collects them in the morning saving some
And stuffing the rest in boxes with cryptic markings.
As a budding poet he goes all the way to Ireland
To light a cigarette for Yeats an old guy
Gone with disease. Himself a 60-year-old altar boy
With a hardon he has a nose for snatch and is sorry
They have to sit on it. The son of an indulgent Mom
A turnon for guys he tries the Twelve Steps but they
Lead him to a bridge where he ends it on an embankment
Though he dreams for twenty years of a watery grave.
He's in heaven now with Delmore Schwartz. They both suffered
A lot. Dealing with symbols only Yeats didn't and proves it
The way he dodges bullets in the American Civil War.
Writing only two poems a year Jane Cooper doesn't know
He's going to be a great poet. They're all surprised.
He tells Levine his work is crap marking it
"X" for "Disaster" and a check for "Hot."
As a teacher he attacks selfsatisfaction and lethargy.
Lecturing his shirt is wet with sweat.
He does his best to be passionate and attractive to them
And he has his eye out for admirers and sex partners.
Beautiful people don't make it. He says he's ugly
And needs to be for art's sake. When Gaugin sees Vincent
He says No one ever painted a chair like that before.
NY 11/15/94
HALLOWEEN
I spend a holiday in the city by my old neighborhood.
Coming back again after years away I stay at the "Y"
In a cheap room with no TV and the place is scary.
I go cowboy and the duffle knocks my hat when I lift it up.
They ask for ID. A staff guy with a bounce in his walk
Points and eyeballs for me to watch my stuff.
I pick a low room to get a better feel of the street.
When I let myself in it's not made up and the air
Has the kind of perfume they put in disinfectant.
There's a pinup of Manet's boy piper in a military outfit
And an Easter prayer to Jesus with two soldiers in helmets
Kneeling at him. I put up the shade and open the window.
In a deep cavern horns and motors make a river of noise
With swirls and eddies. The rhythm is set by automatic signals.
From down here the sky is too far off to see.
Brakes squeal and hiss at you. There's a rough spot
And turbulence from sirens and blinking lights.
Volume and pitch vary with time and distance.
Pigeons on the cornice preen themselves in staccato
With sudden twists and pauses. Below them a line
At immigration waits to get in holding manila envelopes.
A bright light glares at them and the shadows are hard.
The dominant one with a puffy throat drives off the other.
Paint peels on the rain gutters with classical decorations.
I get off the elevator with a young guy in a team jacket.
The style is decco and floor buttons are mismatched or broken.
When he opens his mouth to speak to the room clerk
The sound that comes out of it is from another world.
A girl at the phone with long hair and a nice voice
Turns around with a gorilla face on her.
I step out for coffee and black workers in yellow hardhats
Straddle the top of the automat and knock it apart brick
By brick. The jazz bar downstairs gets out just in time.
Where they smash it terra cotta is red under the pastel.
It's narrow and dark beneath the scaffolding with posters.
Next day just a steel skeleton sticks up over the rubble.
I take a subway to the West Side. From a signcard overhead
The ghost of Langston Hughes comes back to speak of life
'N' good lovin'. Up here it's raw like a frontier.
On the street I pass a kid with a white face.
Some poets hang out in the corner of a cafe
And they turn the sound system down to let them hear.
.One of them recites a long poem about power in America
Beginning with the Conquest. A lot of her friends
Live in refrigerator boxes around Columbus Circle.
She loses her job at Kenyon on account of a bleeding heart.
The King of Spades reads from his book. A medicine doctor
Finds the erotic tissues in him swell with tainted fluid.
I go by Lincoln Center where the opera is sold out
And a whitehaired crowd steps off the Carousel
Looking for their bus. A girl sits crosslegged at the fountain
And people from all over take bad pictures of it.
A virgin she marries a macho guy in an old Italian movie
And first thing he takes it out on her in a bloodsoaked bed.
When it gets dark some of them play trick or treat with you
So I go back by cab. Someone suspicious comes in
Just ahead of me and gets hollered at by security.
I take a leak in the public toilet looking out for kooks.
The safe way is avoid eye contact keep an even pace clatter
Hard with your shoes and make as much noise as you can.
New York 10/31/94
Poetry at Fourpeaks.
(A Complete Poetry Index.)
Camp. Repose in a natural place.
Wainwright Mountain. Camp and the everyday world.
Connery Pond. Louise and Martin.
Giant Mountain. Louise and the kids.
Cascade Lakes. The kids.
Feeding Birds In Winter. The life cycle.
More Adirondack Poems.
New York City Themes. (A change of pace.)
Order Information: Poems For My Kids. (Including Author's Biographical Note.)
Email the Author. (Exchange poems or . . .)
.
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