Poems Read online

  ofamirroredreflection

  somewherealongtheline

  ofwhatwecallthespine.

  Hefeltinmodesty

  hispersonwas

  halflooking-glass,

  forwhyshouldhe

  bedoubled?

  Theglassmuststretch

  downhismiddle,

  orratherdowntheedge.

  Buthe’sindoubt

  astowhichside’sinorout

  ofthemirror.

  There’slittlemarginforerror,

  butthere’snoproof,either.

  Andifhalfhishead’sreflected,

  thought,hethinks,mightbeaffected.

  Buthe’sresigned

  tosucheconomicaldesign.

  Iftheglassslips

  he’sinafix—

  onlyoneleg,etc.But

  whileitstaysput

  hecanwalkandrun

  andhishandscanclaspone

  another.Theuncertainty

  hesayshe

  findsexhilarating.Heloves

  thatsenseofconstantre-adjustment.

  Hewishestobequotedassayingatpresent:

  “Halfisenough.”

  LargeBadPicture

  RememberingtheStraitofBelleIsleor

  somenortherlyharborofLabrador,

  beforehebecameaschoolteacher

  agreat-unclepaintedabigpicture.

  Recedingformilesoneitherside

  intoaflushed,stillsky

  areoverhangingpalebluecliffs

  hundredsoffeethigh,

  theirbasesfrettedbylittlearches,

  theentrancestocaves

  runninginalongthelevelofabay

  maskedbyperfectwaves.

  Onthemiddleofthatquietfloor

  sitsafleetofsmallblackships,

  square-rigged,sailsfurled,motionless,

  theirsparslikeburntmatch-sticks.

  Andhighabovethem,overthetallcliffs’

  semi-translucentranks,

  arescribbledhundredsoffineblackbirds

  hangingin n’sinbanks.

  Onecanheartheircrying,crying,

  theonlysoundthereis

  exceptforoccasionalsighing

  asalargeaquaticanimalbreathes.

  Inthepinklight

  thesmallredsungoesrolling,rolling,

  roundandroundandroundatthesameheight

  inperpetualsunset,comprehensive,consoling,

  whiletheshipsconsiderit.

  Apparentlytheyhavereachedtheirdestination.

  Itwouldbehardtosaywhatbroughtthemthere,

  commerceorcontemplation.

  FromtheCountrytotheCity

  Thelong,longlegs,

  league-bootsofland,thatcarrythecitynowhere,nowhere;thelines

  thatwedriveon(satin-stripesonharlequin’strousers,tights);

  histoughtrunkdressedintatters,scribbledoverwithnonsensicalsigns;

  hisshadowy,talldunce-cap;and,bestofallhisshowsandsights,

  hisbrainappears,thronedin“fantastictriumph,”andshinesthroughhishat withjeweledworksatworkatintermeshingcrowns,laméwithlights.

  Asweapproach,wickedestclown,yourheartandhead,wecanseethat

  glitteringarrangementofyourbrainconsists,now,ofmermaid-like,

  seated,ravishingsirens,eachwavingherhand-mirror;andwestartat

  seriesofslightdisturbancesupinthetelephonewiresontheturnpike.

  Flocksofshort,shiningwiresseemtobeflyingsidewise.Aretheybirds?

  Theyflashagain.No.Theyarevibrationsofthetuning-forkyouholdandstrike againstthemirror-frames,thendrawformiles,yourdreams,outcountrywards.

  Webringamessagefromthelongblacklengthofbody:“Subside,”itbegsand begs.

  TheMan-Moth*

  Here,above,

  cracksinthebuildingsarefilledwithbatteredmoonlight.

  ThewholeshadowofManisonlyasbigashishat.

  Itliesathisfeetlikeacircleforadolltostandon,

  andhemakesaninvertedpin,thepointmagnetizedtothemoon.

  Hedoesnotseethemoon;heobservesonlyhervastproperties,

  feelingthequeerlightonhishands,neitherwarmnorcold,

  ofatemperatureimpossibletorecordinthermometers.

  ButwhentheMan-Moth

  payshisrare,althoughoccasional,visitstothesurface,

  themoonlooksratherdifferenttohim.Heemerges

  fromanopeningundertheedgeofoneofthesidewalks

  andnervouslybeginstoscalethefacesofthebuildings.

  Hethinksthemoonisasmallholeatthetopofthesky,

  provingtheskyquiteuselessforprotection.

  Hetrembles,butmustinvestigateashighashecanclimb.

  Upthefaçades,

  hisshadowdragginglikeaphotographer’sclothbehindhim,

  heclimbsfearfully,thinkingthatthistimehewillmanage

  topushhissmallheadthroughthatroundcleanopening

  andbeforcedthrough,asfromatube,inblackscrollsonthelight.

  (Man,standingbelowhim,hasnosuchillusions.)

  ButwhattheMan-Mothfearsmosthemustdo,although

  hefails,ofcourse,andfallsbackscaredbutquiteunhurt.

  Thenhereturns

  tothepalesubwaysofcementhecallshishome.Heflits,

  heflutters,andcannotgetaboardthesilenttrains

  fastenoughtosuithim.Thedoorscloseswiftly.

  TheMan-Mothalwaysseatshimselffacingthewrongway

  andthetrainstartsatonceatitsfull,terriblespeed,

  withoutashiftingearsoragradationofanysort.

  Hecannottelltherateatwhichhetravelsbackwards.

  Eachnighthemust

  becarriedthroughartificialtunnelsanddreamrecurrentdreams.

  Justasthetiesrecurbeneathhistrain,theseunderlie

  hisrushingbrain.Hedoesnotdarelookoutthewindow,

  forthethirdrail,theunbrokendraughtofpoison,

  runstherebesidehim.Heregardsitasadisease

  hehasinheritedthesusceptibilityto.Hehastokeep

  hishandsinhispockets,asothersmustwearmufflers.

  Ifyoucatchhim,

  holdupaflashlighttohiseye.It’salldarkpupil,

  anentirenightitself,whosehairedhorizontightens

  ashestaresback,andclosesuptheeye.Thenfromthelids

  onetear,hisonlypossession,likethebee’ssting,slips.

  Slylyhepalmsit,andifyou’renotpayingattention

  he’llswallowit.However,ifyouwatch,he’llhanditover;

  coolasfromundergroundspringsandpureenoughtodrink.

  LoveLiesSleeping

  Earliestmorning,switchingallthetracks

  thatcrosstheskyfromcinderstartostar,

  couplingtheendsofstreets

  totrainsoflight,

  nowdrawusintodaylightinourbeds;

  andclearawaywhatpressesonthebrain:

  putouttheneonshapes

  thatfloatandswellandglare

  downthegrayavenuebetweentheeyes

  inpinksandyellows,lettersandtwitchingsigns.

  Hang-overmoons,wane,wane!

  FromthewindowIsee

  animmensecity,carefullyrevealed,

  madedelicatebyover-workmanship,

  detailupondetail,

  corniceuponfaçade

  reachingsolanguidlyupinto

  aweakwhitesky,itseemstowaverthere.

  (Whereithasslowlygrown

  inskiesofwater-
glass

  fromfusedbeadsofironandcoppercrystals,

  thelittlechemical“garden”inajar

  tremblesandstandsagain,

  paleblue,blue-green,andbrick.)

  Thesparrowshurriedlybegintheirplay.

  Then,intheWest,“Boom!”andacloudofsmoke.

  “Boom!”andtheexplodingball

  ofblossombloomsagain.

  (Andalltheemployeeswhoworkinplants

  wheresuchasoundsays“Danger,”oroncesaid“Death,”

  turnintheirsleepandfeel

  theshorthairsbristling

  onbacksofnecks.)Thecloudofsmokemovesoff.

  Ashirtistakenoffathreadlikeclothes-line.

  Alongthestreetbelow

  thewater-wagoncomes

  throwingitshissing,snowyfanacross

  peelingsandnewspapers.Thewaterdries

  light-dry,dark-wet,thepattern

  ofthecoolwatermelon.

  Iheartheday-springsofthemorningstrike

  fromstonywallsandhallsandironbeds,

  scatteredorgroupedcascades,

  alarmsfortheexpected:

  queercupidsofallpersonsgettingup,

  whoseeveningmealtheywillprepareallday,

  youwilldinewell

  onhisheart,onhis,andhis,

  sosendthemaboutyourbusinessaffectionately,

  dragginginthestreetstheiruniqueloves.

  Scourgethemwithrosesonly,

  belightashelium,

  foralwaystoone,orseveral,morningcomes,

  whoseheadhasfallenovertheedgeofhisbed,

  whosefaceisturned

  sothattheimageof

  thecitygrowsdownintohisopeneyes

  invertedanddistorted.No.Imean

  distortedandrevealed,

  ifheseesitatall.

  AMiracleforBreakfast

  Atsixo’clockwewerewaitingforcoffee,

  waitingforcoffeeandthecharitablecrumb

  thatwasgoingtobeservedfromacertainbalcony,

  —likekingsofold,orlikeamiracle.

  Itwasstilldark.Onefootofthesun

  steadieditselfonalongrippleintheriver.

  Thefirstferryofthedayhadjustcrossedtheriver.

  Itwassocoldwehopedthatthecoffee

  wouldbeveryhot,seeingthatthesun

  wasnotgoingtowarmus;andthatthecrumb

  wouldbealoafeach,buttered,byamiracle.

  Atsevenamansteppedoutonthebalcony.

  Hestoodforaminutealoneonthebalcony

  lookingoverourheadstowardtheriver.

  Aservanthandedhimthemakingsofamiracle,

  consistingofonelonecupofcoffee

  andoneroll,whichheproceededtocrumb,

  hishead,sotospeak,intheclouds—alongwiththesun.

  Wasthemancrazy?Whatunderthesun

  washetryingtodo,upthereonhisbalcony!

  Eachmanreceivedoneratherhardcrumb,

  whichsomeflickedscornfullyintotheriver,

  and,inacup,onedropofthecoffee.

  Someofusstoodaround,waitingforthemiracle.

  IcantellwhatIsawnext;itwasnotamiracle.

  Abeautifulvillastoodinthesun

  andfromitsdoorscamethesmellofhotcoffee.

  Infront,abaroquewhiteplasterbalcony

  addedbybirds,whonestalongtheriver,

  —Isawitwithoneeyeclosetothecrumb—

  andgalleriesandmarblechambers.Mycrumb

  mymansion,madeformebyamiracle,

  throughages,byinsects,birds,andtheriver

  workingthestone.Everyday,inthesun,

  atbreakfasttimeIsitonmybalcony

  withmyfeetup,anddrinkgallonsofcoffee.

  Welickedupthecrumbandswallowedthecoffee.

  Awindowacrosstherivercaughtthesun

  asifthemiraclewereworking,onthewrongbalcony.

  TheWeed

  Idreamedthatdead,andmeditating,

  Ilayuponagrave,orbed,

  (atleast,somecoldandclose-builtbower).

  Inthecoldheart,itsfinalthought

  stoodfrozen,drawnimmenseandclear,

  stiffandidleasIwasthere;

  andweremainedunchangedtogether

  forayear,aminute,anhour.

  Suddenlytherewasamotion,

  asstartling,there,toeverysense

  asanexplosion.Thenitdropped

  toinsistent,cautiouscreeping

  intheregionoftheheart,

  proddingmefromdesperatesleep.

  Iraisedmyhead.Aslightyoungweed

  hadpushedupthroughtheheartandits

  greenheadwasnoddingonthebreast.

  (Allthiswasinthedark.)

  Itgrewaninchlikeabladeofgrass;

  next,oneleafshotoutofitsside

  atwisting,wavingflag,andthen

  twoleavesmovedlikeasemaphore.

  Thestemgrewthick.Thenervousroots

  reachedtoeachside;thegracefulhead

  changeditspositionmysteriously,

  sincetherewasneithersunnormoon

  tocatchitsyoungattention.

  Therootedheartbegantochange

  (notbeat)andthenitsplitapart

  andfromitbrokeafloodofwater.

  Tworiversglancedofffromthesides,

  onetotheright,onetotheleft,

  tworushing,half-clearstreams,

  (theribsmadeofthemtwocascades)

  whichassuredly,smoothasglass,

  wentoffthroughthefineblackgrainsofearth.

  Theweedwasalmostsweptaway;

  itstruggledwithitsleaves,

  liftingthemfringedwithheavydrops.

  Afewdropsfelluponmyface

  andinmyeyes,soIcouldsee

  (or,inthatblackplace,thoughtIsaw)

  thateachdropcontainedalight,

  asmall,illuminatedscene;

  theweed-deflectedstreamwasmade

  itselfofracingimages.

  (Asifarivershouldcarryall

  thescenesthatithadoncereflected

  shutinitswaters,andnotfloating

  onmomentarysurfaces.)

  Theweedstoodintheseveredheart.

  “Whatareyoudoingthere?”Iasked.

  Itlifteditsheadalldrippingwet

  (withmyownthoughts?)

  andansweredthen:“Igrow,”itsaid,

  “buttodivideyourheartagain.”

  TheUnbeliever

  Hesleepsonthetopofamast.—Bunyan

  Hesleepsonthetopofamast

  withhiseyesfastclosed.

  Thesailsfallawaybelowhim

  likethesheetsofhisbed,

  leavingoutintheairofthenightthesleeper’shead.

  Asleephewastransportedthere,

  asleephecurled

  inagildedballonthemast’stop,

  orclimbedinside

  agildedbird,orblindlyseatedhimselfastride.

  “Iamfoundedonmarblepillars,”

  saidacloud.“Inevermove.

  Seethepillarsthereinthesea?”

  Secureinintrospection

  hepeersatthewaterypillarsofhisreflection.

  Agullhadwingsunderhis

  andremarkedthattheair

  was“likemarble.”Hesaid:“Uphere

  Itowerthroughthesky

  forthemarblewingsonmytower-topfly.”

  Buthesleepsonthetopofhismast

  withhiseyesclo
sedtight.

  Thegullinquiredintohisdream,

  whichwas,“Imustnotfall.

  Thespangledseabelowwantsmetofall.

  Itishardasdiamonds;itwantstodestroyusall.”

  TheMonument

  Nowcanyouseethemonument?Itisofwood

  builtsomewhatlikeabox.No.Built

  likeseveralboxesindescendingsizes

  oneabovetheother.

  Eachisturnedhalf-wayroundsothat

  itscornerspointtowardthesides

  oftheonebelowandtheanglesalternate.

  Thenonthetopmostcubeisset

  asortoffleur-de-lysofweatheredwood,

  longpetalsofboard,piercedwithoddholes,

  four-sided,stiff,ecclesiastical.

  Fromitfourthin,warpedpolesspringout,

  (slantedlikefishing-polesorflag-poles)

  andfromthemjig-sawworkhangsdown,

  fourlinesofvaguelywhittledornament

  overtheedgesoftheboxes

  totheground.

  Themonumentisone-thirdsetagainst

  asea;two-thirdsagainstasky.

  Theviewisgeared

  (thatis,theview’sperspective)

  solowthereisno“faraway,”

  andwearefarawaywithintheview.

  Aseaofnarrow,horizontalboards

  liesoutbehindourlonelymonument,

  itslonggrainsalternatingrightandleft

  likefloor-boards—spotted,swarming-still,

  andmotionless.Askyrunsparallel,

  anditispalings,coarserthanthesea’s:

  splinterysunlightandlong-fibredclouds.

  “Whydoesthatstrangeseamakenosound?

  Isitbecausewe’refaraway?

  Wherearewe?AreweinAsiaMinor,

  OrinMongolia?”

  Anancientpromontory,

  anancientprincipalitywhoseartist-prince

  mighthavewantedtobuildamonument

  tomarkatomborboundary,ormake

  amelancholyorromanticsceneofit…

  “Butthatqueersealooksmadeofwood,

  half-shining,likeadriftwoodsea.

  Andtheskylookswooden,grainedwithcloud.

  It’slikeastage-set;itisallsoflat!

  Thosecloudsarefullofglisteningsplinters!

  Whatisthat?”

  Itisthemonument.

  “It’spiled-upboxes,

  outlinedwithshoddyfret-work,half-fallenoff,

  crackedandunpainted.Itlooksold.”

  —Thestrongsunlight,thewindfromthesea,

  alltheconditionsofitsexistence,

  mayhaveflakedoffthepaint,ifeveritwaspainted,