Poems Read online

  isattheleft.Ahigh vox

  humanasomewherewails:

  Thegrayhorseneedsshoeing!

  It’salwaysthesame!

  Whatareyoudoing,

  there,beyondtheframe?

  Ifyou’rethedonor,

  youmightdothatmuch!

  Turnonthelight.Turnover.

  Onthebedasmutch—

  black-and-goldgesso

  onthealteredcloth.

  Thecatjumpstothewindow;

  inhismouth’samoth.

  Dreamdreamconfronting,

  nowthecupboard’sbare.

  Thecat’sgonea-hunting.

  Thebrookfeelsforthestair.

  Theworldseldomchanges,

  butthewetfootdangles

  untilabirdarranges

  twonotesatrightangles.

  Sandpiper

  Theroaringalongsidehetakesforgranted,

  andthateverysooftentheworldisboundtoshake.

  Heruns,herunstothesouth,finical,awkward,

  inastateofcontrolledpanic,astudentofBlake.

  Thebeachhisseslikefat.Onhisleft,asheet

  ofinterruptingwatercomesandgoes

  andglazesoverhisdarkandbrittlefeet.

  Heruns,herunsstraightthroughit,watchinghistoes.

  —Watching,rather,thespacesofsandbetweenthem,

  where(nodetailtoosmall)theAtlanticdrains

  rapidlybackwardsanddownwards.Asheruns,

  hestaresatthedragginggrains.

  Theworldisamist.Andthentheworldis

  minuteandvastandclear.Thetide

  ishigherorlower.Hecouldn’ttellyouwhich.

  Hisbeakisfocussed;heispreoccupied,

  lookingforsomething,something,something.

  Poorbird,heisobsessed!

  Themillionsofgrainsareblack,white,tan,andgray,

  mixedwithquartzgrains,roseandamethyst.

  FromTrollope’sJournal

  [Winter,1861]

  Asfarasstatuesgo,sofarthere’snot

  muchchoice:they’reeitherWashingtons

  orIndians,awhitewashed,stubbylot,

  Hiscountry’sFatherorHisfostersons.

  TheWhiteHouseinasad,unhealthyspot

  justhigherthanPotomac’sswampybrim,

  —theysaythepresentPresidenthasgot

  agueorfeverineachbackwoodslimb.

  OnSundayafternoonIwandered—rather,

  Ifloundered—outalone.Theairwasraw

  anddark;themarshhalf-ice,half-mud.Thisweather

  isnormalnow:afrost,andthenathaw,

  andthenafrost.Ahuntingman,Ifound

  thePennsylvaniaAvenueheavyground…

  Thereallaroundmeintheuglymud

  —hoof-pocked,uncultivated—herdsofcattle,

  numberless,wond’ringsteersandoxen,stood:

  beeffortheArmy,afterthenextbattle.

  Theirlegswerecakedthecolorofdriedblood;

  theirhornswerewreathedwithfog.Poor,starving,dumb

  orlowingcreatures,nevertochewthecud

  orfilltheirmawsagain!Th’effluvium

  madethatdamnedanthraxonmyforeheadthrob.

  Icalledasurgeonin,ayoungman,but,

  withasorethroathimself,hedidhisjob.

  WetalkedabouttheWar,andashecut

  away,hecroakedout,“Sir,Idodeclare

  everyone’ssick!Thesoldierspoisontheair.”

  VisitstoSt.Elizabeths

  [1950]

  ThisisthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisistheman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisthetime

  ofthetragicman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisawristwatch

  tellingthetime

  ofthetalkativeman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisasailor

  wearingthewatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthehonoredman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisistheroadsteadallofboard

  reachedbythesailor

  wearingthewatch

  thattellsthetime

  oftheold,braveman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thesearetheyearsandthewallsoftheward,

  thewindsandcloudsoftheseaofboard

  sailedbythesailor

  wearingthewatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthecrankyman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

  thatdancesweepingdowntheward

  overthecreakingseaofboard

  beyondthesailor

  windinghiswatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthecruelman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisaworldofbooksgoneflat.

  ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

  thatdancesweepingdowntheward

  overthecreakingseaofboard

  ofthebattysailor

  thatwindshiswatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthebusyman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisaboythatpatsthefloor

  toseeiftheworldisthere,isflat,

  forthewidowedJewinthenewspaperhat

  thatdancesweepingdowntheward

  waltzingthelengthofaweavingboard

  bythesilentsailor

  thathearshiswatch

  thatticksthetime

  ofthetediousman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor

  thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor

  tofeeliftheworldisthereandflat.

  ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

  thatdancesjoyfullydowntheward

  intothepartingseasofboard

  pastthestaringsailor

  thatshakeshiswatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthepoet,theman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  Thisisthesoldierhomefromthewar.

  Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor

  thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor

  toseeiftheworldisroundorflat.

  ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

  thatdancescarefullydowntheward,

  walkingtheplankofacoffinboard

  withthecrazysailor

  thatshowshiswatch

  thattellsthetime

  ofthewretchedman

  thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

  TranslationsfromthePortuguese(1969)

  Seven-SidedPoem

  ( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

  WhenIwasborn,oneofthecrooked

  angelswholiveinshadow,said:

  Carlos,goon!Be gaucheinlife.

  Thehouseswatchthemen,

  menwhorunafterwomen.

  Iftheafternoonhadbeenblue,

  theremighthavebeenlessdesire.

  Thetrolleygoesbyfulloflegs:

  whitelegs,blacklegs,yellowlegs.

  MyGod,whyallthelegs?

  myheartasks.Butmyeyes

  asknothingatall.

  Themanbehindthemoustache

  isserious,simple,andstrong.

  Hehardlyeverspeaks.

  Hehasafew,choicefriends,

  themanbehindthespectaclesandthemoustache.

  MyGod,whyhastThouforsakenme

  ifThouknew’stIwasnotGod,

  ifThouknew’stthat
Iwasweak?

  Universe,vastuniverse,

  ifIhadbeennamedEugene

  thatwouldnotbewhatImean

  butitwouldgointoverse

  faster.

  Universe,vastuniverse,

  myheartisvaster.*

  Ioughtn’ttotellyou,

  butthismoon

  andthisbrandy

  playthedevilwithone’semotions.

  Don’tKillYourself

  ( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

  Carlos,keepcalm,love

  iswhatyou’reseeingnow:

  todayakiss,tomorrownokiss,

  dayaftertomorrow’sSunday

  andnobodyknowswhatwillhappen

  Monday.

  It’suselesstoresist

  ortocommitsuicide.

  Don’tkillyourself.Don’tkillyourself!

  Keepallofyourselfforthenuptials

  comingnobodyknowswhen,

  thatis,iftheyevercome.

  Love,Carlos,tellurian,

  spentthenightwithyou,

  andnowyourinsidesareraising

  anineffableracket,

  prayers,

  victrolas,

  saintscrossingthemselves,

  adsforabettersoap,

  aracketofwhichnobody

  knowsthewhyorwherefore.

  Inthemeantimeyougoonyourway

  vertical,melancholy.

  You’rethepalmtree,you’rethecry

  nobodyheardinthetheatre

  andallthelightswentout.

  Loveinthedark,no,love

  inthedaylight,isalwayssad,

  sad,Carlos,myboy,

  buttellittonobody,

  nobodyknowsnorshallknow.

  TravellingintheFamily

  ( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

  toRodrigoM.F.deAndrade

  InthedesertofItabira

  theshadowofmyfather

  tookmebythehand.

  Somuchtimelost.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Itwasneitherdaynornight.

  Asigh?Apassingbird?

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Wehavecomealongway.

  Heretherewasahouse.

  Themountainusedtobebigger.

  Somanyheaped-updead,

  andtimegnawingthedead.

  Andintheruinedhouses,

  colddisdainanddamp.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Thestreetheusedtocross

  onhorseback,atagallop.

  Hiswatch.Hisclothes.

  Hislegaldocuments.

  Histalesoflove-affairs.

  Openingoftintrunks

  andviolentmemories.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  InthedesertofItabira

  thingscomebacktolife,

  stiflingly,suddenly.

  Themarketofdesires

  displaysitssadtreasures;

  myurgetorunaway;

  nakedwomen;remorse.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Steppingonbooksandletters

  wetravelinthefamily.

  Marriages;mortgages;

  theconsumptivecousins;

  themadaunt;mygrandmother

  betrayedamongtheslave-girls,

  rustlingsilksinthebedroom.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Whatcruel,obscureinstinct

  movedhispallidhand

  subtlypushingus

  intotheforbidden

  time,forbiddenplaces?

  Ilookedinhiswhiteeyes.

  Icriedtohim:Speak!Myvoice

  shookintheairamoment,

  beatonthestones.Theshadow

  proceededslowlyon

  withthatpathetictravelling

  acrossthelostkingdom.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Isawgrief,misunderstanding

  andmorethanoneoldrevolt

  dividingusinthedark.

  ThehandIwouldn’tkiss,

  thecrumbthattheydeniedme,

  refusaltoaskpardon.

  Pride.Terroratnight.

  Buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Speakspeakspeakspeak.

  Ipulledhimbyhiscoat

  thatwasturningintoclay.

  Bythehands,bytheboots

  Icaughtathisstrictshadow

  andtheshadowreleaseditself

  withneitherhastenoranger.

  Butheremainedsilent.

  Thereweredistinctsilences

  deepwithinhissilence.

  Therewasmydeafgrandfather

  hearingthepaintedbirds

  ontheceilingofthechurch;

  myownlackoffriends;

  andyourlackofkisses;

  therewereourdifficultlives

  andagreatseparation

  inthelittlespaceoftheroom.

  Thenarrowspaceoflife

  crowdsmeupagainstyou,

  andinthisghostlyembrace

  it’sasifIwerebeingburned

  completely,withpoignantlove.

  Onlynowdoweknoweachother!

  Eye-glasses,memories,portraits

  flowintheriverofblood.

  Nowthewaterswon’tletme

  makeoutyourdistantface,

  distantbyseventyyears…

  Ifeltthathepardonedme

  buthedidn’tsayanything.

  Thewaterscoverhismoustache,

  thefamily,Itabira,all.

  TheTable

  ( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

  Andyouneverlikedparties…

  Oldman,whataparty

  we’dgiveforyoutoday.

  Thesonsthatdon’tdrink

  andtheonethatlovestodrink,

  aroundthewidetable,

  gaveuptheirgrimdiets,

  forgottheirlikesanddislikes;

  itwasanhonestorgy

  endinginrevelations.

  Yes,oldman,you’dhearthings

  toshockyourninetyyears.

  Butthenwedidn’tshockyou,

  because—whatwiththesmiles,

  andthefathen,andthewine,

  goodwinefromPortugal,

  aswellaswhatwasmade

  fromathousandingredients

  andservedupinabundance

  inathousandchinadishes

  —we’dimpliedalready

  thatitwasallinfun.

  Yes.Yourtiredeyes

  usedtoreadingthecountry

  indistancesofleagues,

  andinthedistanceonesteer

  lostintheblueblue,

  lookedintoourverysouls

  andsawtheirrottenmud,

  andsadlystaredrightthroughus

  andfiercelysworeatus

  andsweetlypardonedus

  (pardonistheusualritual

  forparents,asforlovers).

  Andthen,forgivingall,

  youinwardlycongratulated

  yourselfuponsuchchildren…

  Well,thebiggestscoundrels

  haveturnedoutalotbetter

  thanIbargainedfor.Besides,

  chipsofftheold…Youstopped,

  frowningsuddenly,

  inwardlygoingover

  someregrettedmemory,

  andnotallthatremote,

  smilingtoyourself,seeing

  thatyouhadthrownabridge

  fromthegrandfather’scrazydance

  tothegrandsons’escapades,

  knowingthatallflesh

  aspirestodegradation,

  butonafieryroad

  ben
eathasexualrainbow,

  youcoughed. Harrumph. Children,

  don’tbesilly.Children?

  Greatboysinourfifties,

  bald,who’vebeenaround,

  butkeepinginourbreasts

  thatyoungboy’sinnocence,

  thatrunningofftothewoods,

  thatforbiddencraving,

  andtheverysimpledesire

  toaskourmothertomend

  morethanjustourshirts,

  ourimpotent,raggedsouls…

  Ah,itwouldbeabig

  mineiro*dinner…Weate,

  andhungergrowswitheating,

  andfoodwasjustapretext.

  Wedidn’tevenneed

  tohaveappetites;everything

  wasdisposedof;themorningafter,

  we’dtaketheconsequences.

  Neverdisdain tutu. †

  Theregoessomemorecrackling.

  Asfortheturkey? Farofa*

  needsanicelittle cachaça†

  tokeepitcompany,

  anddon’toverlookthebeer,

  agreatcompanion,too.

  Theotherday…Doeseating

  holdsuchsignificance

  thatthebottomofthedish

  alonerevealsthebest,

  mosthuman,ofourbeings?

  Isdrinkingthensosacred

  thatonlydrunkmybrother

  canexplainhisresentment

  andoffermehishand?

  Toeat,todrink:whatfood

  morefragrant,moremysterious

  thanthisPortuguese-Arabian,

  andwhatdrinkismoreholy

  thanthisthatjoinstogether

  suchagluttonousbrotherhood,

  big-mouths,goodfellowsall!

  Andthesister’stherewhowent

  beforetheothers,andwas

  arosebyname,andborn

  onadayjustliketoday

  inordertograceyourbirthday.

  Hernametastesofcamelia

  andbeingarose-amelia,

  amuchmoredelicateflower

  thananyoftherose-roses,

  shelivedlongerthanthename,

  althoughshehid,insecret,

  thescatteredrose.Besideyou,

  see:ithasbloomedagain.

  Theoldestsatdownhere.

  Aquiet,craftytype

  whowouldn’tmakeapriest,

  butlikedlowlove-affairs:

  andtimehasmadeofhim

  whatitmakesofanyone;

  and,withoutbeingyou,

  strangely,theolderhegrows,

  themorehelookslikeyou,

  sothatifIglimpsehim

  unexpectedlynow

  itisyouwhoreappear

  inanothermanofsixty.

  Thisonehasadegree,

  thediplomaofthefamily,

  buthismorelearnedletters