260 Childhood poems

Ring around the rosy, Pocket full of posy, Ashes!   Ashes! We all fall down!

Late afternoons, we'd tuck up our hems under Minisa Bridge, scrape our white knees on scrub brush and drowned trees to slide down the dirt bank past milk-weed gone to seed, cattails and trash to sit on stones at the edge of the river and giggle and smoke, waiting to wolf-whistle North High's rowing team. In the shadows where the milk-chocolate river unfolded, ooze between our toes, we'd strip, risk long-legged insects, leeches and mothers for the silt slick on our thighs, the air thick with the smell of honeysuckle, mud—the rest of the day somewhere downstream. We didn't know why, but none of us wanted to go home to polite kitchens and mothers patiently waiting for what happened next, the way women have always waited for hunter husbands, kept vigils and prayed at the entrance of mines.

bear with me      it wasn’t long ago I was brainless lazily pulling fireflies into my teeth       chewing them into pure light       so much of me then was nothing I could have fit into a sugar cube      my body burned like a barnful of feathers        nothing was on fire but fire was on everything       the wild mustard the rotting porch chair         a box of birth records        eventually even scorched earth goes green       though beneath it the dead might still luxuriate in their rage     my ancestor was a dervish saint     said to control a thick river of dark milk under his town        his people believed he could have spared them a drought       they ripped him to pieces like eagles tearing apart a snake    immediately they were filled with remorse       instead of burying him        they buried a bag of goat bones and azalea      my hair still carries that scent my eyes      black milk and a snake’s flicking tongue does this confuse you       there are so many ways to be deceived a butcher’s thumb pressed into the scale       a strange blue dress in a bathtub    the slowly lengthening night      I apologize I never aimed at eloquence      I told my mother I wouldn’t live through the year       then waited for a disaster      sitting cheerfully on cinder blocks pulled from a drained pond      tossing peanuts to squirrels     this is not the story she tells     hers filled with happy myths       fizzy pistons and plummy ghosts it’s true I suppose       you grow to love the creatures you create some of them come out with pupils swirling       others with teeth

Love, we were young once, and ran races over rough ground in our best shiny shoes, we kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces. Our knees were filthy with our secret places, with rituals and ranks, with strategy and ruse. Love, we were young once and ran races to determine the most rudimentary of  graces such as strength and speed and the ability to bruise. We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces, and doing so left no permanent traces because we fought and fell only to confuse love. We were young. Once we ran races in ghettos, in camps, in the dismal spaces of  the imagination reserved for  Jews. We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces at elastic braces, shoelaces, empty packing cases as if  they were the expressions we could choose. Love, we were young once, and ran races. We kicked at stones, we fell over, we pulled faces.

The shoemaker’s wife ran preschool With a fist made not so much of iron But wire bristles on a wooden brush. She made us recite and learn by rote. Our trick was to mouth words, sound As if we knew what we would one day Come to know, what would dawn On us as sure as a centipede knows What to do with its myriad legs. She made us settle our feet on the mud Floor of her daub and wattle hut and she Wielded a cane cut from wood that bit Into the palm of the hand and left a burn That resonated up the arm for an age After its smart swing and crisp contact. Worst of all was the shoe cupboard Where the old man stored his wire Brushes: a cold, dark, narrow place, Replete with brushes hung on nails Covering every square inch and said To come alive when a child was locked In with them so that they scrubbed Flesh off that child’s bones. She said We would end up there if we did not Concentrate, so we stilled our feet And spoke the words in the right order For colors in a rainbow until the very Thing took her place in front of us Arranged in cuneiform, polished, Brandishing a window to climb out.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And eat the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: 'Tis clear, cried they, our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's like to rid us of our vermin! Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing! At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap! Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? Bless us, cried the Mayor, what's that? (With the Corporation as he sate, Looking little though wondrous fat); Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat! Come in! — the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in — There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire: Quoth one: It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone! He advanced to the council-table: And, Please your honours, said he, I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper. (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) Yet, said he, poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders? One? fifty thousand! — was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished — Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! 'So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 'Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as one bulky sugar-puncheon, Ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! — I found the Weser rolling o'er me. You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; Go, cried the Mayor, and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats! — when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, First, if you please, my thousand guilders! A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! Beside, quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty! The Piper's face fell, and he cried, No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion. How? cried the Mayor, d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst! Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave th'enraptured air) There was a rustling, that seem'd like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by — Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Coppelburg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop! When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children follow'd, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, — It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And every thing was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I felt assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more! Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that Heaven's Gate Opes to the Rich at as easy a rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here "On the Twenty-second of July, "Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the Children's last retreat, They called it, The Pied Piper's Street — Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the Great Church Window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men — especially pipers: And, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

When I sleep I see a child hidden between the legs of a scarred man, their sunburnt backs breathe cold air, the child faces me and the pier’s roof swallows the moon cut by the clouds behind them. Sometimes, they’re on the same roof wearing handkerchiefs and uniformed men surround them. I mistake bullet casings for cormorant beaks diving till water churns the color of sunsets, stained barnacles line the pier and I can’t see who’s facedown on boats lulled by crimson ripples. Once, I heard the man — alive and still on the roof — say today for you, tomorrow for me. There’s a village where men train cormorants to fish: rope-end tied to sterns, another to necks, so their beaks won’t swallow the fish they catch. My father is one of those birds. He’s the scarred man.

Strand. String. In this dream, the paths cross and cross again. They are spelling a real boy out of repetition. • Each one is the one real boy. Each knows he must be wrong about this, but he can’t feel how. • The fish and the fisherman, the pilot, the princess, the fireman and the ones on fire.

Is it Spanish? No, Swedish. What’s that? Where Loki came from. Writing about Ragnarök in the purple octopi of a gel pen, it’s the end of the world and a gigantic wolf is going to swallow the coagulated sun whole. Myth, wish fulfillment. He broke the strongest chains ever built. He was strong. He won. I’m not strong. I don’t win. Pippi is strong too. And smart. Sit with me, little one, inside this mansion of June hieroglyphics, inside the belles lettres of fluttering paper-doll tomorrrows, and mourn how we never lived.

Outside the window the McGill smelter sent a red dust down on the smoking yards of copper, on the railroad tracks’ frayed ends disappeared into the congestion of the afternoon. Ely lay dull and scuffed: a miner’s boot toe worn away and dim, while my mother knelt before the Philco to coax the detonation from the static. From the Las Vegas Tonapah Artillery and Gunnery Range the sound of the atom bomb came biting like a swarm of bees. We sat in the hot Nevada dark, delighted, when the switch was tripped and the bomb hoisted up its silky, hooded, glittering, uncoiling length; it hissed and spit, it sizzled like a poker in a toddy. The bomb was no mind and all body; it sent a fire of static down the spine. In the dark it glowed like the coils of an electric stove. It stripped every leaf from every branch until a willow by a creek was a bouquet of switches resinous, naked, flexible, and fine. Bathed in the light of KDWN, Las Vegas, my crouched mother looked radioactive, swampy, glaucous, like something from the Planet Krypton. In the suave, brilliant wattage of the bomb, we were not poor. In the atom’s fizz and pop we heard possibility uncorked. Taffeta wraps whispered on davenports. A new planet bloomed above us; in its light the stumps of cut pine gleamed like dinner plates. The world was beginning all over again, fresh and hot; we could have anything we wanted.