872 Life poems

And now the silver, ripping sound of white on white, the satin, light snow torn under wheels, car bang metally grenading, and the wood poles, whipping, loom— ¤ I have always wanted to sing a song of praise for the unscathed: myself stepping from the fractured car whose black axle’s one inch from gone; slim pole slicing cable up to sheet metal, seat foam, corduroy (like butter, the mechanic will later tell me, poking a stiff finger through the cloth), to pierce the exact point I was supposed to sit, stopping because praise begins where pain transfigures itself, stoppered by a deeper kind of joy: so I transfigure myself from driver to survivor, the blessed Lazarine failure bolting up and opening her eyes. And here are the thousand wrecks from a life configured in snow before me: myself, at five, pulled from the burning car seat; at twelve, bleeding from the scalp after the car throws me from my bike; at fourteen, tumbling over the slick hood rushing; sockets of windows with glass bashed out into a translucent, toothy ring; lights and bumpers clipped clean off; tires burst; deer gravitationally hurled through my windshield; brakes given out and worse, the icy loop de loops on roads, the trucker’s 18 fat wheels squealing— All the ways technology should have killed me and didn’t. Praise for my death-hungry luck! And all the manner in which I’ve failed it— marriage lost, buried in the blanks of white space, my solitude at the Greyhound station knowing no one to retrieve me, carless among the other pressed tight to their own disaster or boredom— unbearably young mothers, drifters, boy soldiers shoulder to shoulder with the insane, weaving the same thread of conversation back and forth between ourselves. How could this happen to me at this age, at this stage, how did I not notice, and will you put this seat up? and will you lend me this quarter? and will you call me a cab when we get back home? The young man in the seat before me, head full of zigzagging tight braids says, Sure you can dig up that ballot box in Florida and while you’re at it look up all the bones buried in the Everglades, repeats it for the amusement of the woman across from him, who knows a presidential failure like she knows herself, and when we pass my accident on the road points and whistles, snickers:Bet you no one walked away from that one. For this, and for all these things: praise to the white plains of Wyoming, highway coiled like a length of rime-colored rope; to snow broiling in the sunlight so that the landscape takes on a nuclear glow, so bright we have to shield our eyes from it. Praise for myself playing at morbidity because I thought I had a right to it as if flesh had to follow spirit to such a pure depth the bones themselves could not rest but must be broken, nerves singed then ripped out, the heart clenched madly in its chest. As if I had nothing except this white earth, this smashed car to praise what I knew before and know even better now, the hills cold as a hip bone and tufted with ice. Praise to my youth and to my age, praise to ambition and small-mindedness, the kind I recognize and the kind I am soon to recognize; praise to self-hatred for it keeps me alive, and praise for the splinters of delight that can pierce it. Praise for wood pole, praise for glass. Praise for muscle, praise for bone. The sky is bright as a bowl on a nurse’s table today. And the sun gleams into it as our bus slides by, the light of us a wash of gold illuminating bodies lost, bodies regained; gleaming like my heart here, on this earth, bloody and still beating.

Last night, as half asleep I dreaming lay, Half naked came she in her little shift, With tilted glass, and verses on her lips; Narcissus-eyes all shining for the fray, Filled full of frolic to her wine-red lips, Warm as a dewy rose, sudden she slips Into my bed – just in her little shift. Said she, half naked, half asleep, half heard, With a soft sigh betwixt each lazy word, ‘Oh my old lover, do you sleep or wake!’ And instant I sat upright for her sake, And drank whatever wine she poured for me – Wine of the tavern, or vintage it might be Of Heaven’s own vine: he surely were a churl Who refused wine poured out by such a girl, A double traitor he to wine and love. Go to, thou puritan! the gods above Ordained this wine for us, but not for thee; Drunkards we are by a divine decree, Yea, by the special privilege of heaven Foredoomed to drink and foreordained forgiven. Ah! HAFIZ, you are not the only man Who promised penitence and broke down after; For who can keep so hard a promise, man, With wine and woman brimming o’er with laughter! O knotted locks, filled like a flower with scent, How have you ravished this poor penitent!

With last night’s wine still singing in my head, I sought the tavern at the break of day, Though half the world was still asleep in bed; The harp and flute were up and in full swing, And a most pleasant morning sound made they; Already was the wine-cup on the wing. ‘Reason,’ said I, ‘’t is past the time to start, If you would reach your daily destination, The holy city of intoxication.’ So did I pack him off, and he depart With a stout flask for fellow-traveller. Left to myself, the tavern-wench I spied, And sought to win her love by speaking fair; Alas! she turned upon me, scornful-eyed, And mocked my foolish hopes of winning her. Said she, her arching eyebrows like a bow: ‘Thou mark for all the shafts of evil tongues! Thou shalt not round my middle clasp me so, Like my good girdle – not for all thy songs! – So long as thou in all created things Seest but thyself the centre and the end. Go spread thy dainty nets for other wings – Too high the Anca’s nest for thee, my friend.’ Then took I shelter from that stormy sea In the good ark of wine; yet, woe is me! Saki and comrade and minstrel all by turns, She is of maidens the compendium Who my poor heart in such a fashion spurns. Self, HAFIZ, self! That thou must overcome! Hearken the wisdom of the tavern-daughter! Vain little baggage – well, upon my word! Thou fairy figment made of clay and water, As busy with thy beauty as a bird. Well, HAFIZ, Life’s a riddle – give it up: There is no answer to it but this cup.

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay; When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia’s praise, I fix my soul on Cloe’s eyes. Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned; I sung and gazed; I played and trembled; And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate, Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes. This could be our last winter, it could be many More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks: Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines And forget about hope. Time goes running, even As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.

‘They toil not, neither do they spin.’ One morn before me were three figures seen, With bowèd necks, and joinèd hands, side-faced; And one behind the other stepp’d serene, In placid sandals, and in white robes graced; They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other side; They came again; as when the urn once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower: O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness? A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, turn’d Each one the face a moment whiles to me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d And ached for wings, because I knew the three; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatiguèd eye; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek,— I knew to be my demon Poesy. They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings: O folly! What is Love? and where is it? And for that poor Ambition! it springs From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit; For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,— At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep’d in honey’d indolence; O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense! And once more came they by:—alas! wherefore? My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams; My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams: The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May; The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine, Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay; O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce! Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night, And for the day faint visions there is store; Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright, Into the clouds, and never more return!

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim" "I am no longer good through deliberate intent, but by long habit have reached a point where I am not only able to do right, but am unable to do anything but what is right." (Seneca, Letters 120.10) Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!

gain — a bevel cut into plank ends in traditional lapstrake boat construction that allows otherwise lapped planks to lay flush at stem and transom. There’s the paring chisel’s purpose in the steamed cedar strake, its long warp laid strong against the bench, whose pocked surface is the book of what has already been made, or marred in learning’s wake —& clamped now in the jaws one is waiting for its match, for the chisel to elaborate the pencil’s scribed hypothesis, under which lies another path,& through a tilting eye the curving bevel’s made, the chisel rolling back tight scrolls of thinnest grain & what bright sleeves begin to fleece the floor; there is a lack given to the wood, some short song cut loose from the lignin’s name, that a longer & more buoyant melody be made.

Someone is in the kitchen washing the dishes. Someone is in the living room watching the news. Someone in a bedroom is holding a used stamp with tweezers and adding it to his collection. Someone is scolding a dog, barking now for decades, a different dog for each of the decades. Someone is reading the paper and listening to a baseball game on the radio at the same time — At the base of the altar, you drop some coins into a wooden box and the lights reveal the vast, worn painting in front of you. The holy subject is illuminated for a few minutes before it is dim again. There are churches all over Italy where you can do this. The smell of incense, stone — Someone is taking the ashes out of the small cave of the fireplace, though this might have been a hundred years ago, when the house was new and we didn’t live in it. Someone is writing a letter on thin blue paper. Someone is putting down the needle onto a spinning record, just so. On the couch, someone is sleeping. Upstairs, someone is looking into the bathroom mirror — While we were waiting for her surgery to finish, I walked around the hospital and came across a waiting room that had an enormous aquarium. The black fish with red stripes, the yellow fish with blue stripes, the triangle fish, the cylinder fish, the little orange schools and the cellophane glints of their quick turns in the box of water, among arrangements of coral, the city of bones — Someone is walking down the creaking staircase in the dark, a hand sliding on the rail. Someone is on the telephone, which means nobody else can use it for another hour. Someone in his room is doing homework, me or someone almost like me, twenty, fifty years ago. Someone is reading in her room. Someone is talking to the gray wall. Someone is talking to the gray wall. In summer, on a hot afternoon, someone peels at a corner of wallpaper and sees more wallpaper beneath — I used to think that to write poems, to make art, meant trying to transcend the prosaic elements of the self, to arrive at some essential plane, where poems were supposed to succeed. I was wrong.