872 Life poems

1 Did I say I was a creature of habit? I meant the opposite. I meant behavior is a pile of clothes I might or might not wear. Before all the sowing and reaping could go on for centuries, before the calendar, I must have been convinced that my movements were both mandated and blessed. 2 I've never been an old woman knitting by a fire but I've played one in images where it meant being foolish or wise, a mistress of distraction's indirection. To rock while entwining is life's work, but I am reckless, restless

After you've been to bed together for the first time, without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance, the other party very often says to you, Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you, what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you lying together in completely relaxed positions like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed. You tell them your story, or as much of your story as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, until the oh is just an audible breath, and then of course there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee and gaze at himself with the mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror. And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story, they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along, and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming no more than an audible sigh, as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left, draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion and stops breathing forever. Then? Well, one of you falls asleep and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth, and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.

wedged in the top branches, rain still sighing to earth as a dissolute sky dissolves, a mozambican woman turns mother, her water breaking loose to pool with the flood licking the trunk below, a country-sized puddle calls forth the child whose name, the mother vowed, would not be drowned, no matter how high she had to climb. my mother’s water washed her bare yellow bathroom tile many years ago, a diluvial warning of my struggle to arrive. we fought to get me out, and have been tugging at each other ever since, tethered by a cord that simply thickens when it’s cut. we descended then, thirsting, churning, not into the waters that hound the mozambican mother, baying her and her baby in the tree, but into that enduring ocean in which — as mother, daughter, or both — a woman’s only choices are drink or swim.

—Once more the poem woke me up, the dark poem. I was ready for it; he was sleeping, and across the cabin, the small furnace lit and re-lit itself—the flame a yellow “tongue” again, the metal benignly hard again; and a thousand insects outside called and made me nothing; moonlight streamed inside as if it had been ... I looked around, I thought of the lower wisdom, spirit held by matter: Mary, white as a sand dollar, and Christ, his sticky halo tilted— oh, to get behind it! The world had been created to comprehend itself as matter: table, the torn veils of spiders ... Even consciousness— missing my love— was matter, the metal box of a furnace. As the obligated flame, so burned my life ... What is the meaning of this suffering I asked and the voice—not Christ but between us— said you are the meaning. No no, I replied, That is the shape, what is the meaning. You are the meaning, it said—

For Síle I give thee the sun as guarantee and the Egyptian faience beads and the little silver oar that was gifted once to an English harbor master. I give thee the silk dress with its triple-ruffled sleeves and the cloaks with big hoods that fall full though some are pulled in at a central button. I give thee the little colored goats that go down on their knees as penitents. I give thee the death mask and the plaster hand of Seán Ó Riada, for he is among the best loved of the musicians.

The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is in her eighties and she underestimates the value of everything, for which I am grateful. Lightly used snow suits, size 2T, are $6 and snow boots are $3. There is a little girl, maybe seven, fiddling with a tea set. Her mother inspects drapes for stains. Sometimes the very old and lonely are looking for an opening. She glances up from her pricing and says something about the tea set and a baby doll long ago. I am careful not to make eye contact, but the mother with drapes has such softness in her shoulders and her face and she knows how to say the perfect kind thing—“What a wonderful mother you had.” “Yes, she was.” Why do children sometimes notice us and sometimes not? From the bin of dolls: “What happened to your mother?” “She died.” The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is crying a little. She seems surprised to be crying. “It’s been eighty years and I still miss her.” When my daughter was born I couldn’t stop thinking about how we were going to die. If we were drowning, would it be better to hold her to me even as she fought away or should I let her float off to wonder why her mother didn’t help her? What if it’s fire and I have one bullet left? I made sure my husband knew if there were death squads and he had to choose, I’d never love him again if he didn’t choose her. If I’m lucky, her crying face is the last thing I’ll see. The mother with drapes is squeezing her daughter’s shoulder, trying to send a silent message, but children are children. “Why did she die?” “She was going to have a baby and—And she died.” “But she was a wonderful mother.” I’m holding a stack of four wooden jigsaw puzzles of farm animals, dinosaurs, jungle animals, and pets. Each for a quarter. “It’s silly how much I still miss her.” She takes out a tissue and wipes her eyes and then her nose. When my grandmother threw her sister, Susie, a 90 th birthday party, one hundred people came, including 5 of the 6 brothers and sisters. At dusk only a few of us were left, nursing beers with our feet kicked up on the bottom rungs of various walkers. Susie said then to my grandmother, “Can you think of all the people watching us in heaven now? And our mother must be in the front row.” Grandma took her sister’s hand. “Our mother—Estelle.” “Yes—her name was Estelle. I forgot that.” They looked so happy then, saying her name back and forth to each other. Estelle. Estelle.

9:13 p.m., Lucky Bock in hand, I inscribe: walked the lovely 33 blocks to school today, streets clear and thick melting snow all around. taught my 4 hours of poetry; the afternoon class was hard; kid named Schweikert kept on fucking up. took typed-up poems of yesterday to Platt and put up poster there of Anne and Reed’s reading Sat. ate nearly 2 peanutbutter sandwiches with raw carrots. typed. read kids’ poems. at 4 I started home, got a ride with Jim Bay. press release to daily paper. stopped in Baird’s for 2 beers, looked at paper. home, kissed Mara, Sierra. in the mail: Out There, from Chicago, and a letter stating the city of Grand Island had decided not to prosecute re my arrest Friday for intoxication. wonder why. Nick the landlord didn’t show (he was supposed to have us sign lease on the new duplex) (this place gonna be torn down). ate a very delicious supper, ham-and-cheese rarebit with cold broccoli and cold oregano’d tomato, cooked by Mara. paperwork, played a game of solitaire, harried by Sierra’s new red car. dropped over then to the Korner Bar, put up a poster under the phone sign, said hi to a few folks and got halloo’d by this guy I’d spoken to 2 months before, who’d said his high school son adored me, but it might be thought improper that I hang around, shoot pool in Korner Bar. a beefy mid-30’s man, he bought me a beer, apologized and told me of his luck: he’d won a thousand one-hundred eighty dollars today betting on one horse at Fonner Park. we talked of poetry, family, work — he mentioned Kilmer, Stevenson, Nash and others, quoted verbatim his own published poem on fire-fighting (he is the G.I. fire-chief). his boyhood favorites, whom he reads all of even now: Edgar Rice Burroughts and Jules Verne. his son, though epileptic, does the high jump at the high school; he was disturbed that it wasn’t the broad jump, in which he himself still holds a record, set in 1959. the taxes have jumped up like crazy on their nice spread just inside the city limits. I got up and slapped him on the back and left, stopping first to ask Clark, standing end of the bar, what he knew of me on Friday night at the Kyriss. I’d blanked out completely (woke up in jail, ate blue oatmeal). he said I’d just got drunk, he thought Rod had taken me home. he said, at one point, just waking up, I’d grabbed the edge of the table and tilted it till the glasses all came sliding down and almost off, then tilted it back till they slid back to where they were, and never spilled a drop. he said I’d bought some beers for him and Pat but before they could get to them drank them up myself. okay, Clark, you’re a good guy with your black curly hair and toothless grin, and your wild life. I was just wondering. check with Rod when have a chance. — and off, through mud and occasionally-lighted puddles, home, where Mara’s napping still and there are (were) 5 Lucky Bocks in the white (today!) icebox. 9:50. (no. 2) after finishing that (immediately after, during, in fact) the strange thing is there’s so much left out. last night finished reading The Vicar of Wakefield. the bluejays and cardinals that called on the way to school. my beard suddenly seems soft (that thought off some day-dreaming about talking to poetry students). reread (for the last “making” time) “the 14,” the magazine; it is all set. the poems there, here now, seemed so abstract, compared with what I’m used to, but that in a way intensely and properly shaking feeling and talk, tonight. the revolution (Mara gets up, starts drinking Pepsi) and all that. (yellow sweater).

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm; Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, Such usage in heaven will never do well. But if at the Church they would give us some Ale. And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale; We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day; Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray, Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing. And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch. And God like a father rejoicing to see, His children as pleasant and happy as he: Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.

Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, Who was the Future, died full long ago. Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred. Around thine earth sun-wingèd winds do blow And planets roll; a meteor draws his sword; The rainbow breaks his seven-coloured chord And the long strips of river-silver flow: Awake! Give thyself to the lovely hours. Drinking their lips, catch thou the dream in flight About their fragile hairs’ aërial gold. Thou art divine, thou livest,—as of old Apollo springing naked to the light, And all his island shivered into flowers.

Lots of time, lots of cars, Lots of money, so much love, Very cold and very hot. But now it’s freezing out, The director Lanzmann is giving us an interview, Without, it must be said, Much passion. This man was intimate with Simone de Beauvoir And worked alongside Sartre. But that’s later. For now Channel One Is filming him en face In the next room And we can make out A few scattered remarks. His nine-hour film About the Holocaust Played in every Country — People nodded off, And in their dreams They saw the horrors And the voice of our famous guest Faded in and faded out. It fades in, fades out, In the hall The beautiful Camilla comes and goes. She perches on the sofa Then she walks away. The assistant to the cultural attaché Of the French Embassy Is also here. She’s the one Who signed up me and Kolya For this interview with Lanzmann. She’s also beautiful and young. A little older than us But she looks younger. Whereas me and Kolya, We don’t want to look younger. One of us is thirty-three, The other’s thirty-four. Not yet at the peak Of our powers, We’re gathering force And preparing to strike. We’re like Lanzmann Who at the age of eighteen Joined the French Communist Party. He joined not because He read Marx or Lenin But because he was asked By his friends In the Resistance. We are like Lanzmann Who cried when he learned Of the death of Stalin. He cried not because He loved Stalin But because he was Sentimental: He saw Soviet Sailors Lowering their flags to half-mast, And thought about how The Soviet people Had absorbed, During the war, The most terrible And frightful blows. We are like Lanzmann Who in 1949 Made the acquaintance Of Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir. He began to work with them On the magazine Les Tempes modernes. And today he is That publication’s Editor in chief. We are like Lanzmann Who in 1972 Made the film Israel, Why, Which, in the words Of the online encyclopedia, “Did not shy away from Difficult questions.” We discussed all our questions In advance of the interview. Inside us it was as if Some keys, cold and hot, Were rattling. It’s nearly freezing out. Meanwhile I was thinking about how Kolya is a rude artist. In the sense that There are radical artists Everywhere you look, But not so many Genuinely rude artists. The rudeness of an artist, I thought, Is an interesting quality. But now Channel One is leaving, Kolya takes off his jacket with its skulls And sets up our cameras. “We are the representatives of the left,” we say. Lanzmann lowers his gaze wearily: Now they’re going to start in about Israel. But Kolya, having explained a bit About his art collective, Asks Lanzmann instead About monumental Art: “Monumental Art. What might it look like Right now?” “How should I know?” Says Lanzmann. “There could be no Monumental Art Today. The world is scattered. For A monumental Work you need A unified sense Of the world.” “But you yourself Filmed a monumental Work. Surely you have Some ideas on this score?” “I didn’t think about That. I’m an artist, Understand? I don’t Think in such Categories. What are you, Communists? Your task is The Revolution. Why are you asking Me about Monumental Art?” We’re the ones asking the questions We’re the ones asking the questions We here are the ones asking the questions. In the iron air Of Moscow. Edelman, Markelov, Pechersky are with us. Medvedev the Bear Jew and Jeff “The Snowman” Monson — That’s what they call us Around town. “In what capacity Did you make that film — As a Frenchman, a Jew, An intellectual? Or as a member Of the Resistance?” “I repeat, I wanted    ...    ” • “Does the term The ‘Holocaust Industry’ Mean anything to you?” “What’s that?” Asks Lanzmann. (I warned Kolya That Lanzmann wouldn’t Understand Or would pretend Not to understand What that means.) “The Holocaust Industry Usually means The use of the memory Of the destruction of the Jews During World War II To legitimate, in part, The State of Israel.” The translator starts To worry. She suspects us Of anti-Semitism. But we are like Lanzmann Who came to Moscow To do this strange interview, Without revealing his secrets. He won’t talk, He’s hard as a rock, This man whose youth Is reflected In our cocky Faces. Lanzmann himself has conducted Many interviews: With Franz Suchomel, The SS Unterscharführer, With  Jan Karski, And others. He knows very well How to walk His subjects Into this or that Confession Or experience, All while leveraging His moral authority. And here, gradually, In the words of this master Of the interview, We begin to detect The artistic position Which we so oppose. “I, you know, just Slapped together this Thing. I was interested In the human aspect. As for ideas And theories That’s not my bag.” • Of course, many artists Take this stand. They don’t interest us at all. But Lanzmann, on the one hand, Enjoys this status As an artist who works with Emotions, memories, His own and other people’s Experiences, that is, more with Emotions than with documents. On the other hand, he knew Full well that his film Would be received As a political proclamation, That it would quickly occupy the heart Of intellectual and socio- Political debates. To work on people’s feelings, As an artist, while at the same time Refusing to engage in rational Explanations, of the sort Demanded of intellectuals — really This is the same stuff as using the “Incomprehensibility” of Hitler Or the destruction of the Jews As a form of political argument — And this is the shameful Hypocrisy of our friend Lanzmann. How to save himself From this disgrace The old man Lanzmann Does not know. But we know, and we’ll tell: You need to speak about Israel You need to speak about Israel In this is the key to immortality This is the burning wound And it is Lanzmann who understands this He knows that politics is the wound On the body of history. An unnecessary, unwanted wound That will not heal. To refuse to forget politics To refuse to tear Israel From one’s heart — Because politics is Always here, And Palestine is a bloody wound that says: Politics is Always here. You can’t hide from it At the supermarket, You can’t run from it With beautiful words. And old man Lanzmann Understands this, He knows that Politics is the wound On the body of history. In its inability to process its own Information, A rejection of politics Leads to senility. (Only later would I find This passage In an interview Lanzmann gave To Der Spiegel: Spiegel: You write That the Israeli military doctor Who gave you a check-up Before you flew in a fighter plane Said you could live Until a hundred and twenty. Are you worried about Death right now, At your age? Lanzmann: I have no age. I constantly think Of death, including My own. At the same time This remains totally Unreal. As I said Earlier, only life Has any meaning.) • “Does the term The ‘Holocaust Industry’ Mean anything to you?” “I don’t want To talk About Israel. I repeat: You are thinking In abstract Categories.” “Yes, but your film Became the center Of intellectual Debate — About the uniqueness Of the Holocaust, About the supposed Anti-Semitism Of the Poles. Many Thought that your movie Made the Poles out To be Anti-Semites.” “Israel exists Under impossible Pressure. Its army must be judged According to different measures. The Israeli Merkava tank Was created In impossible conditions. Israeli tank officers Love their Merkavas, They are obliged To have them always At the ready. And you, instead of Building up Abstract Theories, Should try harder To create artistic works ... An artist has his own Way of seeing.” And so on. The director is tired. It’s time for a rest. “Communists? I know your path. First, revolution; then firing squads.” A warning from the attaché — Our time Is almost up. This will be Our last question And our judgment of the gray Old man Will be simple. He has just one moment left To die young. But what did the fog of those eyes Communicate? Vague sentence fragments, A dry, unpleasant refusal? • “Hang in there, boys. Be strong just one more time. Communists never surrender.” Translated from the Russian