209 Nostalgia poems

Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog an' go, Jes' a-rattlin' down creation, Lak an ocean's overflow; When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin' Lak a picaninny's top, An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin' 'Twell it seems about to slop, An' you feel jes' lak a racah, Dat is trainin' fu' to trot— When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone's hot. When you set down at de table, Kin' o' weary lak an' sad, An' you 'se jes' a little tiahed An' purhaps a little mad; How yo' gloom tu'ns into gladness, How yo' joy drives out de doubt When de oven do' is opened, An' de smell comes po'in' out; Why, de 'lectric light o' Heaven Seems to settle on de spot, When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone's hot. When de cabbage pot is steamin' An' de bacon good an' fat, When de chittlins is a-sputter'n' So's to show you whah dey's at; Tek away yo' sody biscuit, Tek away yo' cake an' pie, Fu' de glory time is comin', An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh, An' you want to jump an' hollah, Dough you know you'd bettah not, When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone's hot. I have hyeahd a' lots o' sermons, An' I've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers, An I've listened to some singin' Dat has tuck me up de stairs Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me Jes' below de Mastah's th'one, An' have lef' my hea't a-singin' In a happy aftah tone; But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured Seem to tech de softes' spot, When my mammy says de blessin', An' de co'n pone's hot.

When last we parted, thou wert young and fair, How beautiful let fond remembrance say! Alas! since then old time has stolen away Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare.— So has it perished like a thing of air, The dream of love and youth!— now both are grey Yet still remembering that delightful day, Though time with his cold touch has blanched my hair, Though I have suffered many years of pain Since then, though I did never think to live To hear that voice or see those eyes again, I can a sad but cordial greeting give, And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer— As when I loved thee young and fair.

Mrs. Coley’s three-flat brick Isn’t here any more. All done with seeing her fat little form Burst out of the basement door; And with seeing her African son-in-law (Rightful heir to the throne) With his great white strong cold squares of teeth And his little eyes of stone; And with seeing the squat fat daughter Letting in the men When majesty has gone for the day— And letting them out again.

When I was your age I went to a banquet. When I was your age I went to a barroom and bought cigarettes with quarters lifted from the laundry money. Last night I did all your laundry. I don’t know why I thought this love could be pure. It’s enough that it’s infinite. I kiss your cheek when you sleep and wonder if you feel it. It’s the same cheek I’ve kissed from the beginning. You don’t have to like me. You just have to let me keep your body yours. It’s mine. When I was your age I went to a banquet and a man in a tux pinched my cheeks. When I was your age I went to a barroom and a man in a band shirt pinched my ass. There is so much I don’t know about you. Last night I skipped a banquet so I could stay home and do your laundry and drink wine from my grandmother’s glass. When I was your age boys traded quarters for a claw at my carcass on a pleather bench while I missed the first few seconds of a song I’d hoped to record on my backseat boombox. When I was your age I enjoyed a hook. You think I know nothing of metamorphosis but when I was your age I invented a key change. You don’t have to know what I know.

We had the new Chevrolet steel Idyll, sky-blue metal with the salmon interior,A Sunset On Wheels. We had silver moving clowns, the most famous of which resembled our worst villain, which confused us. Little toothbrush mustaches. We had an abundance, for once, of chocolate and tobacco, and nearly everyone drank a sweet bubbly beverage flavored by a South American plant. It somewhat burned our nose and throat. My mood was sweet and even, the rain was warm driving down the road with the radio on. It played some lovely exciting tune. Then, an unctuous voice with news of war. You drove to work with your coffee between your legs, the line ahead pink near the tree line, your dashboard with serene green lights. In the back seat was a Wild Bill Hickock coloring book and a small sneaker. It read Red Ball Jets. You stumbled into the cold green sea, enervated, with a dry mouth, afraid you might step in a hole and drown. You can’t swim. The beach is ahead, some palm fronds wave. It’s beautiful, like Bali Hai, but there are planes descending ack ack ack, making filmic little fountains of sand where they strafe the beach. Finally, reaching the woods, and separated from your company, you all asleep. Some of your son’s crayons melted in the back window. Remember to scrape those up, or melt it with wax paper and an iron, as the newspaper instructed. Bring home the Butternut Bread, Fred. We each had Rangoon Night Market Noodles. They were salty, with pieces of duck. Then we went to a movie. Someone sat on my homburg. When it was over, we walked out stunned and embarrassed. Even mediocre films communicate with one’s childhood. The line of people waiting to get in examined us carefully. And for an hour after this, every little sound was delicious: the keys in our pocket, the creak of our seats, the bedsprings when we crawled into bed, effects in a soundtrack. Our sex was a little melodramatic, with a loopy grandeur. And afterwards we were so thirsty. We watched the solar eclipse in Dad’s welding helmet, his crusader’s helm, wobbling and blind. Our tongue always smarted with the astringent mint of the toothpaste when we moved to the bed, and she was always burning holes in her nylons with those goddamn Pell Mells. Sunday night you were alone in the farmhouse, near sunset. It had been a hot day, with cicadas humming in the corn, the sound rising into the hot blue silver. You took a bath, and when you walked into the living room, still a little wet, the curtains planed horizontal, and you could hear distant thunder. The radio was low, playing classical music. The corn leaves were active, but discreet. That night you sat on the front porch steps drinking your son’s Hi-C citrus cooler. A special events floodlight examined the horizon. Under a sky thick and like pewter, lying there reading with the window open, you heard a Brooklyn catbird imitate a car alarm, the series of warbles and chirps identical, and in the same sequence. The famous Car Alarm Bird. You like the way the brushes sound over the car radio when the drummer plays with a small ensemble. As the station gets further away, the sound of the brushes mixes with static, as though some small bright particles were bunched there at the end of his hands. You worry about the car when you leave the tarmac because the bottom pings with small stones from the hardpan. The red radio towers blink far ahead, and off to the right. Soon you move up under them.

Were beeth they biforen us weren, Houndes ledden and hawkes beren, And hadden feeld and wode? The riche ladies in hir bowr, That wereden gold in hir tressour, With hir brighte rode, Eten and drunken, and maden hem glad; Hir lif was al with gamen ylad, Men kneeleden hem biforen; They beren hem wel swithe hye. And in a twinkling of an ye Hir soules weren forloren. Where is that laughing and that song, That trailing and that proude gong, Tho hawkes and tho houndes? Al that joye is went away, That wele is comen to weylaway, To manye harde stoundes. Here paradis hy nomen here, And now they lien in helle ifere; The fuir hit brennes evere: Long is “ah!” and long is “oh!” Long is “wy!” and long is “wo!” Thennes ne cometh they nevere. Drey here, man, thenne, if thou wilt, A litel pine that me thee bit; Withdraw thine eyses ofte. They thy pine be unrede, And thou thenke on thy mede, It shall thee thinken softe. If that fend, that foule thing, Thorou wikke roun, thorou fals egging, Nethere thee haveth icast, down Up, and be good chaunpioun! Stond, ne fall namore adoun For a litel blast. Thou tak the rode to thy staf, And thenk on him that thereonne gaf His lif that wes so lef. He hit gaf for thee; thou yelde it him; Agein his fo that staf thou nim, And wrek him of that thef. Of righte bileve thou nim that sheld, The whiles that thou best in that feld, Thin hond to strengthen fonde, And kep thy fo with staves ord, And do that traitre seyen that word. Biget that murie londe. Thereinne is day withouten night, Withouten ende strengthe and might, And wreche of everich fo; Mid God himselven eche lif, And pes and rest withoute strif, Wele withouten wo. Mayden moder, hevene quene, Thou might and const and owest to bene Oure sheld agein the fende: Help us sunne for to flen, That we moten they sone iseen, In joye withouten ende.

Song 1 Julito used to shine the soul of his shoes before he left for the Palladium to take the wax off the floor while Tito Rodriguez flew around the walls like a parakeet choking maracas It was around this time that Julito threw away his cape because the Umbrella Man and the Dragons put the heat on all the Ricans who used to fly around in Dracula capes swinging canes or carrying umbrellas Even if there was no rain on the horizon That same epoca my mother got the urge to paint the living room pink and buy a new mirror with flamingoes elegantly on the right hand corner because the one we had was broken from the time that Carlos tried to put some respect Into Julito and knock the party out of him. Song 2 All the old Chevies that the gringoes from upstate New York wore out Were sailing around the neighborhood with dices and San Martin de Porres el negrito who turned catholic Hanging in the front windows. Song 3 There was still no central heating in the tenements We thought that the cold was the oldest thing on the planet earth We used to think about my Uncle Listo Who never left his hometown We’d picture him siting around cooling himself with a fan In that imaginary place called Puerto Rico.

Three teenage girls in tight red sleeveless blouses and black Capri pants And colorful headscarves secured in a knot to their chins Are walking down the hill, chatting, laughing, Cupping their cigarettes against the light rain, The closest to the road with her left thumb stuck out Not looking at the cars going past. Every Friday night to the dance, and wet or dry They get where they’re going, walk two miles or get a ride, And now the two-door 1950 Dodge, dark green Darkening as evening falls, stops, they nudge Each other, peer in, shrug, two scramble into the back seat, And the third, the boldest, famous For twice running away from home, slides in front with the man Who reaches across her body and pulls the door shut.

The old wooden steps to the front door where I was sitting that fall morning when you came downstairs, just awake, and my joy at sight of you (emerging into golden day— the dew almost frost) pulled me to my feet to tell you how much I loved you: those wooden steps are gone now, decayed replaced with granite, hard, gray, and handsome. The old steps live only in me: my feet and thighs remember them, and my hands still feel their splinters. Everything else about and around that house brings memories of others—of marriage, of my son. And the steps do too: I recall sitting there with my friend and her little son who died, or was it the second one who lives and thrives? And sitting there ‘in my life,’ often, alone or with my husband. Yet that one instant, your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, ‘I love you too,’ the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves spinning in silence down without any breeze to blow them, is what twines itself in my head and body across those slabs of wood that were warm, ancient, and now wait somewhere to be burnt.

Believe it or not, the old woman said, and I tried to picture it: a girl, the polished white ribs of a roast tied to her boots with twine, the twine coated with candle wax so she could glide uninterrupted across the ice— my mother, skating on bones.