209 Nostalgia poems

A host of poppies, a flight of swallows; A flurry of rain, and a wind that follows Shepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows For the forest is shaken and thinned. Over my head are the firs for rafter; The crows blow south, and my heart goes after; I kiss my hands to the world with laughter— Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind? Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather! How the barley breaks and blows together! Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather— Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways, How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be— But never again will theyr shade shelter me! And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

Even the gun shows are gone now, even the scrapyards, the darkest, farthest barns. The strip mall half empty since my elementary years abides only chemicals now, the lot sequestered behind fences, its metal tanks checked each September for leaks in the seals. I lost my virginity in a basement here, lost my balance on a backhoe, had to pick the gravel out of my knees. For the prom, my date was the tank man just vaporized in the heat storm, his data screen open to augmented porn. This morning in my Honda pedi-plane, I flew over where we used to sled, old hills oranged now for warning, only the edges still brown. I saw a denier sitting outside in a lawn chair, her hair so long it met the ground. There’s no idling in the skyways now, which is why I can’t tell you if she was dying.

Oh, Homer! Your village sleeps near the Missouri River With your cousin Winnebago, both children of Lakotaland. You kept your town at two stories, as flat as the surrounding prairie. You taught the Iliad and Odyssey in honor of your namesake poet. Your spirit outlasted the bleached fields of the Depression, and Bravely swam against the raging Omaha Creek floods. On warm, wet spring Saturday nights, You provided dark places for your young To launch your next generation In pickups, unlighted.

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I. AT TEN 1955. A scratchy waltz Buzzed over the ice rink’s P.A. My classmate Tony, the barber’s son: “Alls He wantsa do is, you know, like, play.” Bored with perfecting my languid figure eights, I trailed him to a basement door marked GENTS With its metal silhouette of high-laced skates (Symbols, I guess, of methods desire invents). Tony’s older brother was waiting inside. I’d been “requested,” it seemed. He was sixteen, Tall, rawboned, blue-eyed, Thumbs hooked into faded, tightening jeans. I fumbled with small talk, pretending to be shy. Looking past me, he slowly unzipped his fly. II. CALLAS Her voice: steeped in a rancid syrupy phlegm: Whatever’s not believed remains a grace While again she invokes the power that yields: Splintered timber and quick consuming flame: The simplest way to take hold of the heart’s Complications, its pool of spilt religion: A long black hair sweat-stuck to the skin: The bitter sleep of the dying: the Jew in Berlin: Who sent you here? the sharp blade pleads: Stormcloud: thornhedge: starchill: Blood bubble floating to the top of the glass: The light, from fleshrise to soulset: The world dragging the slow weight of its shame Like the train of pomp: guttering candle: her voice. III. IN CLASS Parasangs, satraps, the daily drill . . . Beginner’s Greek its own touchstone. The sophomore teacher was Father Moan, Whom I longed to have praise my skill. The illustrated reader’s best Accounts of murder and sacrifice Only suggested the heavy price I longed to pay at his behest. He’d slap the pointer against his thigh. I quivered. What coldness may construe Of devotion was an experience As hard to learn as catch his eye. I kept my hand up.Here! I knew The right answer. The case. The tense.

To Frank O’Hara Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the RCA Building and gaze at my world, Manhattan— my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in, lofts, beds, coldwater flats —on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind, its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men walking the size of specks of wool— Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine, sun go down over New Jersey where I was born & Paterson where I played with ants— my later loves on 15th Street, my greater loves of Lower East Side, my once fabulous amours in the Bronx faraway— paths crossing in these hidden streets, my history summed up, my absences and ecstasies in Harlem— —sun shining down on all I own in one eyeblink to the horizon in my last eternity— matter is water. Sad, I take the elevator and go down, pondering, and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s plateglass, faces, questioning after who loves, and stop, bemused in front of an automobile shopwindow standing lost in calm thought, traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me waiting for a moment when ... Time to go home & cook supper & listen to the romantic war news on the radio ... all movement stops & I walk in the timeless sadness of existence, tenderness flowing thru the buildings, my fingertips touching reality’s face, my own face streaked with tears in the mirror of some window—at dusk— where I have no desire— for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese lampshades of intellection— Confused by the spectacle around me, Man struggling up the street with packages, newspapers, ties, beautiful suits toward his desire Man, woman, streaming over the pavements red lights clocking hurried watches & movements at the curb— And all these streets leading so crosswise, honking, lengthily, by avenues stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums thru such halting traffic screaming cars and engines so painfully to this countryside, this graveyard this stillness on deathbed or mountain once seen never regained or desired in the mind to come where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear. New York, October 1958

I give a piece quite near away, then another, one and two to three and say good-bye with some dismay. We might have been twins, I born in May and she of the blistered January colored like the vibrant cray- on, clinging on to toys of the day, as mine become that of history. “Again,” she cries and I obey. I hold the script of the gone by matinee: before I ever found a scar, a yawn, a he; past the years I’ve spun to macramé. Soon I must go, and she will stay, dwelling under the apple tree, never to wander blind in first foray. Sentient air, lead her not to disarray. She flails. I walk. We are matching memory. I have things she never will, a little say. So I pull away and board the last ferry. Treasures, 2014 by Leanna Wright

Sorting out letters and piles of my old Canceled checks, old clippings, and yellow note cards That meant something once, I happened to find Your picture.That picture. I stopped there cold, Like a man raking piles of dead leaves in his yard Who has turned up a severed hand. Still, that first second, I was glad: you stand Just as you stood—shy, delicate, slender, In that long gown of green lace netting and daisies That you wore to our first dance. The sight of you stunned Us all. Well, our needs were different, then, And our ideals came easy. Then through the war and those two long years Overseas, the Japanese dead in their shacks Among dishes, dolls, and lost shoes; I carried This glimpse of you, there, to choke down my fear, Prove it had been, that it might come back. That was before we got married. —Before we drained out one another’s force With lies, self-denial, unspoken regret And the sick eyes that blame; before the divorce And the treachery. Say it: before we met. Still, I put back your picture. Someday, in due course, I will find that it’s still there.

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you? And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new! But you were living before that, And you are living after, And the memory I started at— My starting moves your laughter! I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about: For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather— Well, I forget the rest.