Conversation with the Wall - Kean Universityracaffre/poetry/Steering by The... · Web viewso bright and dark disguise your thoughts and shroud your feelings, yet your beauty shines

Late night fog hung over the field and obscured the wood like a veil of ancient mist from which the earth had not yet emerged.

I heard the midnight train brood slowly down the track.

I packed up my dreams and sent them ahead, somewhere, intending to follow them, later.

© Raymond T. Caffrey, 2004 1

Smitten

I am smitten by your charmsand wonder do you knowhow thoroughly your eyesso bright and dark disguise your thoughts and shroud your feelings, yet your beauty shines like the stars.

Our love shone warm and bright, memorable


as sunshine that washed over us and sang

like a soft sea breeze as we lay silent, still, together on the beach in July.

Our love disappeared slowly, more slowly Than the sun that day when dark, angry clouds

Obscured bright blue skys and banished the sun To pour torrential rain into an impervious sea.

Our love faded slowly when summer Slipped into a colorful fall and died

Away leaving these cold, snow white winter Nights that we now spend lonely and alone.

Her heart

(showed in her eyes with her every smile and she liked to smile;

she glowed when she spoke of her childrenand her grandchildren,

one a college graduate,


another a graduate student,

one a late surprise,a boy, of whom she was very proud.

She deferred,toward the end, to her husband who could still hearand she leaned toward him to see what she might have missed,

and they beamed together as they stood side by side In their eighties now)

Gave out at the last after 83 years,and he said,

“I close my eyes and look down fifty years and the best I can do is cry.”

Love Poem

What fiction will it be?

Shall I play Lancelotto your golden chaste Queen?Can fated love be stayedby the press of state?

Or you as Dectoraraving and mad,


while I, the strangeharp playing pirate,transmute your rageto desire that burnslike kindling?

Or are we simply the streetlightand the moth?

The Rose

The rose is perfect in its fluid scentAnd blossoms with plush contours In elegant shades of yellow, red,

Pink, silver, though never blue;Yet beneath the bloom grows a thicket,Thorns that will draw blood

From the embrace of the inexperiencedOr the naïve.


IF THE SHOES FIT,DANCE!

HIGHBROW IS NOT

FARREMOVED

FROM BALD


Conversation With The Wall (II)

There's kinds and kindsof suicide.

Fred wasn'tsixtyyet, when he died.

He gotthe painsupon his chest

and took no heeduntil the best

doctorswere too little too late:

not fairto lifeto call that fate.


I have always wanted an Aeolian Harpand a house in a woodnear the city.


Conversation With The Wall (III)

I lost my sense of yesterday:an angular womanreluctant in bed who hadher way with men

eluded insight, hopped downthe underground steps into a subway car at Forty-Second street.

She had something to sayat the last, somethingindistinct--a woman's voicevaguely lost in the fast fading roar.

When she was gone, she was gone: no residue of feeling hoveredround the platform. I was aloneto notice the old tile walls

of richly decorated mosaicstreet signs, and the hollowsilence of the place between trains.


Ordinary Time III

I've got some paper,half an inch or so--my fountain pen's ready to go.

I've got some time,a rarity,and no one's hereto bother me.

There's a cool breeze;the rose in bloom:I'm at peacethis afternoon.

But what to write?What to say?To hell with it!I'll sit today.


This poem came to melike a pigeon flying over my picnic tableleaving a semi-permanent impression:

You need your seatto fly your plane,to ride your bike(comfortably),to drive your car;

you can swing from your neckand walk on your hands or crawl on your knees(if you want to),

but you cannotsit while standingunless you’ re a pigeon.


Your fear scares me Most; not your moods, Nor their swings:

It is your fear That scares me most.

When you feel awfulI feel awful too.

I cannot help itAnymore than you


Can help feeling so Awful when you do,

But it worries meWhen you feel awful

On our one day off.

Highly polished verseReflects what it observes; Like a large sphere, An oversized, mirroringChristmas tree ornament, That distorts what it reflects.


Nor Rainbow

A drab sunsetgone grey, opaque,wet by summer'sthin, dull drizzle;

neither thunder,nor rain, nor wind-swept cries of benttrees, neither light-

ning nor rainbow to signal the endof tearful daysand anxious nights


while we wait, waitfor some new start,for some new hopeof love's return.

When you show your horse to the water, you do not expect that he will throw himself in and drown.


Twisting venue, no crossroads,The dark wooded night Through headlights flowed.Coarse haired winter had nearly died.

What wasted time do you regret While you watch the full moon Begin to set behind blackened trees?Do you feel the dream is gone?

Do you drive fast at nightWith the radio on and sing alongNot quite knowing The words to the song?


Right when I sayThings can't get worsethe beetles killoff the roses!


My Study

My study is cluttered with Papers: Papers everywhere: Papers in notebooks, Papers on file,Papers in boxes,Papers piled high; Papers in foldersPapers galore,Papers in bindersstacked on the floor.

I've got papersDividing papers,Paper to chokeA horse, yetIt takes so veryMuch paperTo capture so veryFew thoughts.


I did what I didand got little donebut all that I did,I done in good fun.


Late to bed;early to rise;makes one wishone were wealthy!

On Canary Bond(Late October)

This paper is so-so;it will not take ink.Cold air is pushingsummer to the brinkof a fall to prolong winter.


The Series is awful--the best they can dois not even baseball:St. Louis in red,Milwaukee in blue.Nothing to remember. Nothing.

I'm restless with yellow,eager to exchangethe last of this old reamfor the white one,to change the wayI'm seeing October.

One can roundly dispatchtwo thousand sound menwith a single wagof the female's ass,but no heap of sensehas ever quelled


the resounding bellowof the donkey's jaw bone.

Poetry Night

I rode the elite elevator and stood among the elitein elevator silence as we sped to a vertiginous height.

A man in full, greying sideburns with a smooth,shining head perched atop a blue turtleneck sweater,his three button tweed jacket buttoned up tight, stoodsilent and glossy as his polished mahogany umbrella handle.

A woman, separate and large in shining black fur lookedsoft as a panda; her black boots rose well into her long


fur, and her dark eyes glowed as she stood apart; her acridsilence hummed through tight clenched, dark red lips,like the sealed elevator that hummed its way upward.

I stood in a metal corner and watched blinking lightsflash numbers from left to right where it stopped at twelve.

Dull metal doors parted slowly and disappeared.Black fur exercised female prerogative and pushedher way through the crowd and the opened doorway.She turned right and lumbered away, making hastewith short, heavy, slow strides. The shining head looked round with the quick movements of a small bird, and marched off.

I stepped from the emptied elevator to a brass picket rail that overlooked the floor twelve stories below: the distance tugged and drained blood from my groin and my legs felt weak; the fall was steep; the distant floor of black and white rose in three dimensions, jagged like hewn rocks sadistically set in perfect diagonal rows--an Escher etching, over-enlarged, magnified, compelling, dangerous.

******************************************

An elder sentry in thin lapels, his hands folded overhis zipper in watering hole pose, barred entry to the hall:a slight woman of some years sat, officiously stiff, behinda bare table and exchanged entry for cash, tickets,


or passes. She checked off names with practiced, absorbed concentration.

Three tiers were expected: those who would pay, those above paying, and those beneath paying: the coerced, students of the venerable Whisp, the uninitiated.

I produced my summons; the elder lady found my name

and with a stiff back, a serious look, and her short pencil,

she carefully drew a check mark and waved me on with a nod.

Her quiet sentry, politely chagrined, winningly mustered

a bland smile, and asked, near embarrassment, if I would be kind enough to point out to him the young lady, Laura Blume.

Ms. Blume had risen lately, beyond elite, straightup from coerced. She'd ascended, some said, indecently,like helium balloons let loose.

"No," I smiled. "Can't say as I've ever seen her."Who has not heard her name? From behind mecame a feeble voice that said, "Yes, I can." I lookedround to find a fellow student who overheardthe gentleman's hushed question and could notresist the urge to raise his hand with a right answer.He leaned toward the tall, thin grey sentry, surveyedthe room with a shrewd eye, and careful not to point,stood still as a dog trained for the hunt, aimed hisdeliberate stare toward the very center of the gatheredcrowd, and said, "She is the one in the white blouse."The distinguished old gentleman followed the lineof the young man's nose and blinked in recognition:


"Ah," he said as he slowly, politely licked his lipand wrinkled his forehead in some slight confusion.

Laura Blume, her hands folded and buriedin her ample lap, sat straight up with the plumpcalm of a queen planted like the center-pieceof a small, unruly garden.

Professor Whisp, the main event, had not arrived.

******************************************

The crowd, fully swollen, was lost in the hallwhose rarefied air breathed with détente,disappointed in this small gathering,whose loudest din echoed like the buzzof an insect circling high ceiling lights.

I chose a seat near a side exit and surveyedthe door; a heavy dark grained wood hungsnugly on elaborate brass hinges. I steppedto the door and turned a smooth handful of brassknob to test the route of my early escape. A shrill bell sounded a shocking alarm that echoed aloud in the hall's spacious quiet.

The crowd's buzz died of a sudden: a startled hushfell on the floor. Stunned eyes searched roundand found me standing below the lit exit sign:I was caught as if with my finger in the pie.Disinterest returned and the silent pause gaveway to a slowly rising hum that reascended to buzz.

At length and later than she liked, a lady, whose pureantique charm shone like a mirror veneer poisedwith a stiff neck, stood. Her head tilted slightly upwardand to one side to display, to some advantage and without


ostentation, her short string of yellowed pearls:"May I have your attention!" she insisted, leaning towardthe microphone, "May I have your kind attention!!"She waited with watchful persistence.

A deferential hush fell over the hall and amplifiedthe echo of metal folding chairs banging: a moment'sclamorous clanging shuffle and all were seated.Laura Blume rose up in mid-declaration and trottedheavily from her central seat, her head slightly bent,she picked her way modestly, slowly hurrying till shesat at the long bare folding table beside the podium,next Whisp's right arm: for Whisp had arrived.

******************************************

"It is our enormous good fortune," the stiff neckedpearls insisted into the microphone clampedprecariously to the podium, "an honor and what

a distinction, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, and extreme,talk, talk, talk, among above, talk, talk, talk," she smiled.Up popped Whisp, though not far enough. He reachedup for the microphone, pulled it down, then down again.He fumbled his thick black-framed glasses, caught themin mid-air and struck them against the microphone,nearly tossed his papers, grabbed them, slid his glassesover his ears, propped them on his nose and openeda book of his own doing . . .

As from a cupboard, like a politician cock roach,with a bow and a blink, Whisp nodded and began:"The purpose and aim of the poetry talk talk talk talk.


I'll show you what I mean by reading a poem talk talk.A blurred title and on sung Whisp:something a mermaid off on her own in the sea.The microphone lisped and hummed,Talk, talk talk talk," and Whisp had done.

******************************************

Laura Blume rose up, bumped into Whispas they danced round one another in a tightcircle. Whisp sat, smiling broadly, while Laurastood, discretely raising up the microphone.With intense calm in her tight, quiet voice,Laura lamented that her light was dimmedby forever trailing Whisp's golden glow,though her tone told the silent she was everybit of it equal to the task: "It is the bane of mylife, the curse of my career to have alwaysto follow Professor, dear Professor Whisp. Talk,talk, talk, talk. Talk, talk talk talk . . .

******************************************

I leaned back in my folding chair and thoughtof the river as it was when I drove beside it onmy way to this chair: the water was still, frozen,jagged; it gleamed like glass debris, stuck, caughtas if in a ragged mood while the sun settleddistant and cool behind the factory silhouetteskyline on the Jersey side.

******************************************

talk, talk talk, talk, talk, talk . . ."Laura was suddenly reading a poem of her own:an Irish coffee, a misty field and shadowy exchangesbetween vague figures in the dew cook rain talk, talktalk, talk talk talk, talktalktalktalk!"


"Are there any questions," she paused.Whisp blinked hopefully, dangerouslydrawing his glasses from his nose . . .

An elderly gentleman stood, and as he strokedhis beard, he said he thought Talk was goodso far as Talk went, but it made too little senseto him and did not at all account for talk, talk, talk, and talk!

Whisp restored his glasses to his head and lookedthough his papers, leaving Laura to lurch for herself:"Talk means talk, and talk, talk, taalk," her voicepitched higher, "talk, talk, talk," and squeaked, "Talk!"

Whisp drew his glasses from his nose and shonebrightly: he did not rise, and from his chair, whileLaura stood turning toward him, he said, "Talk. Talk.Talk, talk; talk--talk? Talk: TALK! ! !" and he conciliated,"I should have grown a beard for having said that,it was so wise."

The silence tittered and the gentleman sat, shaking his head.

Whisp beamed for more when up popped declining eleganceto say the hour had come for this distinct honor to end.

"Some of us must go and others can stay, but all are welcome and we must express our deepest gratitude, talk, talk, talk . . ." She'd not finished before chairs began to bang and raise


a metal clang that echoed in the grateful hall which breathed more easily knowing that this buzzing insect would soon cease to trouble its solitude.

I squeezed into the first elevator with the crushed elite,hopped across the jagged stone floor on my way to the door, ran to my car and raced to be gone.


Ordinary TimeSEVEN

One can weary of the sunas symbolas one wearies of the symbolicrose.

One can weary of the earthtranscendentas one wearies of the romanticpose.

But the sun burning whiteon bright, new driven snowas it lies on branchesof the dormant rosegives hope for the new springand rouses my soul.

Conversation With The Wall (IX)


When you can't see the wallfor the writingand the last bit of light'sfor ignitingnew sparks of contention . . .

When you can't see the treesfor the forestand the last couple yearswere the hardestto still old resentment . . .

When you can't see the scenefor the close-upand a grimace tells allor most ofyour tale of dissension . . .

it seems not to matterthat spring has come.


Sometimes it is hard to be amusedOr even crack a smile.

She was hard,Pure hardLike stone,


Like crystal, Like lightning,Like diamonds.

The poet felt the oceanAnd praised the ocean’s purity. He saw the moon spread A wide beam on the waterAnd stop at the surfaceAs if the black depthOf the ocean at nightWere impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tideAnd his blood tookIts rhythm and his shipRolled at once with the ocean.


The ocean heaves pure and blind,Faithful only to the moon:It casts its song to every windAnd sings its airs like the witch That conjures life.

And the ocean is untrammeled.

Two Distinguished “T”s

There are two distinguished "T"sin "Literature,"and like stanchions in a bridge,they uphold their suspended"era,"

but never have "T”sheld forth with such swayas those two tipsy "T”sin "Tits."


Consternation

Every now and againto my complete surpriseI find myself behind the not so mythic rock.

Never have I enviedSisyphus' aerobiclot. Up that hill he'd go:strong legs, strong back, and will

for the climb. He'd not beundone by hill, his rock,fate, or the gods. Atopthe mountain he'd look out

over the fields and watchas his work came to naught:did he sigh as his rock, letloose, rolled down the mountain?

Or did the spectacleof a huge rock jumpingand bounding, gathering speed as it fell down hill


please him, make the journeyworth his while? Did the godslaugh at him? Or did they too, in time, grow weary

of the repetitiousspectacle of a manpushing a rock uphillto watch it fall back down

to the bottom where hebegan. At least he knewwhere to push his mythicrock. I have no idea

what to do with my own.


Love Poem II

You're the milk in my oatmeal!(I hate love poems).You're the sun in my heart(But I will persist).

You're the rain on my garden,The bloom on the rose.You're the crease in my trousers.You're the stars at night

When the moon is new;You're the morning breeze(One metaphor is good as anotherTo a reluctant poet).

You're the blue in my skies,The colors of fall,The white on the snow.You're my recurring dream.


Once it was an issuebetween the lady and the man;who held the sway domesticwas said to wear the pants;

In time, the clothes designersput the ladies into slacks,to which the fashion factoryfor skirts needs must fight back;

Thus in this age of woman's right,in this the age of rockets,the skirt designers taught us allit's not the pants, it's pockets!


Whatever happened, the trees would not tell though they whispered softly to a passingbreeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalkand curb that lamented disfigurement in stoical silence, nor the shallow brook that flowed slowly in hushed ripples past a wooden bridge, round curved banks, cascading quietly toward the dam it had ruined, and the gorge it cut in turbulent times when the winds blew and clouds fled hurriedly, oblivious, as if summoned away suddenly to answer a cry for help like the police cars, and fire enginesand ambulances, that raced with flashing red and blue and white lights and loud sirensscreaming, screaming, to the road by the streamnear the walk bridge late last night.


Patch it up often enoughand it will ride like an old

asphalt road with poorly filledwinter pot holes, and it will

take us no-where slowly ingreat discomfort,you and I.

Walking the dog--a light spring drizzleblown on a breeze; the full moon hidden behind thick clouds: opaque,a bright dark grey.


Rain fell gently, cool.Willows alone among stark blacktrees draped in yellow-greengone to mauve greyin the wet light of street lamps.

The dog's fur damped; he gives a good shake.Rain glistens on new grass,early wild onions, closed tulip buds,tiny green azalea leaves.Plump wet rhododendron buds promisepurple flowers,now wet, grey beneath low grey skies.

The dog resists the door,shakes beaded rain drops from his fur.He sniffs the ground for one last scentand the random moment passes.

Stir-fry

I've been under-hammedand over cheesed;I've been mustard and pickled to death.

I've been iodizedand tarragoned;I've been souped with


cloved finesse.

I've been olive oiledand vinegared;I've been kissed withgarlic breath.

I've been oatmealed,Rosemaryed and fried riced;I’ve been red winedto excess.

I've been basiled, dilled,onioned and thymedtill I'm scare crows in distress.

Ordinary Time

Simple grey boatanchored, afloaton still water;

a grey perfect skymerged with tree tops'rich subdued green;


white grey lake fogrisen;

an old wood dockgone blackwith age,

we sat alone,at peace,away.

Never Knew A Hooker

Never knew a Hookerdidn't say that she was clean;never struck a workerdidn't lose more than his gain;never blew a blow-harddidn't blow the final scene;never grew a gardendidn't get some heavy rain;never sat the juror wasn't guilty of some crime;never lived the poet


wouldn't kill to make a rhyme.

I photographed the flood:a raging muddy tide,the brook become the deluge;

debris strewn on the walk bridge;the downstream dam drowned,a dimple in the racing current.

Trailing clouds fled on a windthat painted the sky brilliant blueto mock the ravaged wood,

My shutter clicked in expectation:this urgent, brutal storm,its terror etched in Kodachrome

through a perfect Nikon lens . . .but the film jammed beforeI began. Now I have photos


of a sunny day, a lovely womanreading a book, sitting by the bankof a shallow, clear stream.

Arroganceis theboisterous side of stupid.


Regrets

Sadly, I must say,after looking forward(as I did)to so lively an invitationI cannot now come;

for I have suddenlyfound, stashed in my atticthree rather largeunsightly cratesof fine crystal stemwarethat I really must smashdirectly.

What a nuisance!


Some motives run deep--unfathomableas oceans, decep-tive as keen edged seasthat cut the skyalong distinct horizon lines.


I forget where I’m fromI’ve been here so long.Life can be sad sometimes:What you forget, andWhat you can’t forget;What you remember andWhat you can’t recall:There are places I’ve beenAnd people, more peopleThan places, whose namesI forget. Some peopleMade me angry and some

Made me smile. SometimesI see a familiar face but can’tRemember the name. Now and thenI meet someone who knows mebut can’t recall my name—I’m perfectly happy thento let the forgotten pasttrouble someone else.


My clock chimes onceto call half-pastand once for oneo'clock,

which makes it hardpast twelve till twoto say for surewhat's what.

Steering By The Meteors

Everyone ought to have heart, lips, one dominant trait, sox, soul, a rifle, baseball cards, gas, fingers,feelings, tulips, spacemen, a beach ball, toes, lake front property, sex, snow, grandparents, luck, candles, "it'sneverbeenlikethisbefore," at least once; shoes,


shoulders, strawberries in June, a fancy car, moods, no need to care for one full hour, Irish Whiskey, felt-tip pens, birthdays, luxurious lamb skin now and again, a flat tire, Lenox, a nice carpet, remote control, peace of mind, one pink rose, elders, a full portion of fish, God, cabbage, an adjustable wrench, rest, style, hair to last a life-time, daffodils, cheese-cake, an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle, autumn leaves, grass, annoyance, soft hands, a bookcase, cherries, neighbors, cash, a dog, split infinitives, good teeth to chew a steak, a walk along the brook, no sense of time, a long coat, wine, feet, Ds in math, a waltz, pain, boots, chocolate, jeans, Waterford, fountain pens, rocks, dreams, tennis, good legs, cognac, books, ghosts, CDs, sunshine, ties, an understanding of James Joyce, a rosary, DVDs, a bike, trash, paintings, a chain saw, fond memories, a cell phone, remorse, a good baseball glove, a little fear, Knicks tickets, bank hours, purpose, silver dollars, a Steinway,Halloween candy, one gold ring, true love, warm nights, sound sleep, and a good laugh!


caution

In caseof

stai

rway,

use

elevator


When you listenclosely to an idea, and youcan not hear its heart beat, you mustknow it is dead.

Mourn its demise;Sing songs of praise;Eulogize;lament its passing,but say good-bye:it's dead.

Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts;no word from Fathom who studied the starsto chart his course between Venus and Mars.

*******************************


Who knows the scent of fishing boats,the slippery feel of live bait?Who knows the endless hours afloaton oil-slicked bays in hopeful waitfor the subtle bite that rarely came?

*******************************

The Bookend Diner's thin chicken souptasted like puddles, but it was worthFathom's dollar to be out of the rain,a tranquil summer day's shocking turnwith sudden lightning, thunder, and wind to make the city howl!

*******************************

No rest for the weary, thought Fathom,hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sunfrom bright blue skies with torrents of bitter invective spit like this wind driven rain against the Bookend's glass facade.

*******************************

Some things still make sense, he thought,sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothingunder heaven like a pale blue fifty-sevenChevy. You could trust Ted Williams to hit.Count on Ray Charles, Henry Fielding, Portia,Marilyn Monroe, Little Richard, John Lennon, Davie Crockett, Constance Reid,and Premium Saltines in cellophane wrappersto kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.

*******************************

Fathom watched an old man, fresh


from the sea, the scent of fish on his hands, he sipped the Bookend's tea, and listed to one side and then to the other like an old boat rocking gently on still waters.He seemed not to notice the storm.Fathom bailed out his shallow soup bowl with quick scoopsas if to keep his ship afloat.

*******************************

The Lone Ranger did not ride alone,Fathom thought, chewing his saltines.Things are not always as they seem--there was Tonto always near, and Ciscohad Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza,and who knows what went on betweenBeatrice and George, Tom and Sophie,Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and MaryFord? Well, there's always Natty BumppoAbbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it maybe so for all I know, he thought, as he pushedhard to open the Bookend's glass door and walked out into the wind blown rain.

Once I had a cataract--quite a nasty blur--made it hard to tell for sure


precisely where we were;

a cataract replacementfixed that eye but good.Now I struggle over much: it sees more than it should.

I saw you on the street last night;although we've not met for a long time, your face was pretty as ever it was, and you saw

me, too. I caught your eye and yours met mine, but I could neither stopto say hello, nor rememberyour name. I walked quickly away

to my next appointed chore. I tried to conjure your name. I dressed you in a white uniform, placed you behind a store counter


to no avail; I sketched your face and searched for your name like one walking through dark library stacks searching for a familiar title,

but I could not find your name, and today, your look of recognition,your brief look of disappointment when I failed to acknowledge you,

whose smile so easily comes to mind, trouble me still.

Early Spring

The New Year bounded along like a rockjumping, bouncing down a severe incline.The Sun seemed to lose its way; it settled in the south west sky as if gone astray.

By March the Sun eclipsed the Moon and Hale-Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds

of trailing star dust as it skid acrossthe sky. Crocuses bloomed, then came wild yellow daffodils and forsythia, purpleand white hyacinths. Magnolia trees

blossomed pink and the dogwoods flowered white. Easter rushed up like an over-eager


child in pursuit of chocolate, and then Vas died, as he said he would, on Easter

Sunday. With overcast hearts and tearful smiles, we walked with him to his bright, Spring Grave beneath a blue sky and a brilliant sun on Friday, a little numb, a little stunned,

sad and lonely to be without him.

a blank sheet of paperhas marvelous potential

possibilities aboundlike the stars on a clear night

when a new moon tugs at the tides from

invisible heights


Trying to thinkat present islike fishing in a squall

There are fishout there but I'll be damned if I can catch them


Nothing dries sooner than tearsnot the rainnot the dewnot the first frost of fall


Love

Too close for words to say what we mean;too close to mean what words can say:

is that love, or is that love's ghost: the old cherry tree that failed to blossom, or the recurring echoof a rose?


Saturday

We lived a glorious sunshine day with cloudless skies, vast and blue;our hearts filled with expectation,excited hope and joy,when suddenlyovernightwithout warning, it struck like a tornado, rising up from nowhere--and it shattered our hope,confounded our understanding,leveled our securely grounded assumptions: those things we believed,those things we knew,those things for which we livedwere tossed about like rubbishcaught in violent swirling winds--our hopes were raised highspun round and dashed to the earth where we dug a small and shallow gravefor our darling baby, Lilah.


Strong-willedis not necessarilystrong-minded.


Before you INVOKEthe ineffable,build a SMALL corral round the obvious.

Some thingsI'd rather forget;some things I'd like to relive.


Some thingsI do are clearlyworthwhile;some maketoo little sense.

Evening Song

Twilight descends like a delicate threat;the silent breeze whispers an ageless taleof darkest night--harmonious discord evoking quivers of unrememberedfear. Between the moon and night runs Venusdripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astraylike an errant diamond, rife with cosmicsentiment. There's magic in the echo of the Jimson lily's silent song--sunglike the sirens' symphony to enchantthe moon. The ocean rushes a high tide


to soothe the weary shore: wave after whitewave smooths its face worn with foot prints and

sandcastles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless

figures of sleepless dreams emerge from within tallancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave oldyarns of joyful days and estrous nights when Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rodea brilliant white stallion from North to Southacross white lily fields and rainbows archedthe land from sea to sea and happy werewe then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment.

More than the sunriseMore than the mountainsMore than the thinnest crescent moonMore than the blue light of duskMore than the spring’s first rain

More than the faint light of dawnMore than the willow’s first yellowMore than the daffodil’s first blossomMore than the oceanMore than the summer’s first roseMore than the pink gladiola


More than the autumn’s riot of colorMore than the early setting sunMore than the winter’s first soft snow

I love you more and our love is endless. Our love transcends time.

When you wantWhat you want When you wantIt, you getWhat you get.


I’ve got my old shoes on;They’ve been with me for years.My shirt’s nearly ten.These jeans are so oldThey’ve worn thin:Got a small hole in the right leg And the lining’s gone From the pockets in front and Wearing them, I can’t tellAbout the seat, but I can guess.


Sunsetburned goldwithout glare;

spring and sucha dry spell.

The lawn turned earth's best greenbut sparsly;

rain came, light, fine;

half-a rainbow--formed then fadedslowlyimperceptibly;

a sheer cloudhung before a perfect round, pale,setting sun;

we watched with wonder,near fear,


to see the sunlook so like the perfect placid, deadfull moon.

Hypocrisy’s blinding glare toooften obscuresthe hypocritewhose face appears In the mirror.


What do you live with?Everyone lives with something;

What you live withShows: on your face,

In your eyes,In your walk;

It gives meaningTo the furrows in your brow;

It colors your smile, Deepens your frown,

Paces your gait.Does it lend beauty

To your face?It can, you know.


The Salem Witch

Once I'd seen the witchit was difficultever moreto findthe comelyyoung womanin fur and plumewho first caughtmy eye.


Ashley Pond

What do you do

Now thatYou’ve done?

And what Are we

To do?

Broke my heartIt didWhen that baby Was born


Dead. My Tears fell Like Sheets Of rain from a black-Grey sky and doused The fire In my soul. My Heart stood Still, stunned, shocked. I doubled Over with grief.My blood Ran cold and I felt HollowLike a vacantHouseAbandoned, empty.

Conversation with the Wall (VI)

Sometimes I feel the dreamhas gone, fled to patchesof grey smoke, like the blazeof glory that filled the night sky with miraculous coloron the fourth of July.


Sometimes I feel the dreamhas gone, like the sunnear the end of October.

Sometimes I feel the dreamhas gone to Halloweennightmares stalkingdark streets, kicking dried leaves,pacing in search of randomgestures of peace.

Long standing intolerancebegins to look like patience, in time.

Conflict and contention,the ritual argument,create one sort of intimacy,


but a smile,a kind word, an uncalculatedkiss will do as well if what you want is intimacy.

the moment wants moment like late night television: the honeymooners bark in black and white, between colorful commericals for soap, cars, real estate, food, insurance--the lost episodes of kitchen table drama with never a snowfall to stall the domestic bus of state.


Between you, me, the post and pillar,Cinderella's story of that nice prince, a pumpkin coach and slipper, sounds fishy as Moby Dick.


At timesThe dead are real,Their presencePalpable as music to the deaf,Color to the blindSong to the mute.The dead are real And incomprehensible As death.


The sunset sky was blue, Blue, bright blue near the rooftopsJust above the yellow sky at the line of the roof.

Below, six stories of brick and window, more window than brick, were dark, as if night fell early in the narrow street.

Down the front of the building, past archedwindows and rectangular windows ran a metal stairway, of rusted wrought iron, the skeleton of stairs.

Parked cars sat heavily, inert, like the blue grey slate stones of the sidewalk.

From the dark street shone neon lights of blue and yellow and red and white and gold. White streetlights carved vague shadowson blue grey slate stone sidewalks. The corner streetlight flashed “Don’t walk” in red. Blue lights and white lights shone from windows.

A bicycle with an over-large basket and a wrapped packaged waited for a rider. No one walked and no one drove and no one looked from the windows.

Bright green traffic lights turned amber, turned red and held till red turned green, no matter that no one came.


No matter that the sky above was blue.

Pretense

If you pretend to beWhat you are notYou may becomeWhat you pretend to be(For better or for worse).


grief is self-concentrated; the heavy heart self-absorbed:

unavoidable,perhaps.


We agonized along hot city side-Walks in summer and picked a careful way Over ice in bitterly cold winter Winds to find tea and scones while we studied Ways to explore, perfect, perhaps justify Intimacy. Were we intimate Then when we wondered aloud if this con-Fusion were love or what might it be if Not and why such fascination, why such Urgent desire, why the desire To check desire, why the concentrationOn one another when we were apart, Why the cautious first moments each time we met?

When we were together, Sensitive to one anotherProtective of ourselves—We saw ourselves as if in an oddLight that shone in two directionsAt once and revealed one thing to youAnd another to me.

The stone behind the dark glasseson the snow cone is the King;The queen is in her pantry eating pies.

Crawling down the hallway


past the butter, past the sink,the prince is having visions with his eyes.

The Joker traded motleyfor a pin-striped vested suit;His wife puffed out her cheeks and picked his ties.

The priest is running groceries to the revels in the hills;the nuns are painting checkerson the skies.

Princess Carolina dressed In crinoline contrives to raise her skirt and wink at all the guys.

Robin Hood poured Mariona brandy while the friar drank a punch that blackenedboth his eyes.


The inevitable always comesAs a shock.

When first I saw youI felt a sudden shock Of recognition:

Something was likelyTo come of our Meeting, or was it?


Did you share that shock?Did you feel my shockIn that first moment?

I have arrived at that point In my lifeWhen the need to be polite, Diplomatic,Inoffensive to prevailing sensitivities,Sensibilities,Is exceeded only By the inveterate need To have my sayright or wrong.


The Black sheepSeems always To ownA good brush And nice black paint.


Discarded Past

Winter Olympics. February. Lent.Snow. Snow. Cold. Like sea shells tossed on frozennight sands, memories rose in dreams drawnby full moon tides: scattered images vividas her face, staring out a bus window:sad, mysterious--I felt her look. Why?What? She would not say . . . young. We had just met,she, her girlfriend and I. Coincidence:a day trip--she was the guest of her friend's parents; I the guest of an old teacher.Bright, warm, summer sun, afternoon--her facehad changed--her slim friend: I had come to seeher--we knew that. Her pretty face eludesme now. Roy Orbison--"Crying," "OnlyThe Lonely"--on a small diner jukebox.I tried to smoke a cigarette--my firstpack. "You look silly," she said. "Let him be,"came in my defense, though I played the fool.A beach in summer, change: I was taller;she was thin. Her mother had a number:a house full of girls. I called. "She's not here,now. I don't know where she is. She starts work


at five." I said I'd try my luck. My friendsfrom school were with me--my ride--a car full.A huge beach house: I knocked. A girl answered,curious. "She's home now," and she appearedlooking rushed, unsettled, slightly annoyedby this surprise visit: she tried to smile.She worked as a waitress in the evenings--they found her on the beach and rushed her back.No time to change: make-up, perfume, her long black hair pinned back, her thin legs tan in shorts pulledover a bikini, a light sheer blouse--she did not know why I was there, or whythere was a car full of boys at the curbstaring, curious as we walked toward them.I felt shy, stunned by her beauty--the change:subtle experience, savvy. She foundme naive. We climbed into the back seatand sat close to one another: she wasone in a crowd of strangers, my politefriends. I felt warm in contact with her, tongue-tied: she sided with my crowd who teased me:"you look flushed," came from the front seat. She touched my face, "Yes! He's in heat!" That got a laugh. A sedate party in my father's Back yard--we'd finished high school. My home town crowd--she had somewhere to go, but she would stop for a brief visit. She arrivedI heels and stockings, a darkish dress, her full blackhair perfect--she was at her loveliest, her face smooth, her smile relaxed, her eyes dark and bright at once--a beautiful stranger--the crowd went silent as she found her way through the roses in the fading sunlight and smiled. One night,


a year later? Summer vacation. College. I was home from school and a strange classmate appeared with a car.I called--she was home--we drove to her house--she and I sat on a couch in a large parlor with a stereo and my friend. He felt like my ride, sat alone, apart,unsure of his role--he tried to ignore us, and we tried to include him. We talked--now and again we held hands--discreetly--the touch of her delicate hand was soft and warm. When we were leaving, she stopped me on the landing atop the stairs and kissed me. We held one another . . . gently. I was surprised, naive as I was. Long afterward I could still feel her presence like a comfort. The memory faded, though, in time, like the passing of roses. A bright autumn evening--I was engaged and she was seeing someone--we asked herto come with us to see the of The Sound of Music in a large, old movie theatre near her house--she declined but asked us to visit before the show. When we arrived she and her mother sat us down to dinner with her family--she was sensitive and alert, in touch with usand with her mother in a quiet way. It felt odd, though, to eat and leave her there in the driveway, waving good-bye to us. The wedding was a crowded, rushed affair--she was radiant, coming down the church stairs to greet us. She introduced the man who would


become her husband, an older man. I hoped to see them later, but no, they would not come to the reception hall--was she, by then, and in the company of her own fiancé, uncomfortable in her role of the beautiful stranger?Time went by like a subway ride--a blurthrough darkness and light--how long ago hadI spoken with her? I called her motherto ask how she was. She said she could usea call from me--get her back in touch withsome of "the old crowd," now that her babywas born. I called, eager to hear of herhusband and baby, her home, her new life--I hoped to persuade her to visit us,meet my boy, and I was stunned by, "How didyou get my number? Why did you call me?I'm married! I have a baby! I have a husband!" "I know." I was shocked. "I met your husband at my wedding." I did not know what to say. "I'm sorry to trouble you so. Did your husband dislike me? Us?" "No. He said you were a 'nice young man'." "So . . . What's wrong?" She wouldn't say why she was so upset. I was shocked and confused, sorry to feel I threatened her, though I did notunderstand. "I don't want to trouble you.I won't call again. Don't worry. Good-bye."I felt embarrassed, foolish, discarded,like a shameful past. That was twenty yearsago, or more--a generation--then there she was again--vivid as her facestaring out a bus window--a winternight's dream tossed memories like oldsea shells on cold sands, bright, beneath a full moon.


Ulysses Sails The Short Cutto His Consolation

The eyes are bad,my teeth, my knees;one shoulder hurts'tis what one sees . . .


One finger's bent,a weakened squeeze,the lower back . . .well, if you please

it's wear and tear!It may have gone grey,but I've got my hair.

Random, random, random in tandemA coke can rolled down the road.

The circus train crept past the parkHeavy, like a tanker sitting lowIn the water, inching up river,Exhausted, on the last leg of its long journey.

The phone rang. I woke. Lost. Where am I? What time is it? Dream merged with waking:I was in Cincinnati when the phoneRang and I ran to answer and wokeFrom my dream more real than The ringing phone.

“Tending bar is not respectable.He should not tend bar.”She spoke with disgust on her face.Disgust easily found its way to her face.


A smile struggled with her ready-made Lines of disgust. She could not distort Those lines to make a smile, so deeply carvedInto her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.

The paperboy walked stiffly, his back to the wind,His cap pulled down to cover his face. The wind cut through his blue jeans and icedThe front of his legs till they were numb and stung. The wind sliced sharply across lawns buried beneath Snow that obliterated boundaries and hid concrete Walkways and curbs and streets. Snow drifts roundedWhite by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brookBut the heavy snow could not disguise the small, Uniform houses that shot up suddenly like patches Of corn that divided the field into barren lots Where greedy men planted cinder blocks.

Christmas came like a winter stormOf wrapping and bows and boxesAnd it went in light black plastic bagsWith empty wine bottles clinking together.


Christine and cookies,Oh, Margaret a lot,Hester’s green tea andThe morning was shot.

Breathless VirginiaCrammed plans into plans,Fifteen for dinnerAll stuffed in three vans.

Clara rode donkeyIn boots with her smiles


While Bob kissed the princessIn back of the files.

Stale chocolate cake Was what we all got. Jane cried out loud: “My coffee’s not hot.”

Dessert

“We’ve sweet apple piewith coffee cake icingserved with a cinnamon sting;

then heavy sliced portions of chocolate moussecheesecake smothered instrawberry sauce;

or Burgundy flamed Meringue baked Alaskawith rum-tasting peaches and cream.”

Her blouse was undoneAnd she spoke with emotion


That conjured unearthlyDelights: a long night

Of cheesecake, or peaches And cream or hot apple pie.

Gallery

The curator paced--window to counter,counter to office, office to window . . . .

Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thinlegs waked an aged strut, impervious,her look pursed in thin-lipped wrinkles:"Tell me how I can assist you."

I could not tell, had no idea, wondered . . .and smiled.


The far wall was full canvas: clouds.White and blue, tops of clouds:deep contrast: bright to one side, darkto the other. More clouds to the right.Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds"It's like being in a plane," saidan elderly woman with a happy, bright smile,as she felt her way along the cloudsto find a door.


The curator slouched in his chair,worn down with his rounds.His tough-barked hostess had vanished,leaving the room still as its thick carpet.

Alone above the clouds, I wanderedand was startled to find two long poleswith rocks tied to their tops, leaning precariously against the clouds:ancient missiles from a simple timewhen we threw rocks.I found myself pacing from window to cloud,cloud to window, window to an overlookedwall with a small canvas: two beetleson daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow,Magenta, Cyan."

Catherine came to mind: she liked to grither teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight,her front teeth slanted forward, her jawset, tense, triumphant. There was somethingunseemly about Catherine's mouth whenshe grit her teeth in pleasure.

Like an apparition among the cloudsthe thin-lipped woman reappeared,"Would you like a champagne?"she urged with her head slightly tiltedtoward the right, her thin lips pursedshut with wrinkles, her dim eyes narrow,estimating, calculating.

"Thank you, no."


I felt my way along the clouds until I foundthe door. I took the path of the bright-eyed


woman whose ageless smile shonelike the sun above the clouds.found the open door.

I have not yet learned how to set this clock:it says 5:06,but I know it's not.

I have no idea what time it could bebut this late at nightI am joyously free!



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Conversation with the Wall - Kean Universityracaffre/poetry/Steering by The... · Web viewso bright and dark disguise your thoughts and shroud your feelings, yet your beauty shines