Becoming Light (18 page)

& an earthquake-proof Jacuzzi,

with carpeted carport & bathrooms

& plumbing so good it hums,

with neighbors who lend you organic sugar

& mailmen who are often women,

with huge supermarkets selling wine & kneesocks,

mangoes, papayas, & dogfood in fifty flavors,

with nearby movie theaters playing Bergman & Fellini

without dubbing,

with resident symphony orchestras

down the block,

but no rock stars living right next door.

We know we’ll find you someday

if not in this life, America,

then in the next,

if not in this solar system,

then in another.

We’re ready to move, America.

We’ve called our unscrupulous movers

who always break everything & demand to be paid in cash,

& we have our downpayment in hand.

We lust for a big fat mortgage.

We’ve pulled up our city roots

& we’ve packed our books, our banjo & our dog

in a bright red gypsy wagon

with low gas mileage.

All we need is the house,

all we need is the listing.

We’re ready to move, America,

but we don’t know

where.

…the night travels in its black ship…

—Pablo Neruda

Black ship of night

sailing through the world

& the moon an orange slice

tangy to the teeth

of lovers who lie

under it,

sucking it.

Somewhere there are palm trees;

somewhere the sea

bluely gathers itself up

& lets itself fall again

into green;

somewhere the spangles

of light on the ocean

dazzle the eyes;

but here in the midnight city,

the black ship of night

has docked

for a long, dark stay,

& even the citrus moon

with its pockets of juice

cannot sweeten the dark.

Then the snow begins,

whirling over the Pole,

gathering force over Canada,

sprinkling the Great Lakes with sugar

which drowns in their deep black cups;

it is drawn to the spires of New York

& the flurries come

scampering at first,

lighthearted, crystalline, white,

but finally

sucked into the city

as into a black hole

in space.

The sky is suddenly pink—

pink as flesh: breasts,

babies’ bottoms. Night is

day; day is whiter than the desert;

the city stops like a heart;

pigeons dip & veer

& come to rest

under the snow-hatted

watertanks.

Testing the soul’s mettle,

the frost heaves

holes in the roads

to the heart,

the glass forest

raises up its branches

to praise all things

that catch the light

then melt.

The forest floor is white,

but here & there a boulder rises

with its glacial arrogance

& brooks that bubble

under sheets of ice

remind us that the tundra of the soul

will soften

just a little

towards the spring.

(With apologies to Christopher Smart)

For I will consider my dog Poochkin

(& his long-lost brothers, Chekarf & Dogstoyevsky).

For he is the reincarnation of a great canine poet.

For he barks in meter, & when I leave him alone

his yelps at the door are epic.

For he is white, furry & resembles a bathmat.

For he sleeps at my feet as I write

& therefore is my greatest critic.

For he follows me into the bathroom

& faithfully pees on paper.

For he is
almost
housebroken.

For he eats the dogfood I give him

but also loves Jarlsberg and Swiss cheese.

For he disdains nothing that reeks—

whether feet or roses.

For to him, all smells are created equal by God—

both turds and perfumes.

For he loves toilet bowls no less than soup bowls.

For by watching him, I have understood democracy.

For by stroking him, I have understood joy.

For he turns his belly toward God

& raises his paws & penis in supplication.

For he hangs his pink tongue out of his mouth

like a festival banner for God.

For though he is male, he has pink nipples on his belly

like the female.

For though he is canine, he is more humane

than most humans.

For when he dreams he mutters in his sleep

like any poet.

For when he wakes he yawns & stretches

& stands on his hind legs to greet me.

For, after he shits, he romps and frolics

with supreme abandon.

For, after he eats, he is more contented

than any human.

For in every room he will find the coolest corner,

& having found it, he has the sense to stay there.

For when I show him my poems,

he eats them.

For an old shoe makes him happier than a Rolls-Royce

makes a rock star.

For he has convinced me of the infinite wisdom

of dog-consciousness.

For, thanks to Poochkin, I praise the Lord

& no longer fear death.

For when my spirit flees my body through my nostrils,

may it sail into the pregnant belly

of a furry bitch,

& may I praise God always

as a dog.

I am happiest

near the ocean,

where the changing light

reminds me of my death

& the fact that it need not be fatal—

yet I perch here

in the midst of the city

where the traffic dulls my senses,

where my ears scream at sirens,

where transistor radio blasts

invade my poems

like alien war chants.

But I never walk

the streets of New York

without hoping for the end

of the world.

How many years

before the streets return to flowers?

How many centuries

before the towers fall?

In my mind’s eye,

New York falls to ruins.

Butterflies alight upon the stones

and poppies spring

out of the asphalt fields.

Why do I stay here

when I love the ocean?

Because the ocean lulls me

with its peace.

Eternity is coming soon enough.

As monks sleep

in their own coffins,

I live in New York.

On a darkening planet

speeding

toward our death,

we pierce a rosy cloud

& hit clean air,

we glide above

the red infernal smog,

we leave the mammon city

far behind.

Here—where the air is clear

as nothing,

where cactus pads

are prickly as stars,

where buffalo chips

are gilded by the sun

& the moon tastes like a peppermint—

we land.

“Have we flown to heaven?”

I inquired

(& meant it).

The airport was a leveled

mountaintop.

We took the cloudbank

at a tilt

& bumped the runway

just ten degrees from crashing,

certain death.

If I’m to die, God,

let me die flying!

Fear is worse than death—

I know that now.

The cloudbanks of my life

have silver linings.

Beyond them:

cactus pads,

clear earth,

dear sky.

I mourn a dead friend, like myself, a good carpenter.

—Pablo Neruda about César Vallejo

I looked at the book.

“It will stand,” I thought.

Not a palace

built by a newspaper czar,

nor a mud hovel

that the sea will soften,

but a good house of words

near the sea

with everything plumb.

That is the most I can ask.

I have cut the wood myself

from my own forests,

I have sanded it smooth

with the grain.

I have left knotholes

for the muse to whistle through

—old siren that she is.

At least the roof does not leak.

& the fireplace is small

but it draws.

The wind whips the house

but it stands.

& the waves lick

the pilings

with their tongues

but at least they do not suck me

out to sea.

The sea is wordless

but it tries to talk to us.

We carpenters are also translators.

We build with sounds, with whispers & with wind.

We try to speak the language of the sea.

We want to build to last

yet change forever.

We want to be as endless as the sea.

& yet she mocks us

with her barnacles & rust stains;

she tells us what we build will also fall.

Our words are grains of sand,

our walls are wood,

our windowpanes are sprayed with solemn salt.

We whisper, as we build, “Forever please,”

—by which we mean at least for thirty years.

People who live by the sea

understand eternity.

They copy the curves of the waves,

their hearts beat with the tides,

& the saltiness of their blood

corresponds with the sea.

They know that the house of flesh

is only a sandcastle

built on the shore,

that skin breaks

under the waves

like sand under the soles

of the first walker on the beach

when the tide recedes.

Each of us walks there once,

watching the bubbles

rise up through the sand

like ascending souls,

tracing the line of the foam,

drawing our index fingers

along the horizon

pointing home.

Parachuting

down through clouds

shaped like whales & sharks,

dolphins & penguins,

pelicans & gulls,

we reach

the purple hills

of a green-hearted island

ringed

with volcanic rock

bathed

by cobalt waters

reefed

by whitest coral

tenanted

by sea urchins & sponge

& visited

by barracuda

& tourists.

The dictator

of this island

is the sun.

The Secret Police

is the sweet

fragrance of cane.

Frangipani grows

in the uplands;

the salt flats

reek

by the sea.

I want to buy it,

to hide here,

to stay,

to teach all the people

to write,

to orchestrate the stars

in the palm trees

& teach the jellyfish

not to bite.

Oh dark volcanic

wine!

Oh collapsed parachute

filled with kisses!

Oh blue-bottle bits

ground

into jewels

by the sand!

Whoever loves islands

must love the sea,

& the sea

loves no one

but herself.

Woodsprites

& deer arrive;

raccoons hitch a night ride

in the still car

& eat all the Life Savers

from the glove compartment;

woodchucks feast

on the vegetable seedlings;

a swarm of honeybees

breaks loose from a neighboring hive

& storms my third-floor

study window

in search of honey;

a bitch in heat

seeks out

our horny dog;

a hawk nests

in the fir tree

outside my window;

spiders weave

& spin their webs

from book to book,

from typewriter to ceiling beam;

but still the muse—

recalcitrant & slow—

does not arrive.

Her skirts snag

on the Rocky Mountains,

her blue hair trails

into the Pacific.

“You move too often,”

she accuses;

“I just get acclimated,

then you move again!”

Bitter muse,

you ought to be portable

as a typewriter.

You ought to be

transient as a spy,

adaptable as a diplomat,

self-effacing as the perfect

valet—

but you are not.

After all,

you are our mother;

unless we listen & obey,

you let us starve.

Come—there is honey here,

or at least, bees.

The honey’s

in the making

if you come.

Spring, rainbows,

ordinary miracles

about which

nothing new can be said.

The stars on a clear night

of a New England winter;

the soft air of the islands

along the old

Spanish Main;

pirate gold shining

in the palm;

the odor of roses

to the lover’s nose…

There is no more poetry

to be written

of these things.

The rainbow’s sudden revelation—

behold!

the cliché is true!

What can one say

but that?

So too

with you, little heart,

little miracle,

but you are

no less miracle

for being ordinary.

Little egg,

little nub,

full complement of