Repertory—poems that come and go (last revised June 11, 2010)

  NOTE:  Newly-added poems are at the top, previous ones deleted below

  SOUVENIR DE PARIS

  I did not comprehend a single word
  back then—unless you count boucoup,
  merci, or oui. And yet
  I wandered, often, through
  your magic streets (perhaps these lines
  should speak of them as boulevards
  et rues?) reading signs like  “Nettoyage,”
  “Prète-à-Porter,” “Boulangerie,” too timid
  in this foreign land to enter any door
  and find out, thus, for sure
  what such a strange exotic world
  might hold in store. But oh
  how my imagination wandered too.
  And it took time, therefore, to learn
  what words meant, simply, “Cleaners,”
  “Ready-to-Wear” “Bakery,” and thus
  discover how a wondrous universe
  becomes transformed to the mundane.  

  Grateful I was then, of course,
  and still remain
  for language skills acquired.
  And yet at times I wonder why
  we are, so frequently, required
  to mourn our loss—
  while marking what is gained.

 
  MAPUCHE

  I have not heard
            the name "Mapuche"
                      until today.  

            “Come,” my friend says.
            “This evening
            there is an indigenous woman
            from Chile speaking.”  

  And I learn of one more tribe that lives
  on ten percent of its ancestral lands.

               *   *   *   *   *  

  When she was in opposition
  that nation’s current president
  opposed Chile’s anti-terrorism laws,
  uses them today, however,
  to round up Mapuche
  who try to stop the Ralco
  hydroelectric dam, evict
  timber-hungry multinationals,
  dumps where garbage, transported
  from cities, rots away, infecting
  children who play nearby.  

            The word “mapuche,”
            in the native language of the Mapuche,
            means “people of the land.”
            Sometimes we discover a name
            that actually means what it says.  

  The Mapuche people were never conquered
  by the Inca empire, nor subsequently
  by the Conquistadors. (Perhaps this
  is what engenders so much terror
  in the heart of Chile’s current president?)  

  I have not heard
            the name "Mapuche"
                      until today.  

            How about you?  

  And what of the Kolla . . . the Pehuenche . . .
  the Kaiapo . . . the Aymara . . . the Paez . . .
  the Guambiano . . . the Achuar. . . . What
  of all the indigenous nations living
  today under the domination of others—
  who go by aliases such as Mexico,
  Colombia, Brazil, Chile, Ecuador, Peru.  

              Some year, I believe, their stories
              will be taught to children
              in the public schools of New York City
              (as the tale of the Pilgrims is now)
              and it will be necessary, perhaps,
              to set time aside for those
              who cannot keep themselves from weeping.

  At this moment, however,
  let us simply set time aside
  to consider how, and why,
  there are so many peoples in the world,
  living under the domination of others,
  who can never be conquered.

               *   *   *   *   *  

  I have not heard
            the name "Mapuche"
                      until today.  

  How about you? 


  ENCOUNTER

  She has the seat next to mine on the Chicago flight.
  There is, perhaps, a god of minor miracles
  who arranges these things.
  (Does she realize how pleasant it is for an older man
  when young women dress like that?)

  I help her hoist her bag
  into the overhead bin.
  "Thank you," she tells me with a smile,
  and seems to mean them both.
  (Does she realize how hard it is on an older man
  when young women dress like that?)

  She takes out a magazine which makes me realize
  we are both headed for the same conference.
  Should I introduce myself?
  We talk a bit, small.
  she is from Brazil,
  understands the limitations of the Lula government.
  And so intelligence, I discover,
  is part of her beauty.

  I ask her name again.
  She will have to tell me a third time
  before the sieve between my ears
  holds it in place.
  "Don't worry about that," she suggests.
  And I add kindness to the list of things
  I can measure about her.

  After a time I take out my new hand-held computer
  with its roll up keyboard
  to work on a poem.
  She has never seen a roll-up keyboard before
  and is fascinated,
  asks "What kind of poetry do you write?"
  I give her my two chapbooks,
  go on composing, holding my breath
  for a kindly response.
  She reads one page, turns to the next—
  a good sign I tell myself.

  "I like this one," she exclaims,
  pointing to the verse about horse shit
  and Central Park South.
  "I know that corner."
  Later she promises to read them all,
  and send me her thoughts via email.

  I will never make love to this woman, desirable—
  not beyond the reach of my dreams,
  since dreams have a distant reach, but
  beyond any reasonable hope.
  Still, she allowed me to stroke
  her mind with my poems
  while she returned that caress
  with her attention, a kindly word,
  and a promise for the future as she read.

  And so I leave the plane with an afterglow
  not so diffent from the one I used to know,
  as it hovered over a lover's bed.


  GENIUS RELATIVITY

  Genius
  to a genius
  is just the thoughts of every day,
  and does not really understand
  when others cannot comprehend
  the rather simple things it has to say.

  Masterpieces
  to a master
  are only what they ought to be,
  and if one labors long enough
  to build according to that plan
  the truth undrapes itself for us to see.

  Even our most modest thoughts
  could masquerade as genius
  to less brain-bound beasts than you or me.
  But now (to think a slightly different way)
  imagine creatures out on other worlds
  who’d find our fondest masterworks
  to be their children’s play.


  I PREDICT

  that one day a new rage
  will sweep our nation,
  captivating its younger generation
  while frightening their parents.
  And this will be called
  "All Poetry Radio."

  And on Saturdays when
  they count down the top 100
  most-requested poems
  of the previous week
  there will always be oldies
  interspersed between
  (some even older than all-poetry
  radio itself. Imagine that!)
  and one will be yours—
  you know, the piece I like so well
  but nobody else has discovered,
            yet.


  VARIATIONS 0N A THEME BY JACQUES-LUCIEN MONOD

  “Personal self-satisfaction
  is the death of the scientist.
  Collective self-satisfaction
  is the death of the research.
  It is restlessness, anxiety
  disaffection, agony of the mind
  that nourish science.”*

  Personal self-satisfaction
  is the death of the activist.
  Collective self-satisfaction
  is the death of the revolution.
  It is restlessness, anxiety,
  dissatisfaction, agony of the mind
  that nourish politics.

  Personal self-satisfaction
  is the death of the writer.
  Collective self-satisfaction
  is the death of poetry.
  It is restlessness, anxiety,
  dissatisfaction agony of the mind
  that nourish us all.

  *Quoted in Discover magazine, May 2002


  FINALLY I UNDERSTAND WHY . . .

  . . . the chicken crossed the road.

  It was to get away from me.

  All the world flees
  as I sit writing this poem.

  I could stop and chase after you.

  But I always try to keep my promises.


  SCHUBERT'S TRIO IN E FLAT MAJOR, OPUS 100

  Once I thought that I would spend
  a lifetime writing music
  until life moved off
  in an alternative direction,
  which brings sadness on occasion,
  such as now, while the trio plays,
  but when sadness is tempered by honesty
  I must admit, most likely I would never
  have composed even two or three
  measures as stirring as each of these.

  Some have, you see, a mission
  to weep for everyone, but what
  good would that be if the rest of us
  were not around to listen?


  ALMOST

  I am a mournful country songsearing softly into someone’s lonely soul, but the
  others mostly  laugh tothemselves because my words are socorny; 

  and the pitcher who spent toomany years in the minor leagues and thus put his
  glove away one season beforethe big one that would have made him a star; 

  and the secret lover,fearful, who could never tell her, thus ensuring that two
  lifetimes would bespent alone; 

  and the seed that with alittle care and feeding would have grown into the biggest
  melon to win theprize at the fair, but was eaten by a bird; 

  and the world’s foremostmathematician who might have been except that when she
  was small somebody toldher girls weren’t good at that sort of thing so she tried
  to be a beauty queen; 

  and the missing nail thatcaused a shoe, a horse, a rider, a battle, a war, and a kingdom
  to be lost. (Iwas there all the time, lying in the dust under the blacksmith’s bench,
  where Ihad been carelessly tossed.)  


  EXPLAIN THIS . . .

  . . . to me if you can: It is
  exceedingly difficult for anyone
  to read while sleeping. And yet
  I always find it so easy to sleep
  while I am reading. 


  POETRY AND TYRRANY

  Poets know that words
  may change to swords
  at the tip of a pen, how prearranged
  ideas can become rearranged
  so easily, and then, perhaps,
  will simply stand aside as impudence
  transforms itself into imprudence.  

  The only other people I
  can think of—somewhat select—
  who achieve a similar effect
  are the tyrants. Consider
  for a moment, if you will,
  the way Pinochet took Chile
  and made it Chill; or how Francisco
  Franco found the pain in Spain—
  not caring if it fell on plain or hill—
  and the British who managed,
  as if they had a conscious plan,
  to rouse the Ire from Ireland.
 

  TODAY I BUMPED INTO A FRIEND . . . 
 
  . . . whom I had known
  for some time
  before learning,
  through her verses,
  to love her.  

  She is upset
  because her lover—
  young enough to be my son—
  is still in the hospital
  (in the hospital again)
  dying this time, she believes,
  from his leukemia—
  though he has not yet
  decided to face this possibility. 

  And while you and I line up
  at the mike thinking
  we are reading
  pretty good poetry
  about whatever
  personal angst has come our way,
  she is living,
  hour by hour
  each day
  like a soldier in combat,
  for whom the next moment
  could mean
  not one
  moment
  more. 

  Today I turned into a friend;
  at least I hope so—
  I mean a real friend,
  for a while, perhaps,
  as I offered my arms
  and the comfort of
  impotent words,
  while learning
  through her fears
  to cherish another human being
  once again, 

  came home then
  to write this poem,
  so I should never forget her tears.