Map (2 page)

 

I only know the rhythm

to a melody so soft

that if you ever heard it,

you'd have to hum along.

 

I exist not in myself,

I'm an element's function.

A symbol in the air.

Or a circle on the water.

 

Each time your eyes open,

I only take what's mine.

I leave faithfully behind

your earth, your fire.

 

 

The long-drawn saxophonist, the saxophonist joker,

he's got his system for the world, he does fine without words.

The future—who can guess it. The past—who's got it right.

Just blink those thoughts away and play a black song.

 

They were dancing cheek to cheek. When someone dropped.

Head struck floor to the beat. They danced by him in time.

He didn't see the knees above him. Pale eyelids dawned,

plucked from the packed crowd, the night's strange colors.

 

Don't make a scene. He'll live. He must have drunk too much,

the blood by his temple must be lipstick. Nothing happened.

Just some guy on the floor. He fell himself, he'll get himself up,

he made it through the war. They danced on in cramped sweetness,

revolving fans mixed cold and heat,

the saxophone howled like a dog to a pink lantern.

 

 

 

 

FROM

 

WHY WE LIVE

 

1952

 

 

A great joy: flower upon flower,

the branches stretch in pristine blue,

but there's a greater: today's Tuesday,

tomorrow will bring mail from you,

and still greater: the letter trembles,

strange reading it in spots of sun,

and still greater: just a week now,

now just four days, now it's begun,

and still greater: I kneel on top

and make the suitcase lid shut tight,

and still greater: the train at seven,

just one ticket, thanks, that's right,

and still greater: rushing windows,

with view on view on view on view,

and still greater: dark and darker,

by nighttime I will be with you,

and still greater: the door opens,

and still greater: past the door,

and still greater: flower on flower.

—Ohhh, who are all these roses for?

 

 

The marching bears hit all their notes,

the lion jumps through flaming hoops,

chimps ride their bikes in yellow coats,

the whip cracks and the trumpet toots.

The whip cracks, animal eyes leap,

an elephant strides, pitcher on his head,

dogs minuet with cautious feet.

 

We humans should be better bred.

 

So this was the great circus trip:

applause cascaded, just as planned,

an arm made longer by a whip

cast its sharp shadow on the sand.

 

 

 

 

FROM

 

QUESTIONS YOU ASK YOURSELF

 

1954

 

 

What do a smile and

handshake hold?

Do your greetings never

keep you as far

apart as other people

sometimes are

when passing judgment

at first glance?

Do you open each human

fate like a book,

seeking feelings

not in fonts

or formats?

Are you sure you

decipher people completely?

You gave an evasive

word in answering,

a bright joke in place of openness—

how do you tally your losses?

Stunted friendships,

frozen worlds.

Do you know that friendship,

like love, requires teamwork?

Someone missed a step

in this demanding effort.

In your friends' errors

do you bear no blame?

Someone complained, advised.

 

How many tears ran dry

before you lent a hand?

Jointly responsible

for the happiness of millennia,

don't you slight

the single minute

of a tear, a wince?

Do you never overlook

another's effort?

A glass stood on the table,

no one noticed

until it fell,

toppled by a thoughtless gesture.

 

Are people really so simple

as far as people go?

 

 

In this quiet we can still hear

what they were singing yesterday

about the high road and the low road . . .

We hear—but we don't believe it.

 

Our smile doesn't mask our sorrow,

and goodness needs no sacrifice.

The pity we give to nonlovers

is even more than they deserve.

 

We're so astonished at ourselves,

what's left to astonish us?

Not a rainbow in the night.

Not a butterfly in snow.

 

And when we sleep

we dream of parting.

But it's a good dream,

it's a good dream,

since we wake up from it.

 

 

The key was here and now it's gone.

How on earth do we get in?

Someone else may spot the key,

think, what's it got to do with me,

then pick it up and walk along

tossing the little scrap of tin.

 

If the same thing ever happened

to the love I have for you,

who'd be the poorer by this one love?

The whole world, not just we two.

Nothing but a simple form

picked up by another hand,

it won't open any door,

so let the rust do what it can.

 

No cards or stars or peacock's cries:

this horoscope can't end otherwise.

 

 

 

 

CALLING OUT TO YETI

 

1957

 

 

And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.

 

So what did Isaac do?

I ask the priest at catechism.

Break the neighbor's window with his ball?

Tear his new pants

on the fence post?

Did he steal pencils?

Scare the chickens?

Cheat on tests?

 

Leave the grownups

to their stupid sleep,

I've got to keep

watch until dawn.

The night is mute

but mute out of malice

and black

as the zeal of Abraham.

 

Where will I hide,

when God's biblical eye

lands on me

as it landed on Isaac?

Ancient history.

God can resurrect you if he wants.

I pull the blanket over my head

in a chill of fear.

 

Something white

will flit along the window,

then rustle through the room,

like a bird or the wind.

But no bird has

such enormous wings,

no wind wears

such a long gown.

 

The Lord God will pretend

he flew in by accident,

there must be some mistake,

then he'll take my father

to the kitchen and hatch plots,

blow a giant trumpet in his ear.

 

And at the crack of dawn

my father will drag me along,

I'll go, I'll go,

dark with hatred.

 

More defenseless

than November leaves,

I won't believe in goodness

or love.

No trust,

nothing can be trusted.

No caring,

no more live heart in my chest.

When it happens, as it has to happen,

when it happens,

a dried mushroom will be beating,

not a heart.

 

The Lord God waits,

from a balcony of clouds he checks,

does the stake light,

is it nice and even,

and he sees

how to die out of spite,

since I'll die,

refusing to be saved!

 

From that night

much worse than any bad dream,

from that night

much worse than loneliness,

the Lord God began

inch by inch

day by day

to move

from literalness

to metaphor.

 

 

Now see, here's Hania, the good servant.

And those aren't frying pans, you know, they're halos.

And that's a holy image, knight and serpent.

The serpent means vanity in this vale of woes.