Map (35 page)

 

Yesterday's bread was sliced otherwise

by a hand a day younger at a younger table.

 

Clouds like never before and rain like never,

since it fell after all in different drops.

 

The world rotated on its axis,

but in a space abandoned forever.

 

This took a good 24 hours.

1,440 minutes of opportunity.

86,400 seconds for inspection.

 

The cosmic savoir-vivre

may keep silent on our subject,

still it makes a few demands:

occasional attention, one or two of Pascal's thoughts,

and amazed participation in a game

with rules unknown.

 

 

With the help of people and the other elements

time hasn't done a bad job on it.

It first removed the nose, then the genitalia,

next, one by one, the toes and fingers,

over the years the arms, one after the other,

the left thigh, the right,

the shoulders, hips, head, and buttocks,

and whatever dropped off has since fallen to pieces,

to rubble, to gravel, to sand.

 

When someone living dies that way

blood flows at every blow.

 

But marble statues die white

and not always completely.

 

From the one under discussion only the torso lingers

and it's like a breath held with great effort,

since now it must

draw

to itself

all the grace and gravity

of what was lost.

 

And it does,

for now it does,

it does and it dazzles,

it dazzles and endures—

 

Time likewise merits some applause here,

since it stopped work early,

and left some for later.

 

 

In fact every poem

might be called “Moment.”

 

One phrase is enough

in the present tense,

the past and even future;

 

it's enough so that anything

borne on words

begins to rustle, sparkle,

flutter, float,

while seeming

to stay changeless

but with a shifting shadow;

 

it's enough that there is talk

of someone next to someone

or someone next to something;

 

about Sally who has a kitty

or no longer has a kitty;

 

or about other Sallys

kitties or not kitties

from other primers

ruffled by the wind;

 

it's enough if within eyeshot

an author places temporary hills

and makeshift valleys;

 

if on this occasion

he hints at a heaven

apparently firm and enduring;

 

if there appears beneath a writing hand

at least one thing

that is called someone's;

 

if in black on white,

at least in thought,

for some serious or silly reason,

question marks are placed,

and if in response,

a colon:

 

 

 

 

HERE

 

2009

 

 

I can't speak for elsewhere,

but here on Earth we've got a fair supply of everything.

Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,

scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins,

teacups, dams, and quips.

 

There may be more of everything elsewhere,

but for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,

picture tubes, pierogies, handkerchiefs for tears.

 

Here we have countless places with vicinities.

You may take a liking to some,

give them pet names,

protect them from harm.

 

There may be comparable places elsewhere,

but no one thinks they're beautiful.

 

Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,

you're given your own torso here,

equipped with the accessories required

for adding your own children to the rest.

Not to mention arms, legs, and astounded head.

 

Ignorance works overtime here,

something is always being counted, compared, measured,

from which roots and conclusions are then drawn.

 

I know, I know what you're thinking.

Nothing here can last,

since from and to time immemorial the elements hold sway.

 

But see, even the elements grow weary

and sometimes take extended breaks

before starting up again.

 

And I know what you're thinking next.

Wars, wars, wars.

But there are pauses in between them too.

Attention!—people are evil.

At ease—people are good.

At attention wastelands are created.

At ease houses are constructed in the sweat of brows,

and quickly inhabited.

 

Life on Earth is quite a bargain.

Dreams, for one, don't charge admission.

Illusions are costly only when lost.

The body has its own installment plan.

 

And as an extra, added feature,

you spin on the planets' carousel for free,

and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,

with times so dizzying

that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.

 

Just take a closer look:

the table stands exactly where it stood,

the piece of paper still lies where it was spread,

through the open window comes a breath of air,

the walls reveal no terrifying cracks

through which nowhere might extinguish you.

 

 

Faces.

Billions of faces on the earth's surface.

Each different, so we're told,

from those that have been and will be.

But Nature—since who really understands her?—

may grow tired of her ceaseless labors

and so repeats earlier ideas

by supplying us

with preworn faces.

 

Those passersby might be Archimedes in jeans,

Catherine the Great draped in resale,

some pharaoh with briefcase and glasses.

 

An unshod shoemaker's widow

from a still pint-sized Warsaw,

the master from the cave at Altamira

taking his grandkids to the zoo,

a shaggy Vandal en route to the museum

to gasp at past masters.

 

The fallen from two hundred centuries ago,

five centuries ago,

half a century ago.

 

One brought here in a golden carriage,

Another conveyed by extermination transport,

 

Montezuma, Confucius, Nebuchadnezzar,

their nannies, their laundresses, and Semiramida,

who only speaks English.

 

Billions of faces on the earth's surface.

My face, yours, whose—

you'll never know.

Maybe Nature has to shortchange us,

and to keep up, meet demand,

she fishes up what's been sunk

in the mirror of oblivion.

 

 

An idea came to me

for a rhyme? a poem?

Well, fine—I say—stay awhile, we'll talk.

Tell me a little more about yourself.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

Ah, so that's the story—I say—intriguing.

These matters have long weighed upon my heart.

But a poem about them? I don't think so.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

It may seem that way—I reply—

but you overestimate my gifts and powers.

I wouldn't even know where to start.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

You're wrong—I say—a short, pithy poem

is much harder than a long one.

Don't pester me, don't nag, it won't turn out.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

All right then, I'll try, since you insist.

But don't say I didn't warn you.

I write, tear it up, and toss it out.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

You're right—I say—there are always other poets.

Some of them can do it better.

I'll give you names and addresses.

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

Of course I'll envy them.

We envy even the weak poems.

But this one should . . . it ought to have . . .

               So it whispered a few words in my ear.

Exactly, to have the qualities you've listed.

So let's change the subject.

How about a cup of coffee?

 

               It just sighed.

 

               And started vanishing.

 

               And vanished.