I have no eyes anymore and as usual

I have no eyes anymore and as usual
I step out on my own. I believe I can still see colors

and faceless strangers like Petals
on a wet black bough

I see the red red
red of a leaf
on a tree, hanging, dying,

Man's conscience is the best
mnemonic device.

Sleight of hand, Blink
of an eye, Piece
of half-eaten cake...

You didn't suffer, didn't even
know.

The blood was smeared all over me
that evening, and your empty space
expanded, surrounded me
until I realized you weren't dead.

I never saw the sunrise after that.

Now sightless, in this half-life,
I sometimes strain to see my reflection
in a mirror;

The features I almost see, I swear,
are of your face.

In Memoriam or On The Repatriation Of A Dear Friend

We sit down to eat, in the absence of our friend.
This meal becomes more
than just nourishment.

We use the spices he used; they flavor
our lives, and his old apartment, in which we now sit,
is suffused with their aromas.

I look around
and recall the chaotic state it was in,
when he was forced to go. The tiles
on the walls, then gritty and opaque,
now shine, and reflect our faces.

I say to my friend, “It’s almost as if,
he was never here. . . .”

But in the reflections, we see him too,
in the dawn’s early light, eating
a hearty meal, all of us, tired
but not yet ready to rest
our minds, racing, and our bodies,
tense with potential, wanting
to experience more of all this,
not wanting it ever to end. . . .

“That was so much fun,
wasn’t it?”

Neither of us lifts our forks. Our food
begins to get cold. The water in our glasses
is still.

That was so much fun.

We don’t look at each other. Instead, we face
the open door, see the vast sky, the shimmering city
he loved so much.

It’s almost mystical, but we resolve,
in silence, to savor this
delicacy; our lives!

WE’RE ALONE IN EVERY ROOM

It was fun—
after lunch, after you left—
to be alone with the cosmos,
the porcelain, the prints,
& dusk coming on:

I had gone to the Asian exhibit—
the small dark room w/the pillars—
my favorite spot in the whole world.

We’re alone in every room
with the struggle to abide.

We always leave
another footprint
even after taking the last step.

Did you understand
your cup of tea—
hold on—it won’t be long:
the world itself
is lovely: say it.

Say it.

Did you see it coming.
What did you do
when you saw it coming.

Step outside to believe—
if it wasn’t so easy,
nobody would do it.

By Richard Fox

Lies, by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Telling lies to the young is wrong.
Proving to them that lies are true is wrong.
Telling them that God's in his heaven
and all's well with the world is wrong.
The young know what you mean. The young are people.
Tell them the difficulties can't be counted,
and let them see not only what will be
but see with clarity these present times.
Say obstacles exist they must encounter
Sorrow happens, hardship happens.
The hell with it. Who never knew
the price of happiness will not be happy.
Forgive no error you recognize,
it will repeat itself, increase,
and afterwards our pupils
will not forgive in us what we forgave.

The Promotion, by James Tate

I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer,
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I loose a sheep. The farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. And his children
played with me, when they weren't in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer bought me into
the house to live with the family. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn't get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by my window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. The human wolves don't even see me.
They fear me not.

To Myself, by W.S. Merwin

Even when I forget you
I go on looking for you
I believe I would know you
I keep remembering you
sometimes long ago but then
other times I am sure you
were here for a moment before
and the air is still alive
around where you were and I
think then I can recognize
you who are always the same
who pretend to be time but
you are not time and who speak
in the words but you are not
what they say you who are not
lost when I do not find you

To Waiting, by W.S. Merwin

You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
always someone
who will be different
someone to whom a moment
whatever it may be
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you

meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself

with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left alone for long

Juniper-Linden (original version of You Are Late of Autumn) by Richard Fox

There you are--
late of autumn, reader of books
and one after my own heart--
a penny for your thought.

The world will trend
the way it will--under linden
under juniper--I'll always
think of you as I pretend

to eat the living air or pull
an origami swan out of nowhere
or out of someone's ear.

From one so worldly, by Curtis Tuckey

-
From one so worldly,
wondering,
what it is we would,
I worry we won't
remember
that we didn't when we could.

Written Summer 2003

With Nothing Left

WIth nothing left
to see, to hear, to taste. . .
no work left to be done
the party --day-- is over.
Your body's weary, tired.
And as you're blinking, blinking. . .
each time they stay closed longer.
And time is slipping, slipping. . .
the lights-- you turn them off.
You lie your head down on the pillow
and let your thoughts rise to the sky
where they meet mine and mingle, mingle. . .
among the clouds
in the night sky.

Written 2-14-03

The Expulsion, by Katha Pollitt

Adam was happy--now he had someone to blame
for everything--shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.

Eve was happy: now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.

The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).

Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History Begin!

The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be rid

of the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were alse happy and forgot their names immediately.

Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab apples

glinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves:
how pleasant it had been, how unexpected

to have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.

The Truth, by Philip Shultz

You can hide it like a signature
or birthmark but it's always there
in the greasy light of your dreams,
the knots your body makes at night,
the sad innuendos of your eyes,
whispering insidious asides in every
room you cannot remain inside. It's
there in the unquiet ideas that drag and
plead one lonely argument at a time,
and those who own a little are contrite
and fearful of those who own too much,
but owning none takes up your life.
It cannot be replaced with a house or a car,
a husband or wife, but can be ignored,
denied, and betrayed, until the last day,
when you pass yourself on the street
and recognize the agreeable life you
were afraid to lead, and turn away.

The Word "I", by Franz Wright

Harder to breathe
near the summit, and harder

to remember
where you came from,

why you came

Winter's
harder, and harder to say
the word "I"
with a straight face,
and sleep--

who can sleep. Who has time

to prepare for the big day
when he will be required
to say goodbye to everyone, including
the aforementioned pronoun, relinquish
all earthly attachment
completely, and witness
the end of the world--

harder in other words
not to love it

not to love it so much

Do not stand at my grave and weep, by Mary Frye (1932)

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not
sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on
snow.
I am the sun ripened grain. I am the soothing gentle
rain.
When you awake in morning hush, I am the swift uplifting
rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the stars that shine at
night.
DO not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not
die.

Breakfast Song by Elizabeth Bishop

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
--Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

Colours by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

When your face
appeared over my crumpled life
at first I understood
only the poverty of what I have.
Then its particular light
on woods, on rivers, on the sea,
became my beginning in the coloured world
in which I had not yet had my beginning.
I am so frightened, I am so frightened,
of the unexpected sunrise finishing,
of revelations
and tears and the excitement finishing.
I don't fight it, my love is this fear,
I nourish it who can nourish nothing,
love's slipshod watchman.
Fear hems me in.
I am conscious that these minutes are short
and that the colours in my eyes will vanish
when your face sets.

[For my beloved, Pooty.]

It Is Not the Fact That I Will Die That I Mind

but that no one will love as I did
the oak tree out my boyhood window,
the mother who set herself
so stubbornly against life,
the sister with her serious frown
and her wish for someone at her side,
the father with his dreamy gaze
and his left hand idly buried
in the fur of his dog.
And the dog herself,
that mournful look and huge appetite,
her need for absolute stillness
in the presence of a bird.
I know how each of them looks
when asleep. And I know how it feels
to fall asleep among them.
No one knows that but me,
No one knows how to love the way I do.

--by Jim Moore

To The Poet

He still listens to the songs, yes,
the ones you put together so meticulously.

He listens to them at night, sometimes, and sometimes
he imagines how you must have pored through each one,

"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe."

The morsels of delicious words you concocted, as well,
will always nourish him, but not just him,
not anymore.

Whenever he takes a thoughtful stab with his own fingers,
he thinks of you. The mechanics are the same,
"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe," and sometimes,
for just a second, his hands become completely numb.

From Endgame, by Samuel Beckett

“What is it, my pet? Time for love?”

(Nell, to Nagg, after Nagg has just rapped on her trash lid.)

To a Stranger By Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

PASSING stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.