These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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WILD
IN MY PAIN
Darling,
it's just a heart, not a brick or a stone.
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ETTA,
1958
He
had twisted his ankle. His foot was swollen and it ached. It
hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate. He had
lost the capacity to figure. His mind no longer able to grasp even
very simple things, His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a
trance.
He was young and he kissed the back of her hand, He
kissed her about the face, He kissed her eyelids, And he rested
his lips at the base of her neck.
He had kissed the skin
all-over both her shoulders.
He
and she were minors, and their ardency, Its possible consequence
worried their parents.
There
was no question about the boy being strong.
Underneath
a sky possessing countless bodies of light, They stood next to a
Sycamore, The tree grew along a muddy creek,
Which
emptied west into a river, A river the early French settlers had
named Des Plaines.
He thought that they might sail away upon
the waters.
The
Milky Way seemed to stretch out across
The
vault of deep space more like some
Will-o-wisp
patch of terrestrial weather
Than
the starry edge of our own galaxy.
Yet
more, much more than the taste of salt
From
the tiny sweat along her brow, more than how
Moisture
had collected and now had formed
Fetchingly
to glisten upon her shoulders,
It
was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity Enhanced a
once-in-a-life-time, white light streak,
At
its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky.
Though
now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.
Within
the warmth of a very late, August evening,
Beside
the trunk of a Sycamore tree,
Upon
the bank of a muddy creek, a small water,
A
nameless feed to the river,
The
early French settlers had named Des Plaines,
In
a momentary all-over illumination,
The
youths saw their silhouette,
They
were merged as one,
They
saw themselves fused into a single shade.
A
low thunder followed, and, there, in the instant,
All
of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace.
And
when they turned and gazed upon each other,
Before
either of them had spoken a word,
They
had come to believe that the memory of this event
And
its retelling had made a place for them in immortality.
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SHOUT OUT
Uneasy, when it came to sex, You made me feel I was doing you wrong. Your body stiffened, And, I remember, once you said, “Too incredibly intimate!”
Later I watched in movies, Men drop to the knees, It seemed nothing special, No more than regular business, Hollywood presents its usual fare.
In a recent film with a Bedouin setting, North Africa, camels on route, Over windy hills of sand, oasis to oasis, Hardly a trend setter, The lead takes his captive, Calls her wife number three, and there Within the walls of his village home, He keels. While camera spies, He takes love by mouth.
Since I last had knelt before you, Months have passed. I wish I might kneel now, Just as does the sheik in the movie!
But you, you are gone. And with you, too, went Health, and work, and sleep, They have fled irrevocably!
I wake in the middle of shouts.
I picture you and our last night at dinner. I see you there sitting before the table, And in a fleeting glimpse I recall your delight, How you savor and chew upon your meal.
I rise up from my bed and return to my desk. I try to write, But swoon instead. My night shirt has the wet of perspiration, Down my back and well below The neckline binding at its front.
Were I not lost, driven to distraction, Were I able to clear the mind And gain once more a proper bearing, This poem might read better by far.
'Oh, Oh goodness!'
Though I am up and about, Ready to write before the computer screen, I feel a faint. My stomach is turning,
'Fetch a chair!' I say aloud in my empty home office.
'Never mind. I’m fine. I’m okay.' (As if somebody here bothers to listen.)
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ROMANTIC,
Love
Lockdown,
I
miss you, honey.
I
miss going to dinner with you.
Where
ever I turn,
Whenever
I look up and down the streets,
I
keep thinking I see you.
It’s
the damnedest thing!
By
the way, I’ve decided to discard,
Throw
out some of the poetry.
Of
course, you must know why!
It
has me loving you too much.
Oh!
Those notes I took,
The
notes of all our telephone conversations,
Sister,
that’s a painful lot!
I
documented all your promises, your assurances,
As
if it mattered, or had real weight,
I
transcribed them, then asked you to repeat them.
I
hoped thereby you might remember
How
many times you had given me your word.
I
wrote them all down, my questions, your answers.
I
can look back, should anyone have interest,
And
figure the exact dates of those, your pledges.
But
the exercise would require work, Because in the record of those,
Our
long-distance dialogues, I reckoned time according to lunar
calendar. They read, for instance, first, Monday, December.
Across
one sheet I found it significant that
You
had telephoned me from Florida this last October,
A
day which directly followed the second,
The
so-called Harvest Moon, a moon whose rise
The
previous night I had sighted over Forest Avenue.
Upon
those paper records I sometimes drew,
(The
right term here might be doodled.)
Regular
zodiac signs. Silly guy, huh?
I
pretended knowledge.
I
played the role of old-time astrologer,
Someone
who predicated life’s lot on planetary whirl,
Who
posited ill or good fortune from an abstract,
The
ups and downs of a human individual's existence
Based
upon the conjunction of remote bodies,
How
everyday events fit within a starry belt
And
could be known and actually foretold.
I
was dream-wishing.
It
was make-believe, pathetic.
Might
your last satellite communication, I wondered,
Be
housed on a plane
Where
moon rises into constellation, Leo?
It
all gets very primitive when dealing with you.
2.
When
I concentrate,
Concentrate
on my abandon, on my love,
Take
the time and thoroughly examine
The
range, the extent of my feelings for you,
My
heart wells, fills up like a balloon, ready to burst.
Overwhelmed,
stretched to utmost circumference,
Its
membrane reaches thinnest extreme,
It
helps to explain
Just
how sensitive I am to your every desire.
If
I remember to relax,
Should
I try to stop holding on,
Just
simply let you go,
Then
I can not help but feel gratitude,
Give
thanks for the moment,
The
every hour afforded me to share with you.
At
other times I fall to absolute delusion,
And
believe that I write great poetry,
The
words I pen immortal,
Celebrate
you and me for the ages,
That
future readers might pine and swoon, as I do here,
And
then wonder what great grace sanctioned lyric,
Allowed
it to express the sentiment that ours was destiny, And yes, permitted
me to publish the story, –
How
deep and far our love ranged.
I
guess that I believe we are constantly being reborn.
I
go through all these thoughts, again – again,
Hoping
against hope,
Seeking
a glimmer, some glimmer,
Fingers
crossed for incredible stroke of luck,
Trust
your return to my arms once more.
3.
I
have a real problem;
It’s
when I look about.
I
see other couples, pairs, tight,
Together
for the afternoon, daylight upon their faces,
All
lovey-dovey, they walk along the avenues.
It
bothers me seeing them; they sit in cafes and read
Newspapers
and books, and sip from bottles of water.
I
envy them. I do not have you.
World
seems happier place
When
people have each other to depend on,
And
romance animates their bodies and faces.
I
am sorry to conclude, you’re a mean person.
You
went away; my sole companion now my work.
4.
Am
I making this up as I go along?
But
the fact remains
That
you have gone and I am home alone.
You
left me all by myself with my freedom.
I
fear that I have fallen prey to mine own emptiness.
Were
you to belong to me, I swear, I wouldn’t,
I
wouldn’t share you with any one, with anything.
Time
and place reduced to you and me,
You
at center of it all!
Dream
comes true!
It
would feel more like love, sweet love,
Than
me, here, sitting lost,
Trying
to figure the situation, or
How
I might say it proper,
Finally
to convince you, love too precious a thing,
Often
once in a life-time event,
And
ought never be willfully discarded, thrown away.
Hope
I haven’t upset you.
Maybe
that’s the real difficulty,
The
source of us being driven apart,
I
am just too romantic.
You,
you seek something else.
Perhaps
you are simply more practical, reasonable.
My
flights of fancy and over-heated emotion,
Not
things you have in mind.
Do
not worry!
I
have the capability of living with my beliefs.
But,
darling, you must take pity,
Open
your heart -- for you say you still love me.
Mercy
please! Forgive me, I lack resolve.
I
am unable to start anew, to make life without you.
