She’ll leave this afternoon or this evening;
she’ll change out of that sable-lined satin robe,
put on something a bit more modish
and less conspicuous, flag a taxi,
and after zipping down on Fifth Avenue,
she’ll meet a friend for drinks at the Century
Club and then leave to catch a red-eye
flight to the Netherlands on KLM.
2/ John Koch at the New-York Historical Society: The Party
Early evening: the summer party people
meet in a large, airy, sparsely furnished room,
sorting themselves into duets and trios
for conversation.
All except one, who leans out from a window:
why, that one’s André, the long-lost friend whom I
last saw years ago! Odd, to recognize him
just from his posture,
even before I turn to check the legend,
Key to The Party : Number 8, A. Kimbrell,
pianist. A student of Koch’s wife, Dora,
(Number 3, speaking
to another pianist and a model,
Numbers 5 and 4.) With no one to talk to,
self-reliant André ensconces himself
in his own niche, while
out of sight behind him, the conversations
open, as old friends introduce their friends to
recent strangers met in the elevator
on their way up here;
who, as the Key tells us, are painters, critics,
dealers, models, pianists, wives and close friends:
nobody famous but our host and his friend,
Raphael Soyer.
All now find themselves in a complex fiction,
posed, disposed as couples adjoining threesomes
linked to other couples by tightly rhyming
postures and gestures;
groups are dissolved and then reconstituted
as the eye responds to the overlapping
figures arranged according to the subtle
rule of perspective.
Yet it’s elegiac, this summer party,
for, though the (mostly) young are clearly taken
with one another and their situation,
none has yet noticed
how very cool the colors of the room are
in the fading light, and how the wind that’s just
stirred the lacy curtains has somehow also
lengthened the shadows.
All too soon, that moment of watches glanced at,
looks exchanged; of thanking the host and hostess,
as with a show of genuine reluctance
guests make their exit.
I can picture André, now turning back to
find the party over, the room left vacant---
ashtrays full, glasses empty. Another day
of wine and poses.
Facing outward, perhaps he had a glimpse of
what lay ahead: law school, books read and written,
works and days of environmental---not a
piano’s---action.
To Himself
Though they seem always much to be desired,
The lives we cannot live are far more wearing
Than the one we do. If we feel ourselves mired
In its contingencies, committed to sharing
Our tatty picnic blanket with the uncaring,
Or wasting treasure in defense of relations
Forever in need of, or beyond, repairing;
If we’ve grown bored with manning the feckless
stations,
It’s only that those other lives, our creations,
Weightless themselves, oppress us until we falter;
So, weakened by their effortless evasions,
We learn this late that the only way to alter
That situation is to leave off pursuing,
And try to begin to do what we are doing.
Brooklyn in the Seventies
1/
In all the years that I lived there, I doubt
I once imagined there would come a time
When I would learn that I had been priced out
Of Brooklyn’s 19th-century sublime.
Back then it seemed much likelier to me
That I would see my small investment go
Belly-up, taken by the undertow
Of our increasing urban anomy
Until the shrinking figures shrank to naught:
A zero for the brownstone that I’d bought.
2/
Yet I persisted: property comes with
The fictions by which it’s inhabited.
I lived in not a brownstone but a myth
About a brownstone, as I often said.
Brooklyn was where I’d wanted to debut,
The cozy safe but always edgy home
I didn’t quite succeed in coming from,
Although the Brooklynites I later knew
Shared memories that helped me to restore
A childhood that I hadn’t had before.
3/
For Brooklyn is, or was then, all about
The joys of restoration and repair:
A brownstone, once the fortified redoubt
Of feuding gangsters or the unkempt lair
Of junkies, went from shooting gallery
To showcase in---let’s say eight years or ten
Of tearing down and building up again,
With never any kind of guarantee
That spouse or partner would be standing by
There at the end, if just to say good-bye.
4/
The other outcome happened quite a lot
In those days. Many couples would discover
That one was satisfied, the other not.
The one who wasn’t would take on a lover,
Or take off suddenly for parts unknown,
Leaving the one who was self-satisfied
And putting one’s now-outgrown self aside,
For self-discovery meant moving on
To find what would suffice and might fulfill:
One couldn’t find oneself by keeping still.
5/
I knew two Sisters who had left their order,
And when I asked what made them both decide
To venture out into a world much weirder,
“It was the stillness, mainly,” one replied,
“People began to ask us what we thought
Of clergy getting married and The Pill.
We hadn’t thought much of such things, until
They started asking us.”
“Soon we were out
And living here in Brooklyn, where you find us,”
The other said, “Where other vows now bind us.”
6/
Yes, selves were in a frenzy of commotion,
And those beyond their expiration dates
Were being tossed despite years of devotion.
So, whether by one’s doing or by fate’s,
One found oneself in an unlikely place
(And back then Brooklyn more than filled the bill
For sheer unlikeliness) in Clinton Hill
Or Bedford Stuyvesant, and with a face
One hadn’t chosen, one was soon immersed
In a role which one hadn’t yet rehearsed.
7/
The role may have been unimportant: all
That mattered was it couldn’t be defended
By older people: was what one might call
Unscripted, improvised: and always ended
At a goal which, once reached, would no more seem
To be the end one had so long intended:
“The coach stopped, the door opened, he descended.”
Beyond such twaddle lay another theme,
Rich with the still-unriddled mysteries
Of life in Brooklyn in the Seventies.
This Organizing Sol
itude
I have thought that my paintings of gorillas
in some sense constituted an autobiography.
—Miquel Barcelo
1/
Your Life in Letters asks a rearrangement
Of that very thing---better look before you
Leap: this can’t be done in stages,
It’s yes or no, commitment or estrangement.
I mean if, say, a year from now you’re bored, who
Would even know where your cage is?
No one, is who. And only feats of patience
Will allow you access to those illuminations
2/
For which you’ve left life, family and Heimat.
Sometimes a strange new character emerges
When you’ve disposed of all the clutter:
“Hello, it’s me! Yes, me! Where am I? I’m at
No.——, Rue Morgue.” The poor concierge is
Heard by M. Dupin to mutter,
“What an ape…” It’s true that your decision
May lead to changes that none of us can envision;
3/
Although each metamorphosis leaves traces
Of the old order, once across the sill, a
Transformation of your past is
Bound to kick in. This usually effaces
Whatever in you isn’t a gorilla
Dreaming of your mountain fastness.
The only issue after that is whether
The forefinger and thumb will learn to work together.
Theory Victorious
You’ll know for certain that it’s happened when you
See how the famished diner spurns his dinner
Only to fall with relish on the menu---
Then you’ll know Theory’s been declared the winner.
II/ Some Romans
On a Roman Perfume Bottle
The Romans were not meek,
And often the results
Of their inventive labors,
Towers and catapults,
Went rumbling off to wreak
Havoc on their neighbors;
This tiny, cooled-down state
Of a once-ardent passion
Knows nothing of those wars;
But served, in its own fashion,
The imperious dictate
Of Venus’s with Mars.
Ara Pacis
The white procession halts at the Altar of Peace
To give thanks for war ended on such splendid terms,
And someone deposits a shitstained lump of fleece
On the high marble table where it writhes and squirms,
Unquietly bleating, legs slipping and flailing,
And any prayer of its will be unavailing.
Ovid to His Book
(Tristia, I/1)
Off with you now, my little book, and go
to the city I am barred from, to my woe---
from Outer Nowhere all the way to Rome.
---Of course, I’m envious that I can’t come
myself, and had to send you---poorly wrought,
lacking revision’s second, better, thought
and all refinement---on this hopeless mission
to show an exile’s poems and condition.
A purple jacket? Be sensible, my book,
go for a serious, more somber look:
forget your title page’s ornamented
letters or hand-made paper, cedar-scented
with deckled edges, trimmed in costly gold
to keep away destructive dust and mold:
you needn’t fear remaindering---nor is
longevity the greatest of your worries.
Books are well made when fortune’s favor pours
down on their authors---as it won’t on yours.
Since it’s my fortune you should keep in mind,
display no polish of whatever kind:
better that you seem rugged and unkempt,
a ragamuffin with complete contempt
for random stains and blots: each will appear,
to those who notice it, an author’s tear.
Go on your way now, book, and speak for me
in places that I love, but cannot be,
saluting those whom I have come to meet
on metrical, if on no other, feet.
To those who ask of you, “How is our Ovid?”
say that although I haven’t yet recovered
my health and happiness, I’m pleased to give
thanks to the god by whose gift I still live.
Say what you need to and then say no more:
say nothing of what I’m being punished for---
how long do you imagine I’d survive
if I were to lead off The News at Five?
When biting words offend you, just recall
the best defense is often none at all,
and if you’d really have my exile end,
go find us both an influential friend,
someone who sighs to think of my removal,
and when he reads you gives his tears’ approval,
silently praying Caesar will relent
his anger and reduce my punishment---
we trust the gods won’t make that one atone,
for seeking to ease my loss, with his own,
and that the Prince will soon be quieted
so I may die at home in my own bed!
But when you have complied with my directive,
You’ll still find some who’ll say that you’re defective.
If critics must consider the circumstance
and time of any act, you have a chance:
one needs, in order to compose in measure,
a mind at rest in solitude and leisure,
not one that’s clouded over with its fear
because the executioner draws near!
A judge who understands this will applaud,
and reading, pardon---though the work be flawed:
put Homer in a pickle great as mine
and watch his genius suddenly decline!
So have no care for the best-seller list,
and give no thought to readers who resist
your many charms: my fortunes must be raised
before anything I write will be praised!
When I was fortunate, I hungered for
stardom, celebrity, and much, much more;
it now suffices that I do not hate
the poems that have brought me to this state,
the cleverness I suffer for---and from!
So go in my place now and visit Rome
as I would do, and walk about, and look
upon its wonders---would I were my book!
Don’t think, because you come here from abroad,
you’ll pass among the populace ignored!
I fear my notoriety may hurt you;
if any guardian of female virtue
finds you, because of me, fit for rejection,
offer your title page for his inspection:
“That work you think I am---which I am not,
The Art of Love, deserved the thumps it got!”
Do you suppose I’ll send you, book of mine,
to Caesar’s home high on the Palatine?
I beg forgiveness of that lofty site---and
of its deities---but I am still frightened:
the blast that struck me issued from that hill!
Some of its gods, I know, are merciful,
but how can I not shudder with alarm
merely to think of those that did me harm?
The dove you wounded, hawk, now quakes with dread
whenever feathers rustle overhead;
delivered from the wolf’s embrace, the lamb
is loath to leave the sheepfold and its dam;
the Sea of Icarus assumed the name
of that young lad who flew too near the flame:
beware, my book, observe the bottom feeders,
be
satisfied with ordinary readers.
From here, I can’t be sure which will prevail,
whether you should rely on oars or sail;
just let the situation be your guide:
if you come near him when he puts aside
the business of the day, and clemency,
the thought of it, supplants his rage at me;
if someone, as you shake with doubt and fear,
whispers an introduction in his ear,
approach---and on a day more fortunate
than your own master, you’ll improve his state,
for if my wound’s not fatal, it can be
cured only by the one who wounded me.
My fears are numerous, my hopes are scant,
so do not injure what you would advance---
don’t rouse the sleeping lion in his den,
or give him cause to punish me again.
But let’s not think of that, dear little tome;
rather, let’s think of you, soon to be home,
back at the townhouse, in the studio
upon your shelf, and with you, in a row,
your brothers all in chronologic order,
the products of my diligence and ardor.
Most of them show their titles openly
for anyone at all who passes by:
There are, however, three that shun the light,
maneuvering to keep far out of sight,
huddled together at a safe remove:
they teach---who doesn’t know?---the art of love.
I recommend you stay away from those,
that, like Telegonus or Oedipus,
slew their own father. If you have affection
for your parent, fly from their seduction!
Beside them stand my Metamorphoses,
survivors of my fortune’s exequies;
what I owe them, I hope you may amend:
my daily funeral here at world’s end.
I bid you tell them now that my own fate
resembles one of them in his changed state,
no more as I once was---and now much less,
with sorrow in the place of happiness.
I’ve more to tell you, book, if you should ask,
but that would only keep you from your task,
and if I filled you up with all my trouble,
the one who carried you would be bent double;
and you, if all that you did was repine,
would not be recognized as one of mine!
The road is long---hurry, while I bemoan
abidance in this land far from my own.
Three Sonnets from the Romanesco of G.G. Belli
1/ The Good Soldiers
Signs & Wonders Page 2
