beyond
settles on stump
of tree’s trunk—
limbs all cut
to force growth,
come summer—
in blue and white
checkerboard tiled
square planter
at bottom
sits in cement,
thoughtful,
men’s minded
complement.
Thinking of Walter Benjamin
What to say
these days
of crashing disjunct,
whine, of separation—
Not abstract—
“God’s will,” not
lost in clouds this
experienced wisdom.
Hand and mind
and heart one
ground to walk on,
field to plow.
I know
a story
I can tell
and will.
Waiting for a Bus “En Frente de la Iglesia”
Here’s the church,
here’s the tower, the wall,
chopped off. Open
the door— no
people. This is
age, long time gone,
like town gate sits
at intersection
across—just façade
leading nowhere.
Zipzap, the cars
roar past. Three
faded flags flap
on top of Hotel
Florida. Old dog,
old friend, walks toward us,
legs rachitic, stiff,
reddish hair all fuzzed.
Long grey bus
still parked to go
to Gerona
which, 8th century,
Charlemagne came personally
to take back from Moors.
You can read
all about it!
but wind’s cold
in this early spring sun,
and this bench’s
lost its bars
on the back
but for one—
and bus
now starts up,
and we’re on,
and we’re gone.
News of the World
Topical questions,
as the world swirls,
and never
enough in hand,
head, to know
if Amin
will truly become
“Jimmy Carter’s best friend”
as he professes. The facts
are literal daily horror:
1/5 of world’s population has no access
to processed drinking water;
“women in rural Burma
walk 15 miles a day to get some
and bring it home,
a six hour trip.” Or
Romania’s earthquake dead—
“What day is today
and how are my parents?”
were the first words of Sorin Crainic
when he emerged from the rubble
after eleven days. “I kept
hoping all the time.
My hope has come true.
I shall be able to walk again
and breathe fresh air, much
fresh air.
I shall go back to work.”
Meanwhile, same page, “Goldwater
Denounces Report Linking Him
To Gang Figures”—“A 36-member
team of journalists from 23 newspapers
and broadcast outlets . . . continuing
work begun by reporter Don Bolles . . .
who was murdered last June. One man
has pleaded guilty to second-degree
murder in the killing; two
are awaiting trial.” G. believes
“that the reporters had gone to Arizona
hoping to solve the Bolles murder”
but when “they could not” did
“a job” on said state. Too late,
too little. But not for you, Mr. G.,
as hate grows, lies, the same
investment of the nice and tidy
ways to get “rich,”
in this “world,”
wer eld, the length
of a human life.
Morning
Shadows, on the far wall,
of courtyard, from the sun
back of house, faint
traceries, of the leaves,
the arch of the balcony—
greens, faded white,
high space of flat
blind-sided building
sits opposite this
window, in high door,
across the floor here
from this table
where I’m sitting, writing,
feet on cold floor’s
tiles, watching this light.
The Table
Two weeks from now
we’ll be gone. Think,
problems will be
over, the time here
done. What’s the time
left to be.
Sky’s grey again,
electric stove whirs
by the wall with its
snowflake, flowerlike
yellow, blue and green
tile design. On the table
the iris have opened,
two wither and close.
Small jug holds them,
green stalks, husks and buds.
Paper, yesterday’s, book
to read face down, ashtray,
cigarettes, letter from
your mother, roll now
of thunder outside. You
put down the papers,
go back to reading
your book, head bent.
Sarah’s cap on your hair
holds it close—red at top,
in a circle, first ring French
blue, then one lighter,
then the darker repeated.
Think of the sounds,
outside, now quiet,
the kids gone back to school.
It’s a day we may
live forever, this
simple one. Nothing
more, nothing less.
Childish
Great stories matter—
but the one who tells them
hands them on
in turn to another
who also will.
What’s in the world
is water, earth,
and fire, some people,
animals, trees, birds,
etc. I can see
as far as you,
and what I see I tell
as you told me
or have or will.
You’ll see too
as well.
Echoes
Eight panes
in this window
for God’s light,
for the outside,
comes through door
this morning.
Sun makes laced
shadows on wall
through imperfect glass.
Mind follows,
finds the lines,
the wavering places.
Rest wants
to lie down
in the sun,
make resolution.
Body sits single,
waiting—
but for what
it knows not.
Old words
echoing what
the physical
can’t—
“Leave love,
leave day,
come
with me.”
Reflections
What pomposity
could say only—
Look
at what’s happened to me.
All those others
surrounding
know
the same bounds.
Happiness
finds itself
in one or many
and dead,
no more than one
or less
makes a difference.
I was thinking
this morning
again—
So be it.
New Moon
Are there still some
“quiet craters of the moon”—
seeing that edge of it
you were pointing to,
stopped, in the street,
looking past the wires
on those poles, all
the stores, open, people,
cars, going past, to see
in that space, faint sliver
of its visible edge. What
advice then remembered,
what had she said?
Turn your money over
and bow three times
to make it increase.
Later
If I could get
my hands on
a little bit
of it—neither fish,
flesh, nor fowl. Not
you, Harry. No one’s
mother—or father,
or children. Not
me again. Not
earth, sky, water—
no mind, no time.
No islands in the sun.
Money I don’t want.
No place more
than another—
I’m not here
by myself. But,
if you want to give
me something for Xmas,
I’ll be around.
Night Time
When the light leaves
and sky’s black,
no nothing
to look at,
day’s done.
That’s it.
Peace
You’re looking at a chopper,
brother—no words to say.
Just step on
the gas, man, up and away.
That’s dead, I know,
I don’t even talk like that
any more. My teeth
are hurting.
But if you’ll wait
out back, and
hit yourself over the head
with a hard object,
you’ll dig, like, you
like me were young once,
jesus, here come
the creeps. I wrote
a book once, and was
in love with
substantial objects.
No more, I can
get out of here
or come here
or go there
or here, in five minutes.
Later. This
is just to say I was
something or other, and you dig it,
that’s it, brother.
Blues
FOR TOM PICKARD
Old-time blues
and things to say—
not going home
till they come to get me.
See the sky
black as night,
drink what’s
there to drink.
God’s dead,
men take over,
world’s round,
all over.
Think of it,
all those years,
no one’s the wiser
even older.
Flesh, flesh,
screams in body,
you know,
got to sleep.
Got to eat, baby,
got to.
No way
you won’t.
When I lay down
big bed
going to pillow
my sleeping head.
When I fall,
I fall,
straight down deep
I’m going.
No one
touch me
with
their doubting mind.
You don’t
love me
like you
say you do, you
don’t do me
like you
said
you would.
What I say
to people
don’t mean
I don’t love,
what I
do don’t
do, don’t don’t
do enough.
Think I drink
this little glass,
sit on my ass,
think about
life, all
those things,
substance.
I could touch you.
Times in jail
I was scared
not of being hurt
but that people lock you up,
what’s got to be
cruel is you know,
and I don’t, you say
you got the truth.
I wouldn’t listen
if I was drunk, couldn’t hear
if I was stoned,
you tell me right or don’t.
Come on home, brother,
you make a fool,
get in trouble, end up
in jail.
I’m in the jailhouse now.
When they lock the door,
how long is what
you think of.
Believe in what’s there,
nowhere else it will be.
They kill you,
they kill me.
Both dead,
we’ll rise again.
They believe in Christ,
they’ll believe in men.
Spring in San Feliu
Think of the good times—
again. Can’t let it all
fail, fall apart, at
that always vague edge is
the public so-called condition,
which nobody knows enough
ever, even those
are supposed to be it.
I could identify that man,
say, bummed us out, or
the woman took the whole
street to walk in. They are
familiar faces, anywhere. They
don’t need a place. But,
quieter, the kid took the running
leap past us, to show off,
the one then asked to look in
to the courtyard, saw the house,
said, que casa grande!, sans malice
or envy, the ones let us off
the hook of the randomly purposive
traveler, the dogs that
came with us, over hill,
over dale, the country men and women
could look up from those
rows of stuff they had planted,
showed now green, in the sun,
—how modest those farms and those lives.
Well, walk on . . . We’ll be gone
soon enough. I’ll have got
all I wanted—your time and your love
and yourself—like, poco a poco.
That sea never cared about us.
Nor those rocks nor those hills,
nor the far-off mountains still
white with snow. The sun
came with springtime—la
primavera, they’ll say, when
we’ve gone. But we came.
We’ve been here.
4/1/77
Sparrows
Small birds fly up
shaft of stairwell,
sit, chirping,
where sun strikes in at top.
Last time we’ll see them,
hear their feisty greeting
to the day’s first light,
the coming of each night.
End
End of page,
end of this
company—wee
notebook kept
my mind in hand,
let the world stay
open to me
day after day,
words to say,
things to be.
Two
For John
Chamberlain
They paid my way here
and I’ll get myself home.
Old saying:
Let the good times roll.
. . .
This is Austin
spelled with an H? This is
Houston, Texas—
Houston Street is back there—
ways in and out
of New York. The billboards
are better than the natural view,
you dig. I came here
just to see you, personal
as God and just as real.
I may never go home
again. Meantime
the lead room with the x
number of people
under the street
is probably empty tonight.
In New York, in
some other place.
Many forms.
Many farms, ranches
in Texas—many places,
many miles, big
endless spaces they say.
This is Marlboro Country
with box those dimensions,
module. Old movie of you
using baler with the crunchers
coming down so delicately.
The kids in the loft, long space.
The Oldenbergs going to work,
eight o’clock. Viva
talking and talking. Now I’m
stoned again, I was
stoned again, all that
past, years
also insistent dimension.
If I could take the world,
and put it on its side, man,
and squeeze just in the right
places. Wow. I don’t think
much of interest would happen.
Like the lion coming into the room
with two heads, we’d all end up
killing it to see it.
So this is Art and here we are.
Who would have thought it?
I’ll go sooner than you.
I can always tell
no matter how long I sit
after they’ve all gone, but the bottle
isn’t empty.
No one’s going to throw me out.
Let’s sit in a bar and cry again.
Fuck it! Let’s go out on your boat
and I’ll fall asleep just like
they all do you tell me.
Terrific. Water’s
an obvious material.
You could even make
a suit out of it. You could
do anything you wanted to,
possibly, if you wanted to.
Like coming through customs
with the grey leather hat.
It’s all so serious and wonderful.
It’s all so big and small.
Upended, it begins again, all the way
from the end to the very beginning,
again. I want it two ways,
she said, in a book
someone wrote. I want it all.
I want to take it all home.
But there’s too much already
The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley Page 6
