Words That Burn

Jan 13

Starlight (Clive)

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Starlight, by Caroline Clive (1801-1873)

Darkling methinks the path of life is grown,
And Solitude and Sorrow close around;
My fellow-travellers one by one are gone,
Their home is reached, but mine must still be found.

The sun that set as the last bow’d his head
To cross the threshold of his resting place
Has left the world devoid of all that made
Its business, pleasure, happiness, and grace.

But I have still the desert path to trace;
Nor with the day has my day’s work an end;
And winds and shadows through the cold air chase,
And earth looks dark where walked we friend with friend.

And yet thus wilder’d, not without a guide,
I wander on amid the shades of night;
My home-fires gleam, methinks, and round them glide
My friends at peace, far off, but still in sight;

For through the closing gloom, mine eyesight goes
Further in heaven than when the day was bright;
And there as Earth still dark and darker grows,
Shines out for every shade a world of light.

Jan 12

It Couldn’t Be Done (Guest)

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It Couldn’t Be Done, by Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959)

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done

But he with a chuckle replied

That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it!

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

At least no one ever has done it;”

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat

And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure,

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing

That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Jan 11

I allow myself (Grossman)

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I allow myself, by Dorothea Grossman

I allow myself

the luxury of breakfast

(I am no nun, for Christ’s sake).

Charmed as I am

by the sputter of bacon,

and the eye-opening properties

of eggs,

it’s the coffee

that’s really sacramental.

In the old days,

I spread fires and floods and pestilence

on my toast.

Nowadays, I’m more selective,

I only read my horoscope

by the quiet glow of the marmalade.

Jan 10

Song of the Round Man (Palmer)

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Song of the Round Man, by Michael Palmer (1943-)

The round and sad-eyed man puffed cigars as if

he were alive. Gillyflowers

to the left of the apple, purple bells to the right

and a grass-covered hill behind.

I am sad today said the sad-eyed man

for I have locked my head in a Japanese box

and lost the key.

I am sad today he told me

for there are gillyflowers by the apple

and purple bells I cannot see.

Will you look at them for me

he asked, and tell me what you find?

I cannot I replied

for my eyes have grown sugary and dim

from reading too long by candlelight.

Tell me what you’ve read then

said the round and sad-eyed man.

I cannot I replied

for my memory has grown tired and dim

from looking at things that can’t be seen

by any kind of light

and I’ve locked my head in a Japanese box

and thrown away the key.

Then I am you and you are me

said the sad-eyed man as if alive.

I’ll write you in where I should be

between the gillyflowers and the purple bells

and the apple and the hill

and we’ll puff cigars from noon till night

as if we were alive.

Jan 09

Crossing the Square (Schulman)

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Crossing the Square, by Grace Schulman (1935-)

Squinting through eye-slits in our balaclavas,

we lurch across Washington Square Park

hunched against the wind, two hooded figures

caught in the monochrome, carrying sacks

of fruit, as we’ve done for years. The frosted, starch-

stiff sycamores make a lean Christmas tree

seem to bulk larger, tilted under the arch

and still lit in three colors. Once in January,

we found a feather here and stuffed the quill

in twigs to recall that jay. The musical fountain

is here, its water gone, a limestone circle

now. Though rap succeeds the bluegrass strains

we’ve played in it, new praise evokes old sounds.

White branches mimic visions of past storms;

some say they’ve heard ghosts moan above this ground,

once a potter’s field. No two stones are the same,

of course: the drums, the tawny pears we hold,

are old masks for new things. Still, in a world

where fretted houses with façades are leveled

for condominiums, not much has altered

here. At least it’s faithful to imagined

views. And, after all, we know the sycamore

will screen the sky in a receding wind.

Now, trekking home through grit that’s mounting higher,

faces upturned to test the whirling snow,

in new masks, we whistle to make breath-clouds form

and disappear, and form again, and O,

my love, there’s sun in the crook of your arm.

Jan 08

Message From the City (Hecht)

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Message From the City, by Anthony Hecht (1922-1987)

It is raining here.

On my neighbor’s fire esacpe

geraniums are set out

in their brick-clay pots,

along with the mop,

old dishrags, and a cracked

enamel bowl for the dog.

I think of you out there

on the sandy edge of things,

rain strafing the beach,

the white maturity

of bones and broken shells,

and little tin shovels and cars

rusting under the house.

And between us there is — what?

Love and constraint,

conditions, conditions,

and several hundred miles

of billboards, filling-stations,

and little dripping gardens.

The fir tree full of whipsers,

trinkets of water,

the bob, duck, and release

of the weighted rose,

life in the freshened stones.

(They used to say that rain

is good for growing boys,

and once I stood out in it

hoping to rise a foot.

The biggest drops fattened

on the gutters under the eaves,

sidled along the slant,

picked up speed, let go,

and met their dooms in a “plock”

beside my gleaming shins.

I must have been near the size

of your older son.)

Yesterday was nice.

I took my boys to the park.

We played Ogre on the grass.

I am, of course, the Ogre,

and invariably get killed.

Merciless and barefooted,

they sneak up from behind

and they let me have it.

O my dear, my dear,

today the rain pummels

the sour geraniums

and darkens the grey pilings

of your house, built upon sand.

And both of us, full gorwn,

have weathered a long year.

Perhaps your casual glance

will settle from time to time

on the sea’s travelling muscles

that flex and rolls their strength

under its rain-pocked skin.

And you’ll see where the salt winds

have blown bare the seaward side

of the berry bushes,

and will notice

the faint, fresh

smell of iodine.

Jan 07

I saw a man pursuing the horizon (Crane)

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“I saw a man pursuing the horizon“, by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;

Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this;

I accosted the man.

“It is futile,” I said,

“You can never —”

“You lie,” he cried,

And ran on.

Jan 06

My Voice (Campos)

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My Voice, by Rafael Campos (1964-)

To cure myself of wanting Cuban songs,

I wrote a Cuban song about the need

For people to suppress their fantasies,

Especially unhealthy ones. The song

Began by making reference to the sea,

Because the sea is like a need so great

And deep it never can be swallowed. Then

The song explores some common myths

But the Cuban people and their folklore:

The story of a little Carib boy

Mistakenly abandoned to the sea;

The legend of a bird who wanted song

So desperately he gave up flight; a queen

Whose strength was greater than a rival king’s.

The song goes on about morality,

And then there is a line about the sea,

How deep it is, how many creatures need

Its nourishment, how beautiful it is

To need. The song is ending now, because

I cannot bear to hear it any longer.

I call this song of needful love my voice.

Jan 05

A Story (Inez)

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A Story, by Colette Inez (1931-)

There were rumors of a priest old enough

to be her father. She was the Latinist

he needed for his work on medieval texts.

Her family had no reason to suspect

her deference to a learned man.

She wrote she was swayed by his fame

as an Aristotle scholar

after I asked had she ever loved him.

When her clothes strained at the seams,

both may have talked of crossing

the border into Belgium.

I don’t know. No one must know,

they agreed, except their confessor,

and a colleague or two.

Dust on cathedral windows,

gathered in bouquets,

shook out again in wind and rain.

Birds migrated, wedge shaped shadows

on deltas and plateaus.

In the sacristy, among surplices* and robes,

he paced, a man clouded over with regret

for the child he might not hold.

And the woman lodged in another country?

My father did not hear her screams

pierce the leaves as I unfurled.

Clouds like bridal veils drifted above the city.

Hidden with the Sisters in an outlying part,

I grew where flowers took root in dry fields.

Soon the priest will be buried near the sea,

but my mother would grow old, recording parchments

and tomes on the history of the church.

After she slides into earth, nothing

of his name, nor mine, not a scrap

will be found in locked boxes or her vaults.

None will guess a child had slipped out

of those delicate thighs. And I will have my say.

*Loose white dress-like garment worn by priests.

This is what a surplice looks like

The sacristy is where worship materials are stored and also where the priest dons and removes his garments.

Jan 04

Intensive Care Unit (Stoutenburg)

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Intensive Care Unit, by Adrien Stoutenburg (1916-1982)

In one corner of the ward

somebody was eating a raw chicken.

The cheerful nurses did not see.

With the tube down my throat

I could not tell them.

Nor did they notice the horror show

on the TV set suspended over my windowless bed.

The screen was dead

but a torn face was clear.

I did not see my own

in a mirror for weeks.

When it happened,

when I dared to face my face

after the ravaging,

it was not mine

but something whittled, honed down

to a sly resemblance.

It, even the mirror, the pale room,

the oxygen tank

neat and black as a bomb

in its portable crate—

all was hallucination.

But the bloody rooster,

the stray pieces of bodies

slung into dreamless nooks,

the white-haired doll whimpering

on a gift counter—

those were real.

I keep living there.

Foolish. I am home. Half safe.

Starlight (Clive)

It Couldn’t Be Done (Guest)

I allow myself (Grossman)

Song of the Round Man (Palmer)

Crossing the Square (Schulman)

Message From the City (Hecht)

I saw a man pursuing the horizon (Crane)

My Voice (Campos)

A Story (Inez)

Intensive Care Unit (Stoutenburg)

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