BLUES FOR ROBERT BLY AND HONEYBOY EDWARDS

 

Robert Bly and Honeyboy Edwards would have

understood each other well, I think.

When I saw Honeyboy, already in his 90s

by then, small and sinewy, the bones of his face

shining through, his skin polished to

an elegant sheen that only comes with age,

he was playing to a small lecture hall

at the university, and when called back

for an encore, proceeded to play the same tune

he had played two songs in. He must have

known hundreds of songs by then, dating back

to the beginning of this American century,

but he wanted us, for whatever reason, to hear

that one again -- or he was simply playing it

for his own amusement, the particular joy and beauty

of doing whatever you damn well please,

another gift granted only to those who endure.

It reminded me of Bly, reading the same line

of poetry over again, pausing, gazing up

to see if it had resonated with those in attendance.

This, too, is the blues after all -- repeating

the refrain one has just sung, letting it linger,

roll off the tongue once more, in no hurry

for the resolution that may or may not come.

There is no end to this kind of song.

When a great singer says, "Take it from the top,"

what they mean is, "Go back all the way."

SEARCHING FOR THE POET'S GRAVE

 

They are searching for Lorca's remains again

today, their big yellow machinery

nudging and clawing at the silent earth,

scooping out rows and rows of doorways

along this withered patch of soil.

Though no one is here now to answer them,

no one to say, No thank you, sirs,

I'm not interested in returning,

and your Bible is no map for my soul.

But they have not questioned the cloud formations

in passing, nor the monuments of generals,

nor the crooked olive trees, unwaveringly lazy

in their beauty, witnesses to all.

No one has called in the sun and moon

to spit out their long and secret songs, explain

their absence when needed most.

No one has yet knocked upon my door,

demanding to peruse the shelves,

where they would surely find the one they seek,

still speaking, unafraid, his linen suit

not even wrinkled.

But the workers, naturally, will go on

with their labors, long past sunset,

coming back empty handed, the shapes of

new countries emerging through their shirt-sweat,

while the poet just goes on dreaming,

as he did a hundred years ago,

the witnesses to his whereabouts

now seemingly everywhere.

MYSTERY GIRL

 

She said her name was

Silence, and to call whenever

I wanted to talk, or even

if I didn't -- and sometimes

especially if I didn't. I have been

doing so religiously for all

these years, with little to show

now but these lines written

to and from myself, and to the

nameless gods who hide

amongst the bruise-colored

clouds and answer, in their way,

only when it rains.

USED RECORD STORE

 

You can smell the basements of long ago

here within these cardboard sleeves,

slender spines creased and breaking apart,

can almost feel the dampness seeping through

the cold cinder blocks, stale cigarette smoke

and voices turned suddenly into ghosts.

You can hold the shroud of another world

half-awake, waiting to be rediscovered,

can wander aimlessly the long, narrow aisles,

the way you did when you were still a kid,

hungry for any sign of life to find you.

You thought those songs would last forever,

the way summer did in every chorus,

repeating endlessly into a silence not quite.

You thought that girl who taught you

to kiss would stay just a moment longer.

the sound of her laughter like the incantation

of something just beyond your reach.

You are still searching, thumbing the racks

for something you may have missed,

still looking and listening for a message

that has taken so long to find you.

LEDGER

 

I was born with a list of books

I will never find time to read or to live;

I was born with the silence of their

pages pressed against my lips.

MAP

 

My little girl is learning to draw her world.

Rainbows, ships, bridges, monsters,

and waterfalls -- all of them executed

in bold strokes of color -- decorate

our walls, floors, and tabletops.

She draws me, her old man, with black stilts

for legs, a small cloud of chin whiskers,

and white balloon of a hand, five-pointed

like the sun, reaching for her own.

In another, the family has merged into

one great being, impossible to tell whose

outstretched hands belong to whom,

or whose feet are leading the way.

But today she gives to me a blank sheet

of paper, folded neatly in quarters.

"This is your map," she says calmly,

"so you will always know where you are."

I accept with the gratitude of the lost.

I treasure this one most of all.

BALLET CLASS ABOVE FRATTALLONE'S HARDWARE STORE

 

Copper pans and kettles rattle

beneath the clamor of dancer's feet,

a measured stampede rising

and falling, seemingly directionless,

from a distance we cannot quite fathom.

Step into the warm summer afternoon

and you can hear the upright piano

plunking out the same five or six notes

through the large open windows,

emphatic and out of tune, demanding

grace as if it were simply a matter

of mathematics, the seemingly endless

counting of steps and motion,

breathe and leap, and breathe again.

Look up and you can just make out

the arms of the young students,

reaching out like thin new branches,

then joining together above their heads

like a dozen orbs of sunlight

held against the dusty window glass.

We applaud from the white sidewalk below,

continuing in our separate directions;

our own steps for a moment somehow

lighter, our shoulders held back

as if by an unseen hand, blood-warm,

familiar, gentle as the breeze.