Such A Dark Road We Travel Now   Sunday, January 28, 2007

Welcome to "Here and Now" number II.1.5.

We begin this week with one of Robert Frost's best known poems.

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
His all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But there are no cows,
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't like a wall,
That wants it down," I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Gary Blankenship returns with the tenth, though not last, poem in his series on the Ten Commandments.

You can learn more about Gary and his work by clicking on the link to his website to the right of this page.

Commandment X

You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet
your neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant,
nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor's.

I do not envy his SUV,
house with views of both the rising and setting sun
pedigree cat and best of show dog
pool boy and gardener
secretary and nanny
second trophy wife
prize roses
garden gnome

Instead I covet the peace

that we imagine existed
among the ancients
but never did

and will not again

A little love poem doesn't hurt every now and again. I wrote this one seven or eight years ago. It was finally published in 2003 in The Muse Apprentice.

anniversary thoughts on a winter night

the cold night seeps
through the window
beside our bed,
damp, coastal cold
that makes midnight fog
fall to the ground,
reflecting in the pale light
like the tiny sparkles
of broken glass
you see scattered
on the street
after an accident

the window,
when I brush against it,
is a cold jolt
that pushes me across the bed
to lie closer to you,
to wrap myself around you,
embracing your warmth
like an animal
drawing tight around itself,
seeking the internal fire
of its own beating heart
to protect itself
from the cold hand
of night

are my fire tonight
and nights past
and nights to come,
the warm nest that saves me
from cold and loveless nights,
the light that sustains me
through dark and lonely days

are the center of life and warmth for me

you are
and so I am

William Heyen is an American poet, editor, and literary critic. He taught American literature and creative writing for over 30 years before retiring in 2000. He also briefly served as Director of the Brockport Writers Forum, a series of readings by and video interviews with numerous American and international authors.

His books of poetry include Depth of Field, Noise in the Trees, The Swastika Poems, Long Island Light), Erika: Poems of the Holocaust, Pterodactyl Rose, Crazy Horse In Stillness, Pig Notes & Dumb Music: Prose on Poetry, and Diana, Charles, & the Queen. He also authored a novel, Vic Holyfield and the Class of '57.

This poem is from another of his books, Lord Dragonfly.

Evening Dawning

A crow's black squawk -
my white field lost again.

All bone,
feet numb,
rhythm gone,
I clod across the field.

From the outer world,
a siren, and a dog's

In high snow,
which way the root,
which way the tip
of the bramble arch?

Sparrow hearts
the frozen field.

In the long, lowest needles
of white pine,
a message,
frozen in urine.

White moon shell,
and a single gull
flying toward me
from shore.

Upswirl, sudden
My cabin within,
I close my eyes to find it.

My footprints already
in front of me,
I walk toward the other world.

I address the door,
pray, once more,
for that opening
to everywhere,
and enter.

Pine chair cold,
hands cold,
mind cold
and ready.

World, mind, words -
wax, wick, matches.

Under my cabin,
field mice,
and China.


To see the white sea,
I and my old pen knife
scrape a porthole
in the frosted window.


Rabbit tracks,
rabbit pellets,
my own footsteps
drifting with snow.


What kind of blood
in the red-twig dogwood?


They disappear,
St. Francis now a spruce
receiving sparrows
into his dark boughs.


Logic, logic -
trillions of intricate hexagons.


From another time
at fields edge
the first ash
veiled in a dream
in falling snow.


mote of male blood
in the winter ash.


Under the snow,
infinitesimal pearls,
insects speeding to summer.


Already ferns
frost my window.


I am thirty-eight.
Evening is dawning.


Lord, winter,
I place this cabin
in your begging bowl.


Dying, the brain
sheds cells.
In the end,
perfect numbers,
the mind,
the Milky Way's stars.


Candlebeam and dust,
river and fish,
as long as they last.


Blue stars in the blue snow
over the elm stump.


In the window,
holding out their arms
my mother and father,
above, within, beyond the field.


I have come to have
everything, but now
the miserable
weep in chapels
under the spruce boughs.


Even winter evenings
spores of black knot killer
of cherry, plum, and apple


mindless, invisible,
drift over the field,
but will anchor.


Verdun, Belsen, Jonestown - still,
from indwelling darkness, human
music, a summons
to praise.


A boy, I killed these sparrows
whose tsweet, tsweet now
enters my cabin,
forgiving everything.


I still hear
the summer woodpecker, red
godhead hammering holes
into my heartwood.


How long have I been here,
scent of pinesap
flowing through my chair?


Snow clouds,
Milky Way nowhere in sight,
moon hidden, all
earth gone -
there is a life, this one,
beyond the body.

According to Portuguese poet Eugenio de Andrade, he wrote this poem January 3, 1989 in memory of Chico Mendes, Brazilian organizer of Sustainable Rain Forest Campaign and leader of local rubber tappers. Mendez was born December 15, 1944 and, according to Andrade, murdered December 22, 1988 by powerful Amazonian ranchers due to his opposition to rain forest destruction.

In Memory of Chico Mendes

News comes from Brazil, Chico
Mendes has been killed, his death
wraps itself now in the first frosts,
even sorrow makes no sense,
the ball continues circling in orbit, one day
it will explode, the universe will then be cleaner.

For fun, here are a few short pieces by Marcus Valerius Martialis, known in English as Martial, Matrial was a Latin poet from Hispania best known for his twelve books of Epigrams, published in Rome between AD 86 and 103, during the reigns of the emperors Domitian, Nerva and Trajan. In these short, witty poems he cheerfully satirizes city life and the scandalous activities of his acquaintances, and romanticizes his provincial upbringing. He had a keen sense of curiosity and power of observation which bring to life the spectacle and brutality of daily life in imperial Rome.

Here He Is Whom You Read And Clamor For

Here he is whom you read and clamor for,
tasteful reader, the very Martial world-
renowned for pithy books of epigrams
and not even dead yet. So seize your chance:
better to praise him when he can hear
than later, when he'll be literature

(Translated by William Matthews)

You Are A Stool Pigeon

You are a stool pigeon and
A slander, a pimp and
A cheat, a pederast and
A troublemaker. I can't
Understand, Vacerra, why
You don't have more money.

(Translated by Kenneth Rexroth)

You Sold A Slave Just Yesterday

You sold a slave just yesterday
for twelve hundred sesterces, Cal;
at last the lavish dinner you've
long dreamed about is in the pan.
Tonight! Fresh Mullet, four full pounds!

You know I'll not complain, old pal,
about the food. But that's no fish
we'll eat tonight: that was a man.

Ted's Studio Burnt Down

Ted's studio burnt down, with all his poems.
Have the muses hung their heads?
You bet, for it was criminal neglect
not also to have sauteed Ted.

Oh If The Gods Would Make Me Rich

"oh if the gods would make me rich," you said -
gods like a joke, and so they did -
"I'd show you all what living's for,"
But you dress like a scarecrow and your shoes
are patched. From ten olives you
set six aside; you stretch one scant dinner
until it's two. The tepid pondslime
you call pea soup; the bilge you drink for wine,
the lank, parched whores you call amours -
you call this squandering? You anal lout,
act rich or else restore the gods their loot
before they haul you into court.

(Poems Translated by William Matthews


You've planted seven wealthy husbands
    While the bodies were still warm.
You own, Chloe, what I'd call
    A profit-making farm.

(Translated by Fred Chappell)

I wrote this piece several years ago, as one in the series of poems with female names in the title that I mentioned last week. The poem was published in Eclectica in 2002, then is included in my book Seven Beats a Second.

flying a kite with Katie

and dives
and swoops
and loops the loop,
a blue and white kite
against a blue and white sky

beside me,
brown on brown,
with white teeth
flashing with laughter
at the glory of the day

she holds the string
pulls as the kite begins to stall
lets loose when a gust of summerwind
lifts the kite and takes it toward the clouds

and I hold her,
not so tight, she says,
this is hard to do, she says,
back off so I can concentrate, she says

and I back away
as a great flurry of winds comes,
billows her dress against her back and legs
and she seems to fly like the kite away from me.

Arlene Ang lives in Spinea, Italy. She is the author of The Desecration of Doves and is the recipient of The 2006 Frogmore Poetry Prize. Her website is at and can be reached directly through the link on the right.

This piece is from her book.

Approaching Storm

Evenings when squid-spat meringue clouds
swim across the full moon,
rain seems so imminent
you taste wet soil on your tongue.

Even the noon wash struggles against drought.
If you watch from your window
hands trapped in grillwork,
if you watch with 13-year old eyes
that still mirror blotches on wet beds,
the wind is Paganini playing
the clothesline while thunder gates
of hell open behind the sky stage

This approaching storm has so much
the feel of war, something you've dined with
as spectator whose appetite for bad news
increases with every meal.

In the backyard, victims are grass,
the procession of torn marguerites,
pegs flying like shrapnel, dried leaves.
Here from fenced life behind the glass
you watch your mother run
in an effort to rescue clothes,
her pleas for help
a silent movie you've watched so many times
you forget to laugh.

Alcaeus of Mytilene, born in the 6th century BC, was a Greek lyric poet and an older contemporary and an alleged lover of Sappho. He was born into the aristocratic governing class of Mytilene, the main city of Lesbos, where his life was entangled with its political disputes and internal feuds. A man of military experience, he had a somewhat different view of the beautiful Helen.

Her Heart So Stricken

....Her heart so stricken, Helen
clutched her breast and wept for Paris
as he, in turn, deceived his host;
and she stole away on his boat,
abandoning her child and her husband's bed....

And now how many brothers of Paris
lie planted in black earth
across the plains of Troy?
All for that woman, chariots ground to dust,
noble, olive-skinned men all slaughtered
on her behalf.

(Translated by Sam Hamill)

In high school, Edward Lee Masters' Spoon River Anthology was my favorite. My preference in reading has always been toward narrative (in music, it's melody, another kind of narrative) and Spoon River delivered, not just one story, but pages and pages of short stories and their characters.

The problem is how to pick just one. By judgment of the dart, here's Masters' story of Windell P. Bloyd.

Wendell P. Bloyd

They first charged me with disorderly conduct,
There being no statute on blasphemy,
Later they locked me up as insane
Where I was beaten to death by a Catholic guard.
My offense was this:
I said God lied to Adam, and destined him
To lead the life of a fool,
Ignorant that there is evil in the world as well as good.
And when Adam outwitted God by eating the apple
And saw through the lies
God drove him out of Eden to keep him from taking
The fruit of immortal life.
For Christ's sake, you sensible people,
Here's what God Himself says about it in the book of Genesis:
"And the Lord God said, behold the man
Is become as one of us" (a little envy, you see),
"To know good and evil" (The all-is-good lie exposed:
"And now lest he put forth his hand and take
Also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever:
Therefore the Lord God sent Him forth from the Garden of Eden."
(The reason I believe God crucified His Own Son
To get out of the wretched tangle is because it sounds just like Him.)

I wrote this several years ago. It appeared in very nice, but shortlived, journal Experimentia in 2002.

god smites an infidel

how like a god am I

passing my days and nights
in a blur of godly thought
particular to my godly sphere

crawling on my steering wheel
a single sugar ant trudges
with antish concentration
making his antly way
across his antly world

with hardly a break in my celestial
I cock a distracted thumb
and squash the buggly creature
wipe his jellied remains
on my pants
and continue my meditations

so like a god am I

sailing supremely through
my sunny universe of me

Jack Kerouac with a memory of his father.

Chorus 99

My father, Leo Alcide Kerouac
Comes in the door of the porch
On the way out to to downtown red,
(where Neons Redly Brownly Flash
An aura over the city center
As seen from the river where we lived)
-- "Prap - prohock!" he's coughing,
  Busy. "Am," bursting to part
  the seams of his trousers with power
  of assembled intentions.
          "B-rrack - Brap?"
(as years later GJ would imitate him,
"your father, Zagg, he goes along,
Bre-hack! Brop?" Raising
  his leg, bursting his face
      to rouge outpop huge mad eyes
      of "big burper balloons
      of the huge world")
To see if there's any mail in the box
My father shoots 2 quick glances
Into all hearts of the box,
No mail, you see the flash of his anxious
Head looking in the void for nothing.

Howard Moss was an American poet, dramatist, and critic. He was poetry editor of The New Yorker magazine from 1948 until his death in 1987. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1971 and the National Book Award in 1972 for Selected Poems.

Moss was born in New York City. He attended the University of Michigan, where he won a Hopwood Award. He is credited with discovering a number of major American poets.

News from the Border

The fishermen lug in their nets, the take's
Too small, the natural's shunted aside
For derricks busy recouping the wastes
Of the limitless profits of coal and oil.
Barely able to reach the dunes
(The other half of the parenthesis
in reverse). the waves have had years of going
on like this. As blue as gas,
The lights up, goes out, The breakers
Pursue a few mad screaming gulls,
Mean little beasts hooked on garbage.

And further along, there's the hotel's
Honeycomb windows looking out to sea,
A tray of ice-cubes, each with its sniper.
Yet the summer clients stay faithful:
For instance, in Room 608,
Ms. Minerva, a former goddess, is keen
On not getting up. "One day," she threatens,
"Is so like another that one will come
When I won't even try at all. Brandy?"

But others are dying like Florida love-bugs
On beaches so covered with freighter fat
That even birds evolutionally adjusted
To the profit motive are saying, "We can’t
Take it anymore," In South America,
An orchid enthusiast has stupidly mated
A gentle species in love with itself

Canadian poet Don Schaeffer returns with two new poems. Don can be heard reading some of his poems at


I wake up
before the short Winter day
separates from its night,
and cautious.

I monitor the air
telescope my eye,
on guard for the entrance of a dark path.

In the sixty-seventh year,
the first year of
irreversibles, most healing, for the first time,
will not have time to finish.


The people that know me
in real life, the ones I
see all the time, some of them
speak and others never do,
known strangers, breathers and
belchers. I hear a Wurlitzer organ
and taste a thick soup, a folk soup like borscht.

When I was in Smitty's today
and asked him, the waiter told me
yes he worked there for many years,
there and another place. I told him,
you don't know me, but I watched you grow older,
seeing you about 40 times since my
children were toddlers and we
carried out own potty seat into the restaurant.

Some of them are gray,
the ones who can ramble on about the cost of bath soap.
I apologize for thinking that. We speak
Stranger to stranger, within the radius, within the
borders of the town, sometimes brusquely other times
like people who pass through time together.

Jan Emmens was a Dutch poet, art historian and cofounder of the literary magazine Tirade It is said that in his poems, essays, and aphorisms, he tried, by means of intellectualism, irony, and self-mockery, to come to terms with his own vulnerability.

Born in 1924, he committed suicide in 1971.

The Lion of Judah

Now that I know so much, I know better
that I feel much less, only
sometimes I've a hankering to be
the Lion of Judah, Cuirassier
of eighteen-thirty, frog in the Achterhoek,
a queer mug altogether, Sinbad's Roc,
townclerk of Amalfi in eleven-eighty.

I see of course that this is out of the question,
and rake with care at my garden, astounding myself
over a pebble, three ants and a sparrow
who feels uneasy in all that silence.

Here's another poem by Arlene Ang, this one the title piece for her book The Desecration of Doves mentioned earlier.

The Desecration of Doves

Diana always entered through the back door.
She reanimated the pall-grave mother we never knew

on a pay-by-day basis while Father maneuvered
lightning deals, the thunder of his Land Rover

rarely announced his return. He never found out
he had hired the Huntress. We followed her like geldings

until she caged us behind the kitchen window,
spectators who had much to learn of delicate craft.

In rare moments of sadness, Father would mention doves.
The bevy in the yard was the only feathered trace of Mother

in our memory. Diana taught us to lure them with corn
towards out hands, then the nanosecond art of twisting necks.

The stench of feathers dipped in boiling water
was cleansing before the ritual -

blood down the sink, approaching fire,
a simmering of sauces. For hours, she slow-cooked

meat and bones while the neighbor's cat
devoured heads, spat out beaks in the tiled floor.

We dressed as little deities for dinner.
And doves, served in individual plates, were ambrosia.

Bukowski reflects on the importance of a good night.


fighting with women
playing the horses

sometimes I get too exhausted
to even feel bad

it's then that
listening to the radio
or reading a newspaper
is soothing,

the toilet looks kind
the bathtub looks kind
the faucets and the sink
look kind

I feel this way tonight

the sound of an airplane overhead
warms me
voices outside are
gentle and kind.

now I am content and

I watch my cigarette smoke
work up through the lamp shade
and all the people I have wronged
have forgiven me
but I know that I will go mad
again -

I need good nights like this
in between.
you need them too.

without them
no bridge would be

Some weeks ago I mentioned the movie Hard Candy and the incredible, raging, incendiary performance of its lead actress Ellen Page playing a 14 year old intended victim (maybe/maybe not as it turns out) of a pedophile. Nothing I've seen this year matched the mesmerizing intensity of her performance in this movie.

The performance did not go completely unnoticed, with Page selected as best actress of the year by the Austin Film Critics Association. Not one of the big time awards, I suppose, but Austin critics see a lot of movies, especially indies, associated with the annual South by Southwest event so they are not undiscerning on the subject of movies and superior performances.

Giuseppe Ungaretti is recognized as one of the foremost Italian poets of the 20th century. He was born in Egypt in 1888 into a Jewish family from Italy. In 1912 he moved to Paris, where he studied for a few years. In 1914 he joined the Italian army and fought in World War.

Two of his poems, Soldiers - War - Another War and Vanity were made into song by American composer Harry Partch (Intrusions, 1949-50).

He died in Milan in 1970.


All night long
sitting alongside
my dead friend
(he with white teeth
gnashed in a grin
at the pale moon
he with stiff hands
reaching for
the darkest zone
of my own silence)
    I have been writing
    love letters

I have never
felt so much

Sometimes, the Poetry Fairy comes through with a poem and sometimes she just leaves me to brood alone in an empty room.

a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs and a can of sardines

I struggle
but the gray fog
does not clear

I study the scene around me
and watch and watch
as if by watching hard enough
I can make the poem
like on a dialogue board
in an old silent movie

it works sometimes,
but not today;
all is as dull
and unyielding
as yesterday
and many days before

best I give it up for now
and write a grocery list

One of the benefits of having children is that you get to read Dr. Seuss aloud, with all the gusto and fun he deserves, without feeling self-conscious.

Here's my favorite of all the Seuss stories.

Yertle the Turtle

On the far-away Island of Sala-ma-Sond,
Yertle the Turtle was king of the pond.
A nice little pond. It was clean. It was neat.
The water was warm. There was plenty to eat.
The turtles had everything turtles might need.
And they were all happy, Quite happy, indeed.

They were....until Yertle, the king of them all,
Decided the kingdom he ruled was too small.
"I'm ruler," said Yertle, "of all that I see,
But I don't see enough. That's the trouble with me.
With this stone for a throne, I look down on my pond
But I cannot look down on the places beyond.
This throne that I sit on is too, too low down.
It ought to be higher," he said with a frown.
"If I could sit high, how much greater I'd be!
What a king! I'd be ruler of all I could see!"

So Yertle the Turtle King, lifted his hand
and Yertle the Turtle King, gave a command.
He ordered nine turtles to swim to his stone
And, using these turtles, he built a new throne.
He made each turtle stand on another one's back
And he piled them all up in a nine-turtle stack.
And then Yertle climbed up. He sat on the pile.
What a wonderful view! He could see 'most a mile!

"All mine!" Yertle cried. "Oh the things I now rule!
I'm king of a cow! And I'm king of a mule!
I'm king of a house! And, what's more, beyond that,
I'm king of a blueberry bush and a cat!
I'm Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me!
For I am the ruler of all that I see!"

And all through the morning, he sat there up high
Saying over and over, "A great king am I!"
Until 'long about noon. Then he heard a faint sigh
"What's that?" snapped the king
And he lookes down the stack
And he saw, at the bottom, a turtle named Mack,
Just a part of his throne. And this plain little turtle
Looked up and he said, "Beg your pardon, King Yertle.
I've pains in my back and my shoulders and knees.
How much longer must we stand here, Your Majesty, please?"

"SILENCE!" the King of the Turtles barked back.
"I'm king, and you're only a turtle named Mack."

"You stay in your place while I sit here and rule.
I'm king of a cow! And I'm king of a mule!
I'm king of a house! And a bush! And a cat!
But that isn't all. I'll do better than that!
My throne shall be higher!" his royal voice thundered,
"So pile up more turtles! I want 'bout two hundred!"

"Turtles! More turtles!" he bellowed and brayed.
And the turtles 'way down in the pond were afraid.
They trembled. They shook. But they came. They obeyed.
From all over the pond, they came swimming by dozens.
Whole families of turtle, with uncles and cousins.
And all of them stepped on the head of poor Mack.
One after another, they climbed up the stack.

THEN Yertle the Turtle was perched up so high,
He could see forty miles from his throne in the sky!
"Hooray!" shouted Yertle. "I'm king of the bees!
I'm king of the butterflies! King of the air!
Ah, me! What a throne! What a wonderful chair!
I'm Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me!
For I am the ruler of all that I see!"

Then again, from below, in the great heavy stack,
Came a groan from that plain little turtle named Mack.
"You Majesty, please....I don't like to complain,
But down here below, we are feeling great pain.
I know, up on top you are seeing great sights,
But down at the bottom we, too, should have rights.
We turtles can't stand it. Our shells will all crack!
Besides, we need food. We are starving!" groaned Mack.

"You hush up your mouth!" howled the mighty King Yertle.
"You've no right to talk to the world's highest turtle.
I rule from the clouds! Over land! Over sea!
There's nothing, no NOTHING, that's higher than me!"

But while he was shouting, he saw with surprise
That the moon of the evening was starting to rise
Up over his head in the darkening skies.
"What's THAT?" snorted Yertle. "Say, what IS that thing
That dares to be higher than Yertle the King?
I shall not allow it! I'll go higher still!
I'll build my throne higher! I can and I will!
I'll call some more turtles. I'll stack 'em to heaven!
I need about five thousand, six hundred and seven!"

But, as Yertle, the Turtle King, lifted his hand
And started to order and give the command,
That plain little turtle below in the stack,
That plain little turtle whose name was just Mack,
Decided he'd taken enough, And he had.
And that plain little Mack did a plain little thing.
He burped!
And his burp shook the throne of the king!

And Yertle the Turtle, the king of the trees,
The king of the air and the birds and the bees,
The king of a house and a cow and a mule.....
Well, that was the end of the Turtle King's rule!
For Yertle, the King of all Sala-ma-Sond,
Fell off his high throne and fell Plunk! in the pond!

And today the great Yertle, that Marvelous he,
Is King of the Mud. That is all he can see.
And the turtles, of course....all the turtles are free
As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be.

A note for San Antonio readers before we leave for the week, artist and poet Lawrence Trujillo will have paintings up at the Keller-Rihn Studio on the 2nd story of the Blue Star Arts Complex next Friday, February 2nd. That will be the First Friday for February.

For those outside San Antonio, First Friday is a monthly arts event in San Antonio centered around the downtown King William and Southtown districts. Lots of good stuff goes on.

The Blue Star Arts Complex, an adaptation of historic warehouse buildings into an arts-oriented mixed use development of loft/studio apartments, galleries, retail, performance spaces, artists' work spaces, and design offices, in addition to its various ongoing gallery shows and activities, is a major participant in every First Friday.

LAST MINUTE SCHEDULE CHANGE: Lawrence's show scheduled for February 2nd has been postponed. Instead of his work appearing as a part of a larger show, it will hang in a couple of weeks in a show dedicated to just his work.

To see samples of Lawrence's work, click on his website link on the right.

That's it. Back again next week.


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On The Raw Edge Of The Year   Sunday, January 21, 2007

The big news here this week, other than the Spurs collapse into a loser heap, was the freeze of 07, experienced by many, but not with the combination of joy, anticipation, excitement, dread and panic as here in San Antonio.

You should expect to see a ice picture or two as you continue reading this, "Here and Now" number II.1.4.

We open this issue with the first appearance in "Here and Now" of S. Thomas Summers, whose manuscript Death settled well won Shadows Ink Publications 7th Bi-annual Chapbook Competition and was released in September 2006.

He lives in New Jersey with his wife and children and is a teacher of English at Wayne Hill High School. He can be reached at

A lover of history and poetry, he hopes to publish a volume of Civil War poetry in the near future. Here are two poems from his Civil War series. We expect to feature more poems from this series in the weeks ahead.


We pile arms and legs
like Willy and me piled wood
near ma's tomatoes.
Blood seeps from 'em like sap.

Hardest to stomach are the toes.
General Longstreet ordered me
to pull off boots and shoes
before I buried the lot.

Toes stick out here and there,
pointing ways they shouldn't.
Made me think of rows
of slaughtered hogs.

Funny thing is they still reek
like fusty feet - like Pop
just kicked off his shoes
and is sittin' here with me.

Gettysburg: The Wheatfield

Billy Yank

Flies circle his head
like a black halo,
lay their eggs near the bullet
lodged in the meat of his brain.

Scattered among the trampled blades,
like broken pottery-
fragments of skull.

Before the colonel
gave the order to advance,
he pinned a note to his uniform.

"My name is Jonathan Victor
and I love my mother."

He imagined her proudly smiling
as the morning sun darted
off the golden buttons
that adorned his blue coat.

Johnny Reb

A scrap of Confederate flesh
burdens the flaxen head of a wheat stalk
that arches toward the ground
like a cricket leg
the moment before it springs.

Back home, a little girl, dirt
creeping over her feet
like a pair of old socks,
scratches her name in the mud
behind the pig trough.


Smart as she is, Pa will hug
her good and tight
once the war says
he can go home.

San Antonio was iced in for the better part of two days. It finally started melting this afternoon.

cold winds strip the morning bare

cold winds strip
the morning bare
then cover it
with ice,
the chill weight
of its clutch
bending oak limbs
to the ground,
encasing blooms
fooled by false spring

the city
except for a few
hardy fools
like me, slip-sliding
down the road
in search of a newspaper
that I can read with
morning coffee, looking
out the kitchen windows
to the frozen grass
and the woodpile
covered white
and the icicles hanging
long and sharp
from the lip of my

both dogs, pushed
out against their will,
stand shivering
at the door until
I am overcome
by their misery
and let them in,
they left the patio
long enough
to take care of

Jane Hirshfield was born in New York City in 1953. After receiving her B.A. from Princeton University in their first graduating class to include women, she went on to study at the San Francisco Zen Center. Her books of poetry include After, Given Sugar, Given Salt, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, The Lives of the Heart, The October Palace, Of Gravity & Angels, and Alaya.

She is also the author of Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry and has also edited and translated works by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu..

Her honors include The Poetry Center Book Award, fellowships from the Guggenheim and Rockefeller Foundations, Columbia University's Translation Center Award, the Commonwealth Club of California Poetry Medal, and the Bay Area Book Reviewers Award. In 2004, Hirshfield was awarded the 70th Academy Fellowship for distinguished poetic achievement by The Academy of American Poets,

In addition to her work as a freelance writer and translator, Hirshfield has taught at UC Berkeley and University of San Francisco, and has been Elliston Visiting Poet at the University of Cincinnati. She is currently on the faculty of the Bennington MFA Writing Seminars.

Bukowski once wrote that he tried to write the way he liked to read. I like Bukowski just for that reason, he writes like I like to read. Heshfield does the same. Here is the first of several of her shorter poems from Of Gravity & Angels.

The Song

The tree, cut down this morning,
is already chainsawed and quartered, stripped
of its branches, transported and stacked.
Not an instant too early, its girl slipped away.
She is singing now, a small figure
glimpsed in the surface of he pond.
As the wood, if taken too quickly, will sing
a little in the stove, still remembering her

Several short pieces from Octavio Paz


I draw these letters
as the day draws its images
and blows over them
          and does not return

for Carlos Fuentes

Water above
Grove below
Wind on the roads

Quiet Well
Bucket's black     Spring water

Water coming down to the trees
Sky rising to the lips


         not on the branch
in the air
         Not in the air
in the moment

Distant Neighbor

Last night an ash tree
was about to tell
me something - and didn't.


Hands and lips of wind
heart of water

campground of the clouds
the life that is born every day
the death that is born every life

I rub my eyes
and sky walks the land


What sustains it,
half-open, the clarity of nightfall,
the light let loose in the gardens?

(Poems translated by Eliot Weinberger)

I happened to be driving near Lackland Air Force Base a couple of evenings ago. I had my 22nd birthday there, about half way through Air Force basic training. Living not far from the base now, I pass by often and can never help but think of years past and the years since.

I was working for a newspaper in a small town near Houston when I received my draft notice right before Christmas, 1965, upon which receipt I quickly joined the Air Force, making me some kind of draft dodger, I guess.

"Greetings" was the salutation of all draft letters and, the times being what they were, the simple phrase achieved a kind of cult status notoriety. It seems I even remember of movie with that as its title.


on this day
forty-one years ago,
newly shorn
and uniformed
in the middle
of another
losing war,
I was in
my fourth day
of learning
the arts of combat,
which seemed,
at that early
to be mostly
about getting up
in the very dark
of morning,
and marching,
always marching,
in godawful winter
to places we did not
care to go

many of us
would soon learn
more advanced
and terrible
while others,
like me,
would find safe
in specialties
that involved
neither shooting
nor being shot

of the they-also-serve-
brigade, we
honor those
who fought
and those
who fight now
and thank
we are not

Bharat Shekhar is from India. He is 45 years old and lives in New-Delhi where he works as a freelance instructional designer. He has two young children ages seven and four of whom he is very proud.

He says he dreams of a time when he might be able to earn a living through his writings. I hope he succeeds. In the meantime, I read his poems frequently on a couple of workshop forums and particularly liked this one.

Spinning a Spell

Axis slightly askew,
the morning earth turns,
spins itself forward
to let the sun peep,
and then climb into
the houses and hopes
of those with houses and hopes.

A dim light beckons celestial rays.
They glimpse the early worm
as the bird begins its dive
axis slightly askew.

In a ritual almost universal,
dreams check their flight.
Resigned to awakening,
sleeping forms stir,
some to arousal,
others to break lonely wind
that no familiar nose will smell
but their own,
axis slightly askew.

Something shines. Tinged with crimson,
it recalls the colors of the day, slowly.
Slowly thoughts rediscover their sounds in words.
Men reinvent their substance from shadows
axis slightly askew.

The atheist wraps his uneasy belief,
in the certitude of lack,
the believer his lack of certitude,
in the certainty of his belief.
Poles that had collapsed, huddled
in the secret uncertainty of the night,
now spring apart-scornful, bristling,
axis slightly askew.

Danish poet Jane Roken is back this week with two poems. This is the first.

Dreamscape: a journey, a dream

The first thing that comes to my mind
is a shed with the roof caved in and no door,
it carries the smell of memory:
cinnamon roses, towering mullein
and the wild lilac jimsonweed
tempting the wayward breeze
to carry its heady fragrance
abroad, afar, and very close
as if a ghost caressed me as I walked by

I am wet eyes and empty hands,
I am crowned with the stars,
wordless in a sea of letters,
look up o'er the marsh, the world is full
of foxfires, revelations:
the blue-winged teal, the snakebird
the golden-eyed hawk from the north

We got some strange weather blowing up
the crumbling garden wall
leaning into the hillside
the wind-washed roofs,
moss, woodruff crouching deeply,
paths running through the grass
where always the wind blows
and every station on the road
shall be my native home

And I will roam through unnamed towns
streets lit with burning rushes and links,
smudges of memory across my face,
the purplish taste of gunpowder
burning in my eyes:
I could never abandon my dreams
to the surface currents

Audre Lorde on bees


100,000 bees make a sturdy hive
ready    three days after the moon is full
we cut honey.

Our hot knives slice the caps of wax
from each heavy frame
dark pollened richness drips
from the laden combs.

Sadig loads the extractor
Curtis leveling the spin.
Sweet creeps like bees
through each crack of hot air.

Outside the honey house
hungry drones cluster
low-voiced and steady
we strain the flow    laughing
drunk with honey

Before twilight
long rows of bottles stand
labeled and waiting.

Tomorrow we make a living
two dollars at a time.

And now, a second poem by Jane Hirshfield.

For What Binds Us

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down -
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,
as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest -

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

photo by Jessica Reyna

Jessica Reyna returns with more photos

It seems Jessica was out on Wednesday, as was I, looking for icicle pictures before they all melted.

Photo by Jessica Reyna

Photo by Jessica Reyna

Photo by Jessica Reyna

Keep on chasing those pictures, Jessica.

Leopole Sedar Senghor was a Senegalese poet, author and dictator who served as the first president of Senegal (1960–1980). Senghor also happened to be the first African to sit as a member of l'Academie francaise. He was also the founder of the political party called the Senegalese Democratic Bloc. Said to be more popular in France than in Africa, he is seen as the perfect symbol of Franco-African relationships, or, according to some, of France new colonialism. Born in 1906, he died in 2001.

To New York

           (for jazz orchestra and trumpet solo)

New York! At first I was bewildered by your beauty,
Those huge, long-legged golden girls,
So shy, at first, before your blue metallic eyes and icy smile,
So shy. And full of despair at the end of skyscraper streets
Raising my owl eyes at the eclipse of the sun.
Your light is sulfurous against the pale towers
Whose heads strike lightning into the sky,
Skyscrapers defying storms with their steel shoulders
and weathered skin of stone.
But two weeks on the naked sidewalks of Manhattan....
At the end of the third week the fever
Overtakes you with a jaguar's leap
Two weeks without well water or pasture, all birds of the air
Fall suddenly dead under the high sooty terraces,
No laugh from a growing child, his hand in my cool hand,
No mother's breast, but nylon legs. Legs and breasts
Without smell or sweat. No tender word, and no lips,
Only artificial hearts paid for in cold cash
And not one book offering wisdom.
The painter's palette yields only coral crystals.
Sleepless nights, O nights of Manhattan!
Stirring with delusions while car horns blare the empty hours
And murky streams carry away hygienic loving
Like rivers over flowing with the corpses of babies.

Now is the time for signs and reckoning. New York!
Now is the time for manna and hyssop.
You have only to listen to God's trombones, to your heart
Beating to the rhythm of blood, your blood.
I saw Harlem teeming with sounds and ritual colors
And outrageous smells -
At teatime in the home of the drugstore-deliveryman
I saw the festival of Night begin at the retreat of day.
And I proclaim Night more truthful than the day.
It is the pure hour when God brings forth
Life immemorial in the streets,
All the amphibious elements shining like suns.
Harlem, Harlem! Now I've seen Harlem, Harlem!
A green breeze of corn rising from the pavements
Plowed by the dancers bare feet,
Hips rippling like silk and spearhead breasts,
Ballets of water lilies and fabulous masks
And mangoes of love rolling from the low houses
To the feet of police horses.
And along sidewalks I saw streams of white rum
And streams of black milk in the blue haze of cigars.
And at night I saw cotton flowers snow down
From the sky and the angels' wings and sorcerers' plumes.
Listen, New York, O listen to your bass male voice,
Your vibrant oboe voice, the muted anguish of your tears
Falling in great clots of blood,
Listen to the distant beating of your nocturnal heart,
The tom-tom's rhythm and blood, tom-tom blood and tom-tom.

New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood.
Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life
Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supple vines.
Now the ancient age returns, unity is restored,
The reconciliation of Lion and Bull and Tree
Idea links to action, the ear to the , sign to meaning.
See your rivers stirring with musk alligators
And sea cows with mirage eyes. No need to invent the Sirens.
Just open your eyes to the April rainbow
And your ears, especially your ears, to God
Who in one burst of saxophone laughter
Created heaven and earth in six days,
And on the seventh slept a deep Negro sleep.

(Translated by Melvin Dixon)

Here's a second piece from Jane Roken.

soothsayer's lullaby

Will you know the truth? she said,
there's not much to it really,

the question is the answer:
push your luck a little further
break new frontiers
into unknown fields

All things pass, one way or other:
even dreams -
some pass into other things
some pass into oblivion
some may even pass into reality

All things want to open:
the pale mirrors
the murky trapdoors
the deep-bellied ships
the roses in the hedgerow

All things keep faith:
any combination of civilized talk
and raw emotion
will be a landscape of its own,
an astral forge, a monument
to the vertical dimension

All things change:
the shenanigans of our cognitive systems,
purest cinnamon, ginger and clove,
for ever processing, developing
crystals, rainbows, tinctures, sounds
of prismatic strings, heraldic dragonflies

All things will ultimately lose
their power to scar and scare:
even in blackest night
you will not be alone, but
the knives are out
the cards are packed -
will you know the truth?

And a third by Jane Hirshfield

The Other Earth

At first we embrace trees.
Lie with the swan, the bull, become stars.
Blackbirds form bridges across the sky:
we pass, lightly placing our feet.
The god enters our rooms in a shower of gold.
Into the intricate maze a white thread,
a woman, a fish come to guide our way out.
Docile as horses, we go.

When the plain world comes,
with its explanations
smooth and cool as a marble statue's skin,
we go, rising out of the dark.
Being careless and proud, we look back
towards the other earth:
how it wavers and goes out,
like a girl with an errand to do in another room.

This is the third I've written this week. A good week.

interesting company

I know people
who believe that if
had just whispered the
little words,
save me,
as the noose
on his neck
he could have
spent eternity
in heavenly fields,
amidst all the popes
and preachers
and holy roller
derby servants
of the son

bad, he didn't

and Gandhi, too,
such a simple thing,
spoken quickly
as the bullets
pierced his flesh
and he could have been
in the clover forever
and ever and even

but, he didn't
and it's too late now,
for both, so
and Gandhi,
of the eternal fire,
are ever roasting
in hell, right now,
even as we speak

now this doesn't
make any sense to me
but who am I to question
such holy folk
as claim it to be true
there is an upside
to the whole affair:

at least
I can count
on interesting
when the time
of my roasting

Rod Jellema is professor emeritus of English at the University of Maryland. He has published four books of poetry, A Slender Grace, The Eighth Day, The Lost Faces, and Something Tugging the Line.

Four Voices Ending on Some Lines from Old Jazz Records

(1)     "any little woman"

The red neon sign
makes jumps like knuckles
and I almost forget how blood
moves soft inside.
Hearing it now, the beat.

I don't care a dime
how they can shoot and rock out
all the lights in the street
long as I sit here alone.
The walls lean firm and big

and I hear the long trucks
slipping west out highway twenty-two
to nowhere I've ever seen
but know that the land's tucked flat
and I ain't going

already been where I'm going
one man after another
I've hit enough good times
and listen, "I can't stand more trouble
than any little girl my size."

(2)     "riffin'"

the tell me to settle down
like mellow is a job
I have to retire from.
It's like they want to give me
a gold watch on a chain
a railroad watch
one I can rise and set
in & out of a dark vest pocket
rocking on a porch
thinking the track really ends
where I see the two rails pinch
long before they hit old Memphis town.
Hell, I been there, plenty.
But right here I got a woman
in a headlights-yellow blouse,
two friendly shoes that lay a shine
on every street that they walk "and boy
if I ain't riffin' tonight I hope sumtin'"

(3)     "get the hell off my note"

Out in the smoke of every gig I play
I pinpoint orange specs
of their cigarettes,focus on how
ice and splinters of gin
cut through fog

I'd paint if my hand didn't shake.
Tonight is what -
the sound is what these blinks
and shapes are for
and Maxie's cornet holds

a phrase just straight enough
for me to lean in lights
and work it out
and look out Brunis
"get the hell off my note."

(4)     "I wouldn't be a Methodist"

This morning
before it was sky
was a far child
back of the trees
shy in a pale green dress.
Now my kitchen's full
of yellow, yes Lord,
and the spoon fits my hand,
Jesus cares and the branches
clap along rivers of light
and "I wouldn't be a Methodist
to save me."

the sources:

(1) Mama Yancey
(2) Louis Armstrong
(3) Pee Wee Russell
(4) Fats Waller

Wen Yiduo was from the Hubei province. After receiving a traditional education he went on to continue studying at the Tsinghua University. In 1922 he traveled to America to study fine arts and literature in the Art Institute of Chicago. It was during this time that his first collection of poetry, Red Candle, was published. In 1925 he traveled back to China and took a university teaching post. In 1928 his second collection, Dead Water was published. In the same year he joined the Crescent Society and wrote essays on poetry. He also began to publish the results of his classical Chinese literature research.

At the outbreak of the War of Resistance, he became politically active. His outspoken nature led to his assassination by secret agents of Kuomintang in 1946.

The End

Dewdrops are sobbing in the hollows of bamboos,
    The green tongues of plantaqins are licking the windowpanes,
The four walls are receding -
   Alone I cannot fill this empty room.

I build a fire in my heart
   and wait quietly for the guests from afar.
I strike it with cobwebs and rat droppings
   and mottled snake scales.

Roosters hurry me when ashes lie in the fireplace.
   A cold wind sneaks up and touches my lips -
So the guest has arrived.
   Closing my eyes, I follow him out.

(Translated by Michelle Yeh)

Bukowski takes stock.

hymn from the hurricane

paid my dues in Macon, went crazy in Tennessee,
found the love of God in St. Louis,
got the hell out of there.
found the whore with the heart of gold in Glendale,
ran away from that.
floundered awhile along the Mason-Dixon Line,
came to my senses in New Orleans.
mailed a letter home, and got knocked on my ass in Houston.
started sitting at the center of the bar instead of at the end.
got rolled 3 times in a row somewhere near the Appalachians.
married a woman with a crippled neck who died unclaimed in India.
name of the first horse I ever bet on was Royal Serenade who died
long ago.
what glistens best from me is the first drink of the night
I still hear forever the wheels of the Greyhound buss carrying me
     to nowhere
J. Cash sang "I killed a man in Reno just to watch him die" as the
cons cheered.
celled with public enemy no. one in Moyamensing Prison (he
snored at night).
my women tell me that I am insane because of my parents.
sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
my favorite color is yellow and my backbone is the same.
nine-tenths of Humanity embraces self-pity and the other tenth
makes them look pitiful.
the rat and the roach are the most powerful reminders of
     enduring life.
what was always best for me was seeing fear in the eyes of the
the saddest thing was old women wagering geraniums at 2 p.m.
and what I learned was to do it now in spite of the consequences.
and what I also learned was that something once said could
quickly become untrue.

I paid my dues in Macon and went crazy in Tennessee,
found myself on the 2nd floor of a hotel in Albuquerque (the bed
bugs ate well).
found myself on a track gang going west and didn't yearn for
a seat in Congress.
I remember a girl who showed me her panties when I was 8
     years old.
I remember the red streetcars, and the vacant lots between
the houses in Los Angeles.
I remember that the girl who showed her panties to half the town
showed me first.
I was always a coward who didn't care.
I was always a brave man who didn't try to win.
I found that screwing women was a social duty like making

I paid my dues in Tennessee and went crazy in Macon.

I had no idea of the black-white game and
sat in the back of a streetcar in New Orleans.
I hate politics and I hate the obvious answers.
I paid my dues in East Kansas city.
I beat hell out of a 6-foot-4 240-pound guy in Philly.
I stayed on the floor in Miamiafer after a 150-pound guy decked me
with his first punch.
the state of the mind is the State of the Union.
what you want to do and what you've got to do is the same thing.
I once watched a sailor fight an alligator and the alligator quit.

only boring people are bored.
only the wrong flags fly.
the person who tells you they are not God really thinks otherwise.
God is the invention of failures.
the only hell is where you are.

passed through Dallas and rammed through Pasadena.
I never paid my dues because there was nobody to collect them.
I've smashed two full-length mirrors and they are still looking for
I've walked into places where no man should ever go.
I've been mercilessly beaten and left for dead.
I have lumps all over my skull from blackjacks and etc.
the angels pissed themselves in fear.
I am a beautiful person.

and you are.
and she is.
as is the yellow thumping of the sun and the glory of the world.

A couple of years ago, I set myself the challenge of writing a series of 26 poems, each poem having a woman's name in the title. I haven't made if all the way from A to Z yet, but since I didn't set a time limit for myself, the project can be termed "ongoing," rather than "incomplete."

Here's one of the first ones I did. It's in my book, Seven Beats a Second.

lying in the sun with susan

quiet bay

no sound but the light rustle
of march grass in the gulf breeze

lies on the deck, legs spread,
as if to thrust herself
at the summer sun

sweat glistens
on the inside of her thigh
and my tongue aches
for the taste of her

More Octavio Paz

Concert in the Garden
(Vina and Mridangam)

for Carmen Figueroa de Meyer

It rained.
The hour is an enormous eye.
Inside it, we come and go like reflections.
The river of music
enters my blood.
If I say "body," it answers "wind."
If I say "earth," it answers "where?"

The world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.

I walk lost in my own center.

East Slop

All the branches,
conquered by the weight of birds,
lean toward the darkness.

Pure, self-absorbed moments
still gleam
on the fences.

Receiving night,
the groves become
hushed fountains.

A bird falls,
the grass grows dark,
edges blur, lime is black,
the world is less credible.

(Poems translated by Eliot Weinberger)

Allen Ginsberg, me, myself and I, a forever fascinating trio

Objective Subject

It's true I write about myself
Who else do I know so well?
Where else other blood red roses & kitchen garbage
What else has my thick heart, hepatitis or hemorrhoids -
Who else has lived by seventy years, my old Naomi?
and if by chance I scribe U.S. politics, Wisdom
meditation, theories of art
it's because I read a newspaper loved
teachers skimmed books or visited a museum

Two from Langston Hughes


Colored child at carnival:

Where is the Jim Crow section
On this merry-go-round,
Mister, cause I want to ride?
Down south where I come from
White and colored
Can't sit side by side.
Down South on the train
There's a Jim Crow car.
On the bus we'd put in the back -
But there ain't no back
To a merry-go-round!
Where's the horse
For a kid that's black?

Third Degree

Hit me! Jab me!
Make me say I did it.
Blood on my sport shirt
And my tan suede shoes.

(Faces like jack-o'-lanterns
In gray slouch hats.)

Slug me! Beat me!
Scream jumps out
Like blow-torch.
Three kicks between the legs
That kill the kids
I'd make tomorrow.(Bars and floor skyrocket
And burst like Roman candles.)

When you throw
Cold water on me,
I'll sign the

Before my South Texas friends get too involved in creating urban legends about the great freeze of naught 7, they should look at the photo below, sent to me by friend and poetJane Roken. She calls it "Snowboat."

Jane's poetry is also featured earlier in this issue.

photo by Jane Roken

William Meredith, soft spoken poet has something to say

A Mild-Spoken Citizen Finally Writes to the White House

Please read this letter when you are alone.
Don't be afraid to listen to what may change you,
I am urging on you only what I myself have done.

In the first place, I respect the office, although one night
last spring, when you had committed (in my eyes)
criminal folly, and here was a toast to you, I wouldn't rise.

A man's mistakes (if I may lecture you), his worst acts,
aren't out of character, as he'd like to think,
are not put on him by power or stress or too much to drink,

but are simply a worse self he consents to be. Thus
there is no mistaking you. I marvel that there's
so much disrespect for a man just being himself, being his errors.

"I never met a worse man than myself,"
Thoreau said. When we're our best selves, we can all
afford to say that. Self-respect is best when marginal.

And when the office of the presidency will again
accommodate that remark, it may be held by better men
than you or me. Meantime I hear there is music in your house.

your women wear queens' wear, though winds howl outside,
and I say, that's all right, the man should have some ease,
but does anyone say to your face who you really are?

No, they say "Mr. President," while any younger person
feels free to call me voter, believer, even causer
And if I were also a pray-er, a man given to praying,

(I'm often in fact careless about great things, like you)
and I wanted to pray for your office, as in fact I do,
the words that would come to me would more likely be

"god change you" than "god bless the presidency."
I would pray, "God cause the President to change."
As I myself have been changed, first my head, then my heart,

and that I no longer pretend that I don't swindle or kill
when there is swindling and killing on my nation's part.
Well. Go out into your upstairs hall tonight with this letter.

Generous ghosts must walk that house at night,
carrying draughts of the Republic like cold water
to a man parched after too much talk and wine and smoke.

Hear them. They are elected ghosts, though some will be radicals
and all may want to tell you things you will not like.
It will seem dark in the carpeted hall, despite the nightlights

in the dull sconces. Make the guard let you pass.
"If you are the President," a shade with a water glass
will ask you (and this is all I ask), calling you by name,

himself perhaps a famous name, "If you are the President,
and things in the land have come to all this shame,
why don't you try something new? This building rose,

laborious as a dream, to house one character:
'man trusting man anew.' That's who each tenant is
- or an impostor, as some of us have been."


And that's all for this issue of "Here and Now." See you next week.


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