MORNING - Kean University



MORNING

"Introibo ad Altare Dei . . ."

Father Wily would say, too fast, all too

early in the day for me to call up

my memorized Latin. "Ad Deum qui

laetificat juventutem meam,"

I would answer, nervous, not quite awake

so early in the morning before school.

Not much of a crowd those dark March mornings.

The church was cold and every sound echoed:

a stifled sneeze; a late comer tiptoed

up the aisle; a cough. Someone turned a thin,

stiff missal's page, trying to keep pace

with Father Wily's quick, breathless Latin.

I smothered a yawn and my eyes watered

while I sat through the Epistle: Saint Paul

complained about rough seas, ship wreck. Dawn's first

glowing light colored the stained glass windows:

Saint John, in dark blue, emerged with a book;

Mary, in blue and white, stood on a gold

lined cloud and rose toward the sky; a young man

with long hair and a halo, his hands tied

above his head, slumped down beside a tree

and looked upward while he bled from arrow

wounds: seven arrows. The rising sun's shafts

of light trapped brilliant specks of fast moving

dust and rose to light up bits of gold high

in the cathedral's dark mosaic dome.

A steady, cold draft blew round my ankles

while I knelt, watching closely for my cue

to ring the gold bells when Father Wily

raised up the host and his bright gold chalice:

the church became still for that long moment;

a huge silence would gather to embrace

the music of bells ringing their finest

tones, and like a great organ sustaining

a note, the empty church echoed and sang

the bells' cheerful song, then let it fade out

slowly, gently, till it was the faintest

hint of music gone from perfect silence.

The taste of the host was still in my mouth

when I took off my surplice and cassock:

it made me hungry. The cold sacristy

chilled my coat and made me anxious to leave:

I took my books, my lunch bag and I hurried

down the aisle. The church was dark, oddly still,

vacant; the sun now sent shafts of colored

light down through dark stained glass windows. Each dim

beam lit an empty space in the dark pews.

My quick steps echoed through the hollow church

till I pushed open its heavy, arched doors.

The skies were blue and not a cloud behind

bright sun that warmed my face and eased the chill

from morning air. I was awake and glad

for a donut I found in my lunch bag.

The last church goer drove his car around

the corner and the grey stone parking lot

became our school playground: I wandered

alone, curious to find beer bottle

caps, cigarette butts, broken glass, bobby

pins, the telling signs of a playground's

life after school and before morning Mass.

The school was shut, silent, asleep; its sand

colored brick sparkled in the bright sun

like the brief, faint smile of a pleasant dream.

Not a soul about and the place so still--

it seemed impossible that soon noisy

bus after yellow bus would come to pour

streams of boys and girls in blue uniforms

scrambling onto the playground to await

the shrill, piercing bell that signaled the start

of another day. Such a fine morning!

I wished I were free to go home and play.

Morning Prayer

Lord, grant me greater correspondence

Between motive and action, intention

And result.

I am sick with a slow decline

Over long years of working hard to do

Nothing to earn a day’s pay.

Days are ruled

By their need for pay.

We do not rule the day

With work of our own invention.

We work at nothing, putting little ones into

Big ones, hammering the huge rock, reading

Long, dull reports, adding vacant numbers,

Stuffing envelopes, collecting money, loading

Trucks . . . and who was born to load a damn

Truck?

There's no telling

what you won't see

if you don't look.

Eden

Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals

(Too numerous to name);

Grow your own and bear up under

The entropic orbit of body

And chaotic movement of soul.

It’s mystery over wonder, time,

The elements: we’re not safe;

If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado

Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty

Days of rain, high winds, treacherous

Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire,

Garbage and seagulls, deadly sins

To trample beatitudes gone slack

To platitudes: “the meek shall eat

Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homeless

Through dark allies as if in frantic

Search of someone.” The morning

Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round,

Platinum ball that burned through dense,

Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon.

The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds

To bloom sudden white flowers that struck

The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening,

Fire flies sparked golden lights that twinkled

Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field

That sloped from the road to the low land

Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s

Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe

Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape,

And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed

About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries

In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk

Where they left red stains. The moon rose full

Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish

White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled

In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all

The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.

Mystery

Mysteries abound. Consider:

“Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”

Who better deserves Caesar’s things?

There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,

Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries,

Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries,

Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteries

Of politics, economy, religion, psychology,

Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance,

Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.

What things does Caesar want?

One rather glorious mystery

Is the perfectly proportioned

Symmetrical mons delicately carved

In the stone of Stella’s marble belly.

Even dry, it looks slick enough.

Who might want Caesar’s things?

A short, round cleric in black cassock

And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head

Gone bald, his lips pursed and oyster

Eyes magnified behind thick glasses

Walked by ignoring his students.

He taught mythical mysteries: Circe

And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand

To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,

The juror, the milkman, the witness,

The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . .

Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcast

His head bent to one side as he picked

An unencumbered path through clusters

Of laughing boys.

One young girl, a teenager wakes

To find herself pregnant. Who will believe

She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her,

She said—quite a mystery, that.

Je vous salut, Marie . . . Amen.

Suicide is a sorrowful mystery.

Ernest Hemingway shot himself.

I felt the cut. He was dead on page

One in large, bold, black, dark thick print.

I read his books. Now he’s dead.

He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good

shot, too, but he was a hunter.

A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued.

I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn:

Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s gone

A long time, but Hemingway just shot himself

and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself;

He had to rely on someone else.

Lazarus died and Jesus cried

When he arrived. Lazarus, alive

Walked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”

Father Hennessy liked the old fish story:

Jesus told his men to pass round their fish

And bread. All were amazed that so few

loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many.

A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine.

He reserved spirits for weddings.

Cold water over ice;

A drag from the exhaust of a clean

Carburetor, white with smoke

Suddenly gone. Sit back to rock,

Maybe have a red wine.

Too much is too much

Even when it’s just enough.

Whiskers and The Victorian

She was a shallow stream,

a wader's dream,

and he liked fishing

up minnows.

Hers was a fetching gleam:

the moon's full beam

conjuring a steady

under-tow.

He splashed on self-esteem,

to an extreme,

and thought to give her

a good row,

but, t'was her secret scheme

to reign supreme

whilst he was bathing

his ego.

Their puddle sure teemed

and raged, till it seemed

like oceans about

to overflow.

All those words

Mother taught

me not to say

come in handy

once or twice

every day.

Conversation with the Wall (VIII)

No sops for Cerberus;

so let him growl,

while we fetch Persephone

who's been too long gone.

Long toothed Winter

has made us irritable

with excess.

The romance of fire

cools when we must keep it

alight through too long

and too cold a winter.

We learned that in March

when this withered old

wretch conjured twenty

tornadoes and two

volcanoes and winds

to agitate seas,

and snowstorms to kill

off the crocuses.

The Garden

Then Jesus prayed like you and I:

“Father, I would rather not die.

I'd be content to step aside

and, in time, grow old with my friends.

I would rather avoid prison.

No one values lambs, doves, the pigeons

we kill. Scapegoats take men off that hook

but that hook still hangs in the water,

baited, waiting for them to take

another day, and these men here,

these, my sleeping friends, what can you

ask of them? Such as they are? Not

much, I fear!” So He prayed, then stood,

and woke Peter and James and John

and He waited with them, alone:

as He lived all his life, alone,

a stranger among men, apart,

puzzled by puzzled crowds who came

to see they knew not what, to hear

the words of one whose words escaped

them. They came like the puzzled soldiers

who came that night, armed and wary,

fearing the moment, the darkness,

to capture one who would not flee.

Good Friday

Lily's eyes stared wide and round

as if stuck open with startled dismay.

"Come on," she said, "what's all these

clothes doing here? I didn't finish

yesterday's wash yet . . . ."

Pink Floyd's Wall filled the hall,

too loud--"We don't need no . . ."

The washing machine clanged;

the vacuum cleaner roared its angry

scream and the dog barked and jumped

as if he would attack its every move.

An ill-conceived Spring with sudden snow

burying limp crocuses too quick to live.

Easter eggs boiling for dyeing--

at three the stress of Lent is gone.

Lazy, graceful, languid snow dancing,

drifting down, floating slowly down

this Friday in April.

Melancholy lilies hang their heads

in mournful shame in Shepherd's

chilly hot-house. "They've been forced,"

Shepherd said, "along with the mums

and azaleas. Lilies don't take it well.

They're no fun," he chuckled.

Tomato soup and tuna fish--

dinner for a damn snowy

Friday in April.

Fuzzy Chaos

Stripped of old illusions

I sat in a corner of myself

Looking out on my confusion:

my thoughts shown like shards

of fractured light strewn about the street:

I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening

to recall—a rundown sandstone dwelling

with mirrors on narrow walls.

Each spoken word re-echoed

like shrill screams at night.

A woman, a cat, a baby cried

out with frightful random shrieks.

If not monks with quills, surely

Silent Renaissance sculpture

standing deftly in long corridors

with thick carpet to lure old men

in black velvet gowns, grown

impervious to the echo of age-old folly.

Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father

Wicker stood outside his church

and extended a hand, his large wide hand

with thick fingers, like the fingers

of the milkman whose hand

I have shaken once or twice--

what a large handful of wide fingers.

Can these be the fingers of a rogue priest?

Conversation with the Wall

In mocking hesitation,

Old Whiskers bowed his head:

"It's mostly of this era

to live in fear and dread

the push along the subway,

the stranger with a gun,

the organized militia

armed and having fun,

the nuclear reactors,

terrorists, and more,

the nagging threat of living

through the very last world war.

No telling what they're thinking,

down there in Washington's Mall,

but everyone who goes there

sits on Humpty's wall.

So fare you well this fun house,

wisely choose your way:

we'll know you by those things you do.

Not by those you say."

Chaos

Sometimes I think

God is a wizened

Old man, gone mad,

Senile and nasty

Wednesday

(on the road)

Heavy rain and turnpike trucks: the wiper blades

are shot. Radio news promised sunshine before noon.

Invisible planes--muffled roar above. Suddenly one begins

to emerge from low grey clouds, just above the car; two

engines near the tail. The plane roars loud as it floats--slow,

too slow for its size--across the road and down, down;

just above the airport fence, it disappears with a fading roar.

***************

She said her name was Helen, but I think of her

as Cathy: nearly called her Cathy once, till I caught

my tongue and stammered, "Helen," with an odd smile.

***************

Freddie wants a 4 x 4. He means to sell his van.

"The truck will go for ten; the van will bring three

grand. I'll borrow some and pay the bank a little

bit each month, like I did with my swimming pool,"

he said, proud of his scheme and his means.

***************

The rain did not abate. From one to another, and no

luck at eleven: "You said I'd have it Monday!! Today

is Wednesday, and it's still not here!! Your company

is all be-cocked!!!" spat Doug, still stung with reprimand.

***************

Rain gave out and sun blew in. A cool wind thinned the clouds

to reveal blue patches of sky that shone bright on wet roads.

***************

Valerie got a swimming pool with her very own apartment:

she'd make a sight in bathing suit, but her heart is set

on money, big money, but plastic will do till then.

***************

Over-dressed and under-paid: "much too cool for tennis,"

Marsha said, made-up in hope of the dear, stray compliment,

"My but you do look pretty today," she hoped to hear,

thought she heard in her nine to five daydream.

I'd had enough for one day, perhaps three. "Bye, Marsha,"

I smiled a weary smile. "Windy, now the rain's gone.

Careful on the wet roads!" I refused to give in.

Ordinary Time IV

I'm fond of my new umbrella

with its slick black web, like the wings

of bats sewn together. My type-

writer is new. I'm only now

finding its feel, learning its touch.

I'm certain my new typewriter

has something to say, if only

I can learn which keys will allow

it to speak. My silver and gold

fountain pens each had one or two

magical tales to tell, and if

my foot did not hurt I would have

that sense of well-being that comes

with luxuriant equipage

when one can walk with a lilt.

Conversation with the Wall (IV)

In as much as it pleased

God to take Bob in June

at sixty and Alice,

Oh, Alice, at fifty-seven

in July, we cannot

but submit to his will

and we go on Monday

to bury Bob and we

go again on Thursday

with Alice, and we wonder,

through silent tears about

God's pleasures.

Vietnam is a memory now:

remote as Korea,

World War II.

Once Nam was everything:

once,

for a long, long painful time.

"A brief war, as wars go,"

will say the books.

Hard to face then,

Harder now:

men, grown from boys,

eighteen, haunt

street corners like lost souls,

they beg in frayed uniforms:

spare change can not change

a life spared in war, doomed

to haunt lost souls,

victims themselves

of private wars,

wounded, scarred, numbed,

their own horror

haunting them,

they cannot hear

the anguished voice:

"Spare some change

for a vet, friend?

Ordinary Time

Twenty-Second Sunday

Thank you, thank you,

one and all!

So nice of you to come!

Let me thank you,

one and all!

Ho-ho, ho-ho-hum!

Goodness me, so nice

to see you!

Nice to see your face.

So nice to see your

furtive eyes,

your precious weighty grace!

So nice to see you

here again!

So nice of you to Come!

Ho-ho, ho-ho, ho-ho-hum!

Well.

Old Jim's

busy now,

pushing up

those daisies,

I guess.

Uncle Jack's Last Address

We are meant to live well

and to gather a wise

sense of life as we go,

or as it goes; to raise

up a soul that grows tall

and strong as the old oak

that stands beside Sutter's

Creek in the snow and rain

and the bright, warm sunshine.

Ordinary Time V

The old guys get to know the supermarkets:

some wander round the gadgets while the wife

looks over the cookies.

Others push the cart in stone-faced boredom,

while the wife lumbers through aisle

after aisle, absorbed in her list, searching

the same shelves, day after day.

Some wait outside in the parking lot,

hours at a time, while the wife wanders

the store alone, having time for herself

every day from eleven till she remembers

to come back.

Then there are those who stew in silent

rage as they push the cart and check

the list: rice, canned hash, prune juice,

tomato sauce, olives, Raisin Bran for the wife

at home, who's busy watching her soaps.

That poetry stuff is hard work:

old man Lawrence did not know that;

he never knew the strenuous pull

his son, Bert, made.

He worked all his life

hacking coal

and spent his last years

sitting heavily

in a canvas strap lawn chair

swatting flies

with short

stiff strokes

too slow

for flies.

Bert fashioned his poems,

painted his pictures,

and wrote out his novels--

twice or three times;

he worked every day

like his old man

and

like his old man

he took home too little.

Old man Jordan lived

in this house and raised

chickens in sheds and sold

eggs and ran a book

if the webs of phone

lines could speak the truth.

Now this house is mine

and heavy rain still

wets the cellar floor

but the sheds are gone

and the field is cut

into tight wedges

with smart, new houses

planted too close to-

gether round a small

black-top cul d'sac,

and this, it seems

is how it will be,

and I am pleased

to believe it will be so,

though secretly

I know that one

day a young man

will gladly say

he lives now where

old man Weston lived.

If you look at what

you are doing while

you do it, you will

not have to look at

what you did when

you have done.

Eight-Two-Three-Eight-One

Stuffy, severe old Valdimir spoke

Sunday throughout the Times Magazine.

He'd a think or two left in him

about that maniac Dostoevesky

who "looks like literature

to balderdash readers!"

Though his quarters were cramped

he held forth against Buster Brown

with one stocking on, tugging another

from Tide's teeth, though Tide

was conspicuously unnamed,

being, no doubt, dead

as Valdimir, by now.

Bloomingdale's seduced with shower

shaving, a rite for one performed

with seven available items

and a mirror rounded by black

sweating tiles and dense steam,

and Geico sketched a happy ending

for a stick smart bride who prodded

her newly acquired to complete

the provided form that would insure

their new car!

Cramer's crystal chandeliers and Castro's

convertibles

squeezed Nabokov

into two inches

for D's education

and some unpleasant

years in Siberia.

Hand knitted hat and mittens segued

from Siberia to the miracle

of ascending stairs without walking,

with the simple installation

of an elevator in your flat.

Dupont waved three smiling kids

wearing jeans beside a toy

tractor while D’s going madder

in Siberia till he married

at the bottom of column two

just next to butcher block

desks and flash frozen steaks.

Old Nabokov worked deftly round

escargot and AALBORG SOMETHING

to say that Dostoevesky

at last succeeded with The Possessed

and a speech upon the occasion

of the unveiling of Pushkin's statue

in 1880; after which he abruptly died

before the only full column gets going,

and a good thing he didn't live long

enough to hear Valdimir

say he had no taste and wallowed

in the tragic misadventures of human . . .

something interrupted by concupiscent

photographs designed to conjure

a wish to hurry off to the Bahamas

in hope of finding that particular beach

with that particular girl,

or at least to be lounging comfortably

in a Carlyle couch of leather . . .

"Dignity." "Human Dignity" were the words

lost in the distraction of the Islands:

"the misadventures of human dignity!"

Nabokov then says the brain is the stomach

of the soul and Irving Trust says it's smart

to have a personal banker.

By now they'd had enough of Valdimir

who got shoved off to the back pages:

he next appears on 63

but hasn't the shadow of a chance

against two shapely versions

of the love-touch bra: one holds

its weight head on, and the other

shifts it slightly to one side.

Atop the ski ad, Nabokov makes his last

valiant stand: he shouts down Dostoevesky

who is "too rational," and uses methods

"too crude! His people don't live; his facts

don't exist: he's mere mechanical convention."

Period. Little black square.

From beyond the grave, the celebrated

ghost hooted his book with Macy's

and Bloomingdale's and the Bahamas:

he held his own too, till he got to ladies' lingerie.

School

Last year?

We didn't learn nothing:

we didn't learn nothing

off Miss Hackett.

She said she's not an ogre:

but nobody wanted to go near her.

She was like an ogre.

Ogres are large animals

that live in caves

and eat people;

they have sticks with chains

and a heavy ball on the end

but they can't come out in the light

they can only come out at night.

The teacher before her was old.

She was nice, but we didn't learn

nothing off her neither.

All we did was color,

but she was nice.

Miss Melon was her name

and we had her because

Mrs. Racket was sick all year.

So we didn't learn nothing

off her neither.

But you got to go to school.

WHAT I DONE FOR SUMMER VACATION

my old man got sick and he got operated on in a hospital in new york and got better after a month and come home but he couldn't do nothing for a long time after that. When he was home he told me what to do for the summer--paint the picket fence white. Cut the grass. Pull weeds. Trim the edges. Plant the garden. Weed the garden but don't touch the cucumbers--kills 'em. Wash the car. Clean out the garage. Catch worms at night for fishing. He fished in a lake and never caught nothing. Then he heard about the bay. Didn't need worms for that. We needed other fish to catch little fish. Small blue fish that were only sort of blue on top and white mostly. Then we caught fish. Lots of little fish. I learned to clean them. You cut off their head at the gills and cut them down the middle of their belly and get the little skeleton out and scrape the scale knife over them and get rid of the scales and when you're done there's not much of a fish left. But we had a lot of them and he liked them. Or he liked that he caught them after all the time on the lake with nothing coming up after the worms and the bobbins still on the water and the lines got tangled and we had nothing to eat or drink out there in that boat and there were mosquito bites. He liked seeing the red and white bobbins dive down into the water and stay there while something ran with the line. And the reel sung out. Then a priest that taught him something in school came and told me about girls and nice girls don't like it. They let you do it if they like you but they don't feel nothing and its a sin but I knew about girls and was scared because I wasn't supposed to, and when he asked me if I did, I said no. So I made faces like I was surprised and my face hurt after a while. He liked talking about it, and wanted to make sure I was going to be good. So he finished up and we went downstairs and ate, but I was tired. After a while he came back and I had to make believe I liked him and was happy to see him again. They talked and left me out of it, and I was glad, but then they came and said I was going with him to Canada on a bus with some people from his church. I wasn't sure I liked that much, but they wanted me to pretty bad and I made faces like I was happy. I stayed at his house and didn't like getting up early for mass the day we left. It rained. I met two girls I liked, one in a white pleated skirt that hung nice over her and made it look like she was nice and her friend was shorter and had nice long fingers and nice hair and eyes and she was pretty, and the priest kept trying to make me sit up in the front seat of the bus with him but I kept going to the back seat where the girls were. He didn't like me leaving him up there alone but I couldn't think up nothing to say to him. Couldn't think up nothing to say to the girls either. But I liked them and I liked sitting by them. We went to these shrines up there. They gave us little candles at night and we lit them up and walked around holding them and said the rosary in french. I didn't know french and it took too long but it sounded nice and they had crutches hanging up in church and wheel chairs from people they said got cured out of something without getting operated on. And when I got up the last morning, I met the girls and had coffee and I never had that before and it wasn't good, but I kept the jar they brought it in. When I left the restaurant the girls made believe they were shocked but they put it in a pocketbook and walked out like nothing. Outside the restaurant I saw newspapers in english standing up in a rack and one said ernest hemingway killed himself last night. Biggest print I ever saw.

The Wisdom of Eight

You don't call

a teacher

by its

first name!

Ordinary Time

(Trots More Or Less Iambic)

The leaves began to pass away

going, in dry season, to vague

fall colors.

Miss America crowded Atlantic

City with bus-loads of spectator-

gamblers.

Hot, humid, suffocating, yellow air

hung like a scrim before Manhattan's

silhouette.

The Feast smelled of Garbage.

San Genaro's band played

their old march through smoke hot

streets with imperfect rhythm:

aging musicians whose

spirits were high, though their

numbers had dwindled.

In Kennedy Park, little boys and girls

played fall soccer in fast waning light

while the sun fell huge, round, gold

behind thinned trees and burned

through crooked gold branches

with profound silence that drowned

out the sweating shouts of men

urging breathless boys and girls

to victory with excitement near

anger--the high pitched frustration

with side-lines and the short-lived

concentration of small boys and girls.

Fall 1992

Those were the days—before the launch, yes-

Terday or the day before, when books

Were read, and songs were sung—radio;

Before television. Now it looks

Antique, like a chair in need of glue;

They spoke of Modern then, and they thought

Modern meant new: Avant-garde, Dada

Surreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They fought

Over a word, an idea, a turn

Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—

Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clock

Either back or forward or around.

Turned up a stone age corpse kept on ice

These five thousand years. Someone knocked

Off his scrotum, took his boots—a nice

Welcome to this nameless age of rap.

Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts

First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’s

Imagination, a myth that cuts

The road to Rome and the scrotum, too.

Beware the aged prophet whose hands

Reach toward your pocket: feeble fingers

Quick as a humming bird that darts, lands

Its feed and disappears all in one

Sudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,

And politics!

Rhetoric gave way

To the coy, segment-sensitive twist.

Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,

Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots.

Lipstick girls in slender undress beg

Less disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots.

We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,

Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,

Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s

Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history books

Will call the game with retrospective

Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession),

A back-door slider (pretty Flowers),

The inside fast ball (a concession

To incumbent powers): fall chaos

Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin,

Cosmetic tucks, uninspired name

Calling, shrewd strategies, cynical

Calculations designed to sell Hope.

Better were the days before the launch—

Before the Enola Gay cut loose

the rope that moored today to the sturdy

dock of yesterday and the day before.

October again,

and damn it,

the leaves have gone to color:

reds this year,

and yellow-orange and red-orange,

all becoming circles of brown

debris beneath bare bones trees:

the harvest.

Birds fly low in elongated Vs

chasing this way and that

circling round

reluctant to leave

nests that lie exposed

high in the crooks of spindle

branch trees.

It was then Artie died--

not suddenly, but finally

at fifty-seven:

his heart gave out

just as the sap descended

and the leaves colored

and fell

and birds circled in frenzied formation

searching out the breeze

that would take them south

for they seemed to know

the reaper takes his cut

of the harvest.

'Tis always sad

when the life goes

out of a happy

man

Turning Back The Clock

Now, as if all at once,

without warning,

the inevitable

is upon us.

Spring has grown

to full summer.

Summer has slipped

into autumn:

and we are

suddenly

without the sun!

We set the clock

to catch the sun:

at ten till two

it's ten till one,

but even this

daring stroke

can't keep the sun.

Halloween and early dark:

no tennis, no bikes riding round

the park; westbound traffic

snakes its way into a huge

glaring sun that melts, molten,

like gold flowing into the road.

The Dodgers lost two then won

four straight from executive

Yankees who had lost their vigor

for World Series overtime--

some working for too little pay.

That tantrum strike knocked hell

out of the summer; here it is the end

of October with summer games

eating into mid-autumn.

It's later than it seems. Thanksgiving

soon, and Christmas shopping--cold

nights, winter coats, dead-looking trees

tossing their leaves into the wind. Still

the prospect of snow has its charm

and Christmas can be nice--after

the rush, though Grandma's moved

off to the Pine Barrens this year,

and Janet left old Duane and the two

girls, and Donna's gone to Denver

with her three and that one she married.

Seems too bad sometimes, too bad.

Two to six is four;

six to ten, four more!

If what you need is eight,

ten's not sleeping late!

Ordinary Time

Week Thirty-Six

Have you seen that homeless

man shuffle off to bed:

cardboard on a subway grate

his hands around his head?

Have you seen that tunnel

lady advertise her breast:

she winks a blackened, swollen

eye that says she needs some rest.

Have you seen that drunken

man talking to the wall?

Have the windshield raggers

scared you with their drawl:

"May the good Lord bless you, Mister.

Merry Christmas one and all.

Conversation with the Wall (VII)

Not much call for carrousels these days.

Merry-Go-Rounds spin to carnival music

But the horses creak as they rise and fall, their brass

poles are tarnished; their chipped saddles carry no riders.

Rainbows are split: their arches decay

and their struts erode with an iridescent glow

of purple and pink and yellow and blue that say

the fabled gold gave way to plutonium.

Tis’ a chastening experience to visit the dying

and bury the dead. "Life comes to that," they say,

and those brave words help one not look too hard

at the face with its eyes shut in imitation of repose,

and its lips sealed with sutures: those lips might tell

quite another story of what becomes of life.

Not much call for adoration these days.

The gods have gone the way of carrousels

and rainbows. We visit the dying and bury

the dead with clenched teeth and vacant stares,

too stunned to scream, too stunned to notice

the plaster Virgin who looks on through cracked

eyes, her broken smile beyond repair.

I am quite afraid

Not to believe

in God,

But fear, it seems,

Breaks the spell

of faith.

Introit

He wandered the long concrete walk

that ran along the side of the house:

a tall house, enormously high,

and a long walk from back to front.

His head ran even with the slight

shadow line below the grey edge

where the lower row of shingles

slipped neatly under the second.

He'd measured and watched as he walked.

The sky glowed bright, piercing blue, high

above the house and the sun's bright

distinct morning yellow warmed his face.

He beamed with bristling calm.

No need to find his green plastic

soldiers who assembled on dirt

hills to contemplate, with quiet

concentration, the enemy,

invisible, behind the back

fence where his numbers gathered

on other days. Nor was he pressed

to think where he left his baseball

glove and ball, nor moved to rouse

his red bike that slept on its side

in sparkling wet new green grass,

glowing in morning sun.

He ran his fingers over grooves

in the grey shingles, and wandered

slowly toward the tall front hedges

that hid the street and poked branches

through wide holes in the cyclone fence.

He surveyed the whole expanse

of yard with its dull silvery fence

and its new green grass and its still

swing hung from a tree near the wood

fence that hid railroad tracks beyond.

The brown square sandbox his father

built enclosed a brilliant patch

of sparkling light that danced and rose

from bright sand, and the tiny leaves

just sprung on the tall tree flickered

in the warm, bright sunlight that coursed

through him with quiet, bristling calm.

An aging professor

remembered Tess:

'quite a sad girl,'

he said, 'she wanted

more of life than life

would give; so she went

and wrung life's neck.'

Late Winter

Sometimes we endure,

without joy,

without pleasure,

though the sun shines bright

from blue skies,

and crocuses

tempt cold March winds

to bloom white,

blue and yellow,

and daffodils bud

and flower

yellow beside

purple hyacinths.

Sometimes we endure

without joy

without pleasure

though love shines constant

as the sun

from cloudless skies

and we endure like

the dormant rose

in winter,

awaiting the spark

that will bring

us back to life.

The Nights become days

and days become nights;

weeks pass like a vague

blur on the late shift.

At some point,

late in my

youth, I was

chagrined to

learn by trial

and failure

that I was

not the stuff

of which they

make drill press

operators.

Scrupulous people

Blame themselves

With an excess of dismay

For events over which

They could have no control.

When Scrupulous people

Create trouble,

Make a serious mess,

They shift the blame

To someone else

who could have no control.

Not In Harlem

Hey Joe! I was reading that bit Saint Charles

sends round to touch fond alumni, and damn!

After all these years, there you were, as bold

as life in black type under "Sixty-five;"

so I read on, eager for news of you:

"Mr. Joseph Brady," it said, "an ex-

patrolman in New York City, died May

twelfth, we are informed in a recent note

received." I had overlooked that faint cross

they put before your name, or I did not

want to believe it. That was them, though--no

grief; a final faint cross, another name

off the list. No word about your life! Did

you marry? Have children? Had you been ill?

And . . . what does "Ex-Patrolman" mean? Huh?

Sounds oddly like "ex-convict." "A recent note

received . . . ." Sounds like someone scribbled

in pencil on scrap paper in late May and old

Father Hardtfleece filed it away after

a nice lunch, in that tomb of an office

until November when he dug you up

for burial: a terminal faint cross

beside your name to mark the spot. Amen.

So! An Irish Cop! An ex-cop--you swapped

seminary black for New York City

blue--uniform cum arma . . . well. Had you

kept your habit of smoking cigarettes?

you'd hold it down and meet it half-way: bend

your head, almost furtively, lip a quick,

intense drag, inhale, turn your head and blow

the smoke aside, absorbed, still listening

to the talk around you. Now and again

you'd be caught up: someone would say something

that made you start to laugh while all the smoke

was still in your mouth--you'd stifle your laugh,

swallow the smoke, turn bright red, then burst out

laughing--the smoke would pour out from your nose

and mouth and you'd look like your head had caught

fire: you'd hack, cough and choke on the smoke.

I can't remember much of what you said:

it was usually little--and sly,

like that phone call when I was in Harlem.

You were somewhere: I had an old number

for you and called. I had just married. We

were visiting with my wife's girlfriend, Jo.

It was getting dark. You were laughing out

loud, skeptical: "Seeing an ex-nun are

you? I Harlem?" you snickered. "Yes, that's right,"

I said, with my straight seminary face,

dead-pan, politic. Jo read my matter

of fact tone and guessed your thoughts, "Yes," you were

eager to see us, one and all, but not

at the risk of your life--not in Harlem.

That was Sixty-six, I think. Autumn. Was

it October? The last I saw of you.

Do you remember our last train ride

back to school after Easter vacation?

We both left the cloth to mend itself that

year, in May. I thought it odd that fortune

threw us together in that crowded train.

Later, though, it came to me that you got

on in New York and kept watch as the train

rolled into Newark. The crowd dragged me along

to the narrow door. I was unhappy,

thinking, "Shit! Standing room to Baltimore.

Again!" I did not want to take this trip

back. I had had enough. Then, there you were

in your black suit. We were compelled to wear

the uniform for travel. You knew where

to find me. You smiled, then chuckled, slyly

waving instructions with your head and bright

eyes. I threw my things up into the rack

where yours were, and you led me calmly through

the thick, scrambling crowd, smiling back at me

now and then with the devil in your eye.

We found the dining car empty, quiet.

No one at the bar: I had orange juice

with vodka. You drank good scotch--neet. Doubles.

Two to my one. Christ! We leaned on the bar

and drank our way to Baltimore. The car

seemed to stand still and vibrate while outside

sped by--a blur that darkened as we went.

The car windows went black--became mirrors.

The crowd found us out and pressed in on us,

but we held our ground. Somewhere along the

way those two girls appeared behind us

like a vision emerging from the crowd:

would we buy drinks for them? Black suits, black ties,

black shoes, black socks? You looked at me and I

looked at you: "Damn! What luck!" our eyes laughed.

"Okay," I said. The Lynx talked for them: dark

glasses, fur coat, black stockings, black topless

shoes. Her friend stood near you: red dress, red coat,

not nearly fur, thick legs--she wanted none

of it. We bought their drinks--I think you paid

first. They thanked us. They turned away toward one

another and talked make-up, shoes. The Lynx

talked fur. I gave you my look: disbelief.

You blurted a laugh. The red one blushed: had

We offended them? The Lynx shot a look

at you through her dark glasses. You shot one

back. "Enjoying your drink?" I smiled. She cracked

a quick smile and reached her empty glass toward

me. I felt a shock--her smile: she had bad teeth!

To set off her fur coat. I turned and placed

her glass on the bar. You turned to me: "Nice

girls!" you said, under your breath. "What is this?"

I asked, under mine. You flashed your sly smile,

and shook your head. I paid the black porter,

who seemed to know and had that look about

him: he'd earn himself a good tip this trip.

I felt a jolt of fear as the train slowed,

and the dark blur outside became a slow

rolling scene of sparsely lit abandoned

lots, brick walls, old brick smoke stacks--back doors

of nameless factories. The dark blur still

sped behind my eyes. I felt numb and faint.

We looked at each other without a word,

and turned to pick our way through the crowded

cars to find our luggage. You handed my bags

down to me, grabbed your own and led the way

to the door where we waited for the slow

rolling train to stop. Those two girls walked just

ahead of us on the platform. I waved

to you to wait a bit--you understood,

stepped aside, and kept an eye on the crowd

while I caught the one in fur from behind

and took her arm: she knew. She turned around,

tilted her head and waited for my mouth

to find hers: she had thin lips--I was gone,

suddenly lost in the dark swirl of her

cool, liquid kiss. She never flinched. Darkness

sped through my blood like the train. I searched her

fur--her breasts were small, soft, silky beneath

her warm fur that began to take the chill

of the night air. Suddenly she stopped cold,

took one step back, looked at me through her dark

glasses, turned and slipped off into the crowd.

I had searched her dark glasses--an odd shock--

her eyes were skewed--I watched her back as she

slipped into the steady current of slow

travelers carrying bags up the wide

stairway--then she was gone. I felt puzzled

and dazed. I felt I was moving--a dark

blur sped outside while I stood dead still.

You broke the spell with your look of concern

and led the way into the streaming crowd that poured

out on to the street where the night had gone

cold. We gravitated toward the black coats

that accumulated near the taxi

cabs like debris collected by a snag

along the river bank. You worked a cab,

and we packed in with others like dunnage

stuffed round out luggage. We sped away

through the dark night. I was crushed between you

and the window, inert. I closed my eyes

and felt the thin cold air stinging my face.

The streetlights shone a steady beam that burned

through my eyelids like a torture. I turned

my face from the lights, and summoned a vague

image of that girl . . . I must have passed out.

I woke abruptly when the taxi stopped

by the concrete dock behind the school; white

gloss bricks glowed in the odd light of one street

lamp. We came and went through back doors:

the new, modern dormitory shell had no front

entrance, no front at all: a four story

rectangle that stuck our the right hand side

of that ancient gothic heap with its huge

arched front doors of carve mahogany.

They opened those doors on the first and last

days of each school year . . .

We grabbed our bags and climbed to the second

floor where the Prefect lived: Father Klotts.

We called him Scratch for his bright cue ball head:

tall bones, young, big bony hands, thin, huge teeth

in a big mouth--he was an act: if it

was time to smile, he'd get up a big, bright

smile; if it was time to be severe, he

would get up his flimsy bit of hollow

severity. We'd talk him out of it,

though: "Father, are you being too severe?"

He'd flutter and fluster and wave his hands,

groping with the air; then he'd give it up,

"Oh!" he'd walk away confused, embarrassed.

You left me at the second floor entrance:

a look to ask if I could manage it.

I nodded a "yes" and off you went up

the stairs to your room. I opened the hall-

way door, took a deep breath, stiffened my back,

and found Scratch's door open: I wanted this

to be over. I dropped my bags and knocked

on the open door. My eyes burned, stomach

churned, and I fought off the darkness that closed

in on me. I summoned a smile and walked

into the room: Scratch was lost in one

of his thick books. His eyes bulged; his eyebrows

arched and etched wrinkles into his forehead

that pushed up a bit into his bald head:

he looked amazed, absorbed in his big book.

Scratch did not hear my knock and I shattered

his composure with, "Good evening, Father!"

"Oh-ho!" he exclaimed. He began to whirl--

his face shifted to its forced smile, his hands

fumbled, juggled, then tossed his book: he dropped

his smile, focused and caught his book before

it hit the desk. He sat forward and held

his book tight and set it down on his desk

with careful attention. He searched the desk

with his hands, like a blind man, looking straight

ahead, seeing nothing, groping for his

leather roll book, a pencil. His set smile

returned to his mouth, and his big eyes bulged

as he opened his book. His composure

returned: he was prepared to welcome late

comers who rode the train to Baltimore.

"Well," he said, as he ran his pencil down

the list of names: I felt certain that he

searched the list, trying to recall my name--

I was tempted to help him, but I let

him fry: he'd taught me history four times

every week for two years, and gave me "A"s;

now here he was struggling to decide

which name to check off in his roll book! Shit!

I'm not sure he got it right, but he checked

off a name, looked up with his vacant smile

and said, "There, now! And! How was vacation?"

"Fine, Father. Thank you," I held my fixed smile

and it made my numb face ache. He looked down

his list of names again, still struggling

to remember mine. "Well," he said, "You're in!"

"Yes, Father. Nice to be back." My fixed smile

ached. "Yes. Yes." He held his fixed smile, "Welcome

back!" "Thank you, Father," I ended and turned

to go. "Night prayers at ten o'clock," he said,

hurriedly, as I reached the door. "Right, ten!"

I said, over my shoulder, determined

to escape, "Good evening, Father," I stepped

through the door. I was out. I took a deep

breath and stood still for a moment, let drop

my aching smile, took my bags with a sigh,

relieved--it was over--I'd got past him.

Next I woke on a cold tile floor be-

side a toilet, with Scully lifting me

to my feet. "You all right?" he asked. He knew

better. "Yeah. I guess." He led me away

to my room, opened the door, threw my bags

in, and said, "Half an hour till night prayers.

You gonna be okay?" "Yeah. Thanks." He left.

I closed the door, left the light out, and lay

back on my bed. The darkness was quiet,

nice--the room began to spin. Dark walls sped

by like the night outside the train windows

and my bed began to spin as the walls

and ceiling gathered speed. I fought against

the spinning darkness, struggled to stop it,

gave up and swirled in the fluid whirlpool.

Next thing I knew the room was bright with sun-

shine silhouetting Tom against the wall

of windows. He was wearing his black bathrobe,

his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched

forward. He looked out the window in thought,

not quite seeing the brook running below,

nor the wooded hill rising up beyond.

We were forbidden to climb up that hill--

beyond was "The World," that dangerous place

against which we were being fortified

in holy confinement: "Happy Valley."

Tom turned round as I began to rouse.

The musty scent of stale alcohol filled

the room. I was shocked to find my bed stripped:

no sheets, no pillow cases, a single

blanket. "What happened?" I asked. "What happened?"

Tom mimicked with nervous indignation.

"You are a nice room-mate," he said, "but you

can be impossible at times." He was

a first year man, a "poet" as they called

freshmen. We were "Rhets," the upperclassmen--

the terms dated back to the gothic stones

of the main building. The freshmen studied

poetry and the sophomores studied

rhetoric: once upon a time, long, long

ago. "What happened?" I asked. My head ached.

"You came in drunk! Dead drunk! And you threw up

all over! All over everything--clothes,

bed spread, sheets, floor, walls! I had

to clean the whole goddamn room while you snored

like a bum sleeping on a sidewalk, dead

drunk. I worked in the dark, hoping no one

would come by and hear me, and I was up

the whole goddamn night washing everything

in that little goddamn sink!" "Oh," I said,

"sorry about the mess." I looked around

and found a huge ball of wet clothes, towels,

and sheets sitting heavily on the floor

near the foot of my bed. The stale smell seemed

to radiate in waves from that wet heap.

I severed my connection that night--there

was light ahead, a few weeks more: exams,

graduation. I would study as hard,

maybe harder--Seton Hall was a real

school--but the subtle, perpetual strain

of Sulpician suspicion lifted.

I felt better, almost happy, and spent

the last weeks at ease: the routine became

pleasant. The weather warmed. I read Browning,

and Poe, Williams, Camus, Sartre. I wrote

about The Great Gatsby and fell in love

with Zelda and the Twenties, Hemingway.

"How in hell did you get in here dead drunk?"

Tom wanted to know. "How did you get past

Scratch?" He was under their spell and amazed

that the net had not closed on me: I had

come in drunk, missed night prayers, and nothing

happened. The sky did not fall. The sun rose.

He lived by the fear they hoped to instill

and felt cheated. He did not want trouble

for me, but the infallible had failed--

he was confused. Imagine what he'd feel

if news of the homosexual priests

among the faculty caught up with him.

He was naive. Good. Sincere. He believed

in the righteousness of Happy Valley,

but he was not shrewd enough to become

the Prince. He was a good man--saved my ass!

I kept my faith, but it's hope that sustains

me, though it declines a little each time

I try to realize that you are dead

at forty-three. I feel a bit like Tom--

cheated, confused. I wanted to know why

or how, so I looked you up in the Times

microfilm. I sped through May, slowing down

for every obituary notice,

like a train rolling into a station.

I caught some news for each day as I went:

it's all the same. Back streets get front page: cops

and robbers, drugs and sex, floods, disastrous

winds, volcanoes, money, rape, politics:

we still elect thieves and liars--bigger

liars get bigger votes. A woman killed

herself: parked her Grand Prix in her garage,

started it up and let it run--May tenth,

but not a single Brady all that May.

One Burns every day. Sometimes two, three,

but not one Brady. Burns was a fertile

strain, like rabbits, or Chinese. One of them

was ninety-five, survived by a wife, three

years older and flourishing still, it said.

You were not there. I was disappointed.

You simply disappeared--like a vision

that faded into the crowd without a trace:

in an odd way that makes it easier

for me to think you're okay, laughing it

up, having a good scotch--neet--doubles--

somewhere in New York City.

Apocalypse

In the end

it's over.

Done.

If it starts

up again

as something

new,

it's not

over and

done.

In the end

it's done.

Over.

................
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