Scribbles

Beside the sluggish Thames we walk
or through the streets of Soho
until the fall of dusk.
Clatter down the crowded stairs,
plunge into the Underground,
hurtle east and west and north
in black and twisted tunnels.

We wander past the palace gates
shining with a coat of ice
and stare blank-faced
at the guards who stand,
stiff like marionettes
in the morning sun.

On the bridge we grasp
the frozen railings
and watch the water lick
the briny keels of passing boats
and imagine around us
those who have stood here,
backs to the wind
in December,
hands clasped
for a few moments
before crossing
to the other side.

The spire of the Tour Eiffel
is lost in mist, glowing vaguely
in the night.
Snow has been drifting
to lie in frozen waves
for the past two nights and days,
clothing the city in crystal
and ice.

Beneath the lights, blue and white,
we slip and stumble in the night
through Montmartre, up the hill,
between the winding half-lit streets.
Above the flashing neon signs we climb,
our fingers stiff cold and pink,
heads down, eyes half-closed,
moving on into the night.
We force our knees to bend
and hop up stairs and stairs,
wavering to the top.

The city stretches out below
in a glittering panoply of lights,
silent and still, a painting
of whites and shadows
engraved into the night.

We cup our hands together
warm against the bitter wind
and wait.

Between the Colosseum stones
a white dahlia pushes upwards,
its petals unfurling one by one,
shedding the weight
of the morning’s rain.

It brushes against the stones
as its ancestors have done
for two thousand or so
long years,
their roots inching outwards
into the nooks and cracks
of masonry.
In one or two more centuries,
it will whittle away a flake
of limestone.

The dahlia watches clouds
take shape and dissipate
through vaulted arches
far above the earth.
Through the afternoon
it is thankful that it,
unlike its grandmothers,
will not be stained by blood
(human or animal)
shed from the cape
of a passing gladiator.
It has only to worry
about ketchup, Coca cola,
ice cream, the looming shadow
of a careless shoe.

And when the sun sinks
once more below the pitted domes
and distant broken arches,
the dahlia settles down again
between the Colosseum stones
to watch the moon rising
in the east.

Children run screaming through rows
of dark gray stone columns.
Their fingers brush the walls,
footsteps echoing back
and forth.
Their mothers slump on the edge,
shoulders sagging, eyes closed.
Neither searches for the meaning
of this place, to extract
some easy definition.

Inside the field,
the ground slopes down,
at first just inch by inch
into the soil.
The stones rise like floodwaters
from ankles to knees to chest
before they swallow
up the sun.

The ground sinks further
into shadows, cold and silent
beneath the waiting pillars.
They stretch into the distance,
where stones beget stones
and multiply again, thousands
of rows of stones.

Stones do not have eyes or ears
but memories of time
burnt into their molecules.
Only they can understand the size
of six million lives
six million names
six million faces
erased by fire and sickness and ideas
gone wrong.
And only stones will survive
to remind us of what we’ve done
and of what
we are capable.

The flow of days has settled
in a steady allegro rhythm
worn into the Parisian streets
and cobblestones, beaten
into the metro stairs and the soles
of my shoes.
Months subsided into weeks,
driven west in a November wind
to ruffle the freezing Atlantic
and wash up, covered in brine,
on a distant coast.

December is coming quickly now,
cutting minutes off the days,
cold air biting into my fingers.

Twenty four mornings
of boulangeries before sunrise,
of plunging into the city’s heart
and coursing through its veins.
Twenty four days of pale gold
wine-colored evening skies
and beehive market streets,
of excusez-moi, merci, bonjour
monsieur, pardon.

And what will remain, what traces
and signs of these months
will mark me?
Nothing in my face or voice, nothing
that can be measured on a scale
or tested in a classroom.
It is something subtle and clear
like fine drops of water
on a veil, something
not quite English or French.
And when I walk the streets of Paris
tonight, I know the difference
no longer needs to be translated.

The wind whips through the castle
and bites into the stone walls,
beats against the windowpanes.
The sound of footsteps bounces
off the chilled walls and falls
to the ground.

The Renaissance women
must have been better prepared
for the cold.
I imagine them among the fires
and candles flickering in the draft,
the whisper of skirts ruffling
through the corridors.

If I were them, I’d live in the library,
warm between three thousand
some gilted spines, a lifetime
of words and pages.
A shelf or two for the long darkness
of winter, blankets to cover
the shrieking northern winds.

In the spring we’d emerge
from behind the deep red curtains
to walk in the morning sunlight
through the gardens,
and tell the swans about Plato
and physics and love.

I am waiting for him tonight,
waiting for the mask to appear
between the curtain folds
high above the stage.
He will slip between the notes
of the swirling symphony,
swing over the orchestra pit
and snatch the violinist’s bow,
poised and silent in the air.

The cellist will scream in harmony
with the collective staccato gasp
from the balconies.
Sheets of music will flutter,
unnoticed, to the floor.
The woman snoring
a few rows to the left
will snap to attention.

But he hasn’t come.
Phantoms cannot be bothered
by string quartets on a Sunday.
So the musicians play on,
the woman sleeps on,
and all is well this night
at the opera.

[Thoughts en route to Amsterdam]

Fields buckle and grow into hills,
sprouting trees and bushes
in the cold morning fog
lying over the low country.

Cows and sheep freeze
for an instant, heads lowered
to drink from the ditches.
They are not impressed
by the speed of our train
or the passengers’ stares.

This patchwork of greens
could be anywhere -
Holland, France, or even
Pennsylvania
if it were a little flatter,
a little older.
Not that this matters
to the cows.

I imagine the dry crackling
of corn husks in firelight
on an October evening,
the smell of hay, the sting
of cider on my tongue.

The water lies still and cold
in Amsterdam’s canals.
Fall came quickly this year
and went hurtling by,
settling far to the north.
But for now we walk
in the lukewarm sunlight,
and home is not quite
so important.

[an exercise in style, à la "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens]

1. Far from the sea the mussels lie

in mounds of gaping mouths

sucking the smells of autumn

rolling down rue Daguerre.

2. A homeless man hunches

above an empty paper cup.

It is starting to crumble

from yesterday’s rain.

3. Just so and so the grocer places

his melons, apples, and grapes

in a pattern worn daily

into the fabric of his fingertips.

4. Between the stalks and leaves

a smoke tendril weaves

through the florist’s tangled hair,

obscuring her steady hazel stare.

5. Run run run through the cobbled street

between the cars, down the stairs, into

the metro station, briefcases flapping

against the thighs of crisp black suits.

6. A woman huddles

into the planks of a bench.

Wood is thicker than cloth

and Paris is cold, these days.

7. Jackhammer symphonies built

and tacked on jazz melodies

whistle over the gray-green barriers

from the lips of the working men.

8. In groups the protesters carry signs

and march towards the square,

neon ribbons whipping their arms

in the rising breeze.

9. Around tables littered with dying ends

of cigarettes and congealing coffee dregs,

five boys wave their hands and throw

complexity to the wind.

10. Waiting at the curb we stare

with blank faces, in various directions,

afraid to meet another’s gaze

or smile.

11. Behind the boarded windows

of the accordion store, I imagine

an old man shifting from foot to foot,

his gnarled fingers dancing across ivory keys.

12. The sun sidles over rooftops

and heats the air, baking and rising

like the baguettes hanging in baskets

behind shining counters.

13. I prefer the sharpness

of the early autumn wind

when it engraves these images

into my skin.

Love Padlocks, Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor

I want to lock myself to this city
like the lovers who bind themselves
to the arching iron bridges
above the Seine.
I want to share its secrets
above and under and in
the ground, tap into
the currents in the air
which must hold something
my lungs don’t quite understand
how to breathe.

I would ask the gargoyles
perched at Notre Dame,
but they speak so rarely these days.
Their whispers divulge little
but dust trickles
(and anyway I am not fluent
in the language of stone).

So for now I am poised
between two worlds,
two languages and identities.
The letters are the same
but still I get lost in the tilt
and whirl of sounds.
The syllables drop
beneath my feet
and scatter like crumbs
for pigeons to pick at
along the sidewalk.

I piece them together, slowly,
so the verbs and adjectives fit
just right between the grooves
of nouns.
But I’ll leave a few adverbs
lying by the curb
in case the birds get hungry.

[This poem drifted over from here.]