Of Right Of Wrong Of Up Of Down Of Who Of How Of When Of One Of Then Of If Of In Of Out Of Feel Of Friend Of It Of Now. or: Born Eighty-Nine Years Ago Today

SELF-PORTRAIT

He wants to be

a brutal old man,

an aggressive old man,

as dull, as brutal

as the emptiness around him,

He doesn’t want compromise,   

nor to be ever nice

to anyone. Just mean,

and final in his brutal,

his total, rejection of it all.

He tried the sweet,   

the gentle, the “oh,

let’s hold hands together”

and it was awful,

dull, brutally inconsequential.

Now he’ll stand on

his own dwindling legs.   

His arms, his skin,   

shrink daily. And

he loves, but hates equally.

Creeley interviewed. Six more poems below the fold

INSIDE MY HEAD

inside my head

Inside my head a common room,   

a common place, a common tune,

a common wealth, a common doom

inside my head. I close my eyes.   

The horses run. Vast are the skies,

and blue my passing thoughts’ surprise

inside my head. What is this space   

here found to be, what is this place

if only me? Inside my head, whose face?

the tools

First there, it proves to be still here.   

Distant as seen, it comes then to be near.   

I found it here and there unclear.

What if my hand had only been   

extension of an outside reaching in

to work with common means to change me then?

All things are matter, yet these seem   

caught in the impatience of a dream,   

locked in the awkwardness they mean.

the swan

Peculiar that swan should mean a sound?

I’d thought of gods and power, and wounds.

But here in the curious quiet this one has settled down.

All day the barking dogs were kept at bay.   

Better than dogs, a single swan, they say,   

will keep all such malignant force away

and so preserve a calm, make pond a swelling lake—

sound through the silent grove a shattering spate   

of resonances, jarring the mind awake.

the rose

Into one’s self come in again,

here as if ever now to once again begin

with beauty’s old, old problem never-ending—

Go, lovely rose ... So was that story told

in some extraordinary place then, once upon a time so old   

it seems an echo now as it again unfolds.

I point to me to look out at the world.

I see the white, white petals of this rose unfold.   

I know such beauty in the world grows cold.

the skull

“Come closer. Now there is nothing left   

either inside or out to gainsay death,”   

the skull that keeps its secrets saith.

The ways one went, the forms that were   

empty as wind and yet they stirred

the heart to its passion, all is passed over.

Lighten the load. Close the eyes.   

Let the mind loosen, the body die,   

the bird fly off to the opening sky.

the star

Such space it comes again to be,   

a room of such vast possibility,   

a depth so great, a way so free.

Life and its person, thinking to find

a company wherewith to keep the time   

a peaceful passage, a constant rhyme,

stumble perforce, must lose their way,   

know that they go too far to stay   

stars in the sky, children at play.

THE LANGUAGE

Locate I

love you some-

where in

teeth and   

eyes, bite   

it but

take care not   

to hurt, you   

want so

much so   

little. Words   

say everything.

I

love you

again,

then what   

is emptiness   

for. To

fill, fill.

I heard words   

and words full

of holes   

aching. Speech   

is a mouth.

GNOMIC VOICES

Robert Creeley

loop

Down the road Up the hill Into the house

Over the wall Under the bed After the fact

By the way Out of the woods Behind the times

In front of the door Between the lines Along the path

echo

In the way it was in the street   

it was in the back it was

in the house it was in the room

it was in the dark it was

fat fate

Be at That this

Come as If when   

Stay or Soon then   

Ever happen It will

look

Particular pleasures weather measures or   

Dimestore delights faced with such sights.

here

Outstretched innocence   

Implacable distance

Lend me a hand

See if it reaches

time

Of right Of wrong Of up Of down   

Of who Of how Of when Of one   

Of then Of if Of in Of out

Of feel Of friend Of it Of now

moral

Now the inevitable   

As in tales of woe   

The inexorable toll   

It takes, it takes.

eat

Head on backwards   

Face front neck’s

Pivot bunched flesh   

Drops jowled brunch.

toffee

Little bit patted pulled   

Stretched set let cool.

case

Whenas To for

If where From in

Past place Stated want   

Gain granted Planned or

have a heart

Have heart Find head   

Feel pattern Be wed   

Smell water See sand   

Oh boy Ain’t life grand

oh oh

Now and then   

Here and there   

Everywhere

On and on

winter

Season’s upon us   

Weather alarms us   

Snow riot peace   

Leaves struck fist.

duty

Let little Linda allow litigation

Foster faith’s fantasy famously

And answer all apt allegations

Handmake Harold’s homework handsomely

gotcha

Passion’s particulars   

Steamy hands

Unwashed warmth   

One night stands

west acton summer

Cat’s rats, Mother’s brother   

Vacation’s patience, loud clouds   

Fields far, seize trees

School’s rules, friends tend   

Lawn’s form, barn’s beams   

Hay’s daze, swallows follow   

Sun’s sunk, moon mends   

Echo’s ending, begin again

far

“Far be it from Harry to alter the sense of drama inherent in the almighty tuxedo ...”

“Far be it from Harry”   

Sit next to Mary,

See how the Other   

Follows your Mother

pat’s

Pat’s place

Pattern’s face   

Aberrant fact   

Changes that

four’s

Four’s forms

Back and forth

Feel way Hindside

Paper route Final chute

sentences

Indefatigably alert when hit still hurt.   

Whenever he significantly alters he falters.   

Wondrous weather murmured mother.   

Unforgettable twist in all such synthesis.   

Impeccably particular you always were.   

Laboriously enfeebled he still loved people.

words

Driving to the expected   

Place in mind in

Place of mind in

Driving to the expected

here

You have to reach   

Out more it’s

Farther away from   

You it’s here

data

Exoneration’s face

Echoed distaste

Privileged repetition   

Makeshift’s decision—

     •

Now and then

Behind time’s

Emptied scene and   

Memory’s mistakes—

     •

You are here   

And there too   

Being but one   

Of you—

scatter

All that’s left of coherence.

echo again

Statement keep talking

Train round bend over river into distance

door

Everything’s before you   

were here.

summer ’38

Nubble’s Light a sort   

of bump I thought—

a round insistent

small place

not like this—

it was a bluff,   

tip on the edge   

of the sea.

air

Lift up so you’re   

Floating out

Of your skin at

The edge but

Mostly up seeming   

Free of the ground.

echoes

Think of the

Dance you could do   

One legged man

Two legged woman.

there

Hard to be unaddressed—

Empty to reflection—

Take the road east—

Be where it is.

echoes

Sunrise always first—

That light—is it

Round the earth—what   

Simple mindedness.

star

Where   

It is

There

You are

     •

Out there   

In here   

Now it is   

Was also

     •

Up where   

It will be   

And down   

Again

     •

No one   

Point   

To it   

Ever

THE MEASURE

I cannot

move backward   

or forward.

I am caught

in the time

as measure.

What we think   

of we think of—

of no other reason   

we think than

just to think—

each for himself.

YESTERDAYS

Sixty-two, sixty-three, I most remember   

As time W. C. Williams dies and we are   

Back from a hard two years in Guatemala   

Where the meager provision of being   

Schoolmaster for the kids of the patrones

Of two coffee plantations has managed   

Neither a life nor money. Leslie dies in   

Horror of bank giving way as she and her   

Sister and their friends tunnel in to make   

A cubby. We live in an old cement brick   

Farmhouse already inside the city limits   

Of Albuquerque. Or that has all really   

Happened and we go to Vancouver where,   

Thanks to friends Warren and Ellen Tallman,   

I get a job teaching at the University of British   

Columbia. It’s all a curious dream, a rush   

To get out of the country before the sad   

Invasion of the Bay of Pigs, that bleak use   

Of power. One of my British colleagues   

Has converted the assets of himself and   

His wife to gold bullion and keeps the   

Ingots in a sturdy suitcase pushed under   

Their bed. I love the young, at least I   

Think I do, in their freshness, their attempt   

To find ways into Canada from the western   

Reaches. Otherwise the local country seems   

Like a faded Edwardian sitcom. A stunned   

Stoned woman runs one Saturday night up   

And down the floors of the Hydro Electric   

Building on Pender with the RCMP in hot

Pursuit where otherwise we stood in long   

Patient lines, extending often several blocks   

Up the street. We were waiting to get our   

Hands stamped and to be given a 12 pack   

Of Molson’s. I think, I dream, I write the   

Final few chapters of The Island, the despairs   

Gathering at the end. I read Richard Brautigan’s   

Trout Fishing In America but am too uptight   

To enjoy his quiet, bright wit. Then that   

Summer there is the great Vancouver Poetry   

Festival, Allen comes back from India, Olson   

From Gloucester, beloved Robert Duncan   

From Stinson Beach. Denise reads “Hypocrite   

Women” to the Burnaby ladies and Gary Snyder,   

Philip Whalen, and Margaret Avison are there   

Too along with a veritable host of the young.   

Then it’s autumn again. I’ve quit my job   

And we head back to Albuquerque   

And I teach again at the university, and   

Sometime just about then I must have   

Seen myself as others see or saw me,   

Even like in a mirror, but could not quite   

Accept either their reassuring friendship   

Or their equally locating anger. Selfish,   

Empty, I kept at it. Thirty-eight years later   

I seem to myself still much the same,   

Even if I am happier, I think, and older.

HELSINKI WINDOW

Go out into brightened   

space out there the fainter   

yellowish place it

makes for eye to enter out   

to greyed penumbra all the   

way to thoughtful searching   

sight of all beyond that

solid red both brick and seeming   

metal roof or higher black   

beyond the genial slope I   

look at daily house top on   

my own way up to heaven.

         *

Same roof, light’s gone   

down back of it, behind   

the crying end of day, “I   

need something to do,” it’s   

been again those other   

things, what’s out there,   

sodden edge of sea’s   

bay, city’s graveyard, park   

deserted, flattened aspect,   

leaves gone colored fall   

to sidewalk, street, the end   

of all these days but   

still this regal light.

         *

Trees stripped, rather shed

of leaves, the black solid trunks up

to fibrous mesh of smaller   

branches, it is weather’s window,   

weather’s particular echo, here   

as if this place had been once,   

now vacant, a door that had had   

hinges swung in air’s peculiar   

emptiness, greyed, slumped elsewhere,   

asphalt blank of sidewalks, line of   

linearly absolute black metal fence.

         *

Old sky freshened with cloud bulk   

slides over frame of window the   

shadings of softened greys a light   

of air up out of this dense high   

structured enclosure of buildings   

top or pushed up flat of bricked roof   

frame I love I love the safety of   

small world this door frame back   

of me the panes of simple glass yet   

airy up sweep of birch trees sit in   

flat below all designation declaration   

here as clouds move so simply away.

         *

Windows now lit close out the   

upper dark the night’s a face   

three eyes far fainter than   

the day all faced with light   

inside the room makes eye re-

flective see the common world   

as one again no outside coming   

in no more than walls and post-

card pictures place faces across   

that cautious dark the tree no   

longer seen more than black edge   

close branches somehow still between.

         *

He was at the edge of this

reflective echo the words blown   

back in air a bubble of suddenly   

apparent person who walked to

sit down by the familiar brook and   

thought about his fading life

all “fading life” in tremulous airy   

perspect saw it hover in the surface   

of that moving darkness at the edge   

of sun’s passing water’s sudden depth   

his own hands’ knotted surface the   

sounding in himself of some other.

         *

One forty five afternoon red   

car parked left hand side   

of street no distinguishing   

feature still wet day a bicycle   

across the way a green door-

way with arched upper window   

a backyard edge of back wall

to enclosed alley low down small   

windows and two other cars green   

and blue parked too and miles   

and more miles still to go.

         *

This early still sunless morning when a chair’s   

creak translates to cat’s cry a blackness still

out the window might be apparent night when the

house still sleeping behind me seems a bag of   

immense empty silence and I feel the children   

still breathing still shifting their dreams an   

enigma will soon arrive here and the loved one   

centers all in her heavy sleeping arm out the   

leg pushed down bedclothes this body unseen un-

known placed out there in night I can feel all   

about me still sitting in this small spare pool of   

light watching the letters the words try to speak.

         *

Classic emptiness it

sits out there edge of   

hierarchic roof top it

marks with acid fine edge   

of apparent difference it   

is there here here that

sky so up and out and where   

it wants to be no birds no   

other thing can for a   

moment distract it be   

beyond its simple space.