Poetry

     These notebook entries come from my most recent volume of Fragments, a series of spiral-bound commonplace books I've been keeping for (and to) myself since 1950. These twenty-eight entries (of the three-hundred-some written in 1987) come from typically various sectors of my interests at the time. I selected these present entries in the sequence they…

Today my love feels Italian, reminiscent of, blood spilled between the Austrian and Franco-Sardinian armies at Magenta, bluer and deeper than Harvard crimson. Captain Caprilli is yet to be born to instruct the cavalry. The rider is still an encumbrance to the horse. I drink espresso in the little café with its back to the…

Between two worlds life hovers like a star. —Byron for Tomaz It is not so easy to live on the earth as an angel, to imitate the insects that dance around the moon, to return what air we borrow every few seconds. I am going to enter the hour when wind dreamt of a light…

     I've believed from the beginning, when I was just a kid writer, that part of the poet's task was to break the rules of language, to free it from the burdens of its history, thus acknowledging that history and revivifying it. It's some such sense that underpins the poem “These Days.” Cross from the Race…

You want me to know I'm keeping memories so you unlatch a few. The future's in there too but badly restrained like an actress so intently fastened on her cue: “pocketknife”—that she stumbles out on “doctor's wife” and has to be mistaken for the maid, then chased out so as not to interrupt the kiss….

I'd even given you part of my shared fear: This personal responsibility For a whole world's disease that is our nightmare. —Sidney Keyes About the hearts of dusk that could make pets of dogs the Nazis abandoned as they fled. About turning to answer the dust devil scuffed up by the wind, thinking I heard…

The month is August, but the day is October, and under the overhang of this expensive house, the windsock's rainbow- colored tentacles dawdle like a cuttle- fish's in the bright, dry breeze. A boy I've never seen before, whose mother loves him too well for his sweet, uncomplicated face; the new, warm smell of his…

I run the comb through his lush hair. letting it think into my wrist the way the wrist whispers to the cards with punctuation and savvy in a game of solitaire. So much not to be said the scissors are saying in the hasp and sheer of the morning. Eleven years I've cut his hair…

After the Lenigrad trials, after solitary confinement most of eleven years in a Siberian gulag, he told us this story. One slice of sour black bread a day. He trimmed off the crust and saved it for the last since it was the best part. Crunchy, even a little sweet. Then he crumbled the slice…