the sky at eight-fifty-one in the night, going up that hill
mind you, the sky was nothing like the night
filled with the last few hours of sun
clouds coated in a sliver of gold and seeming like foam on waves
an endless ocean of blue, ivory, and all things golden
it was calm
it was peaceful
it was comforting, despite the circumstances
it was coming home, whatever it was
Early morning voices came
from up the hill outside my office window,
where there’s another row of condos—
exotic, relaxed voices, unusually alive.
I also heard raking, and imagined
these unseen neighbors
removing leaves on the patio
where they might have had
drinks last night. They spoke
sometimes in English with accents
that might have been French,
and sometimes in another tongue
that sounded French, as well.
Their conversation was leisurely,
then lively, humorous at times,
sometimes flirtatious: It spoke
We had a dentist speak
at the anti-war rally
we organized, we young men
home from college
in the summer of ’68
trying to legitimize ourselves
in the eyes of our parents,
even as we turned activist.
We held a car wash
to raise funds.
When I wrote articles
about the war, I quoted
businessmen, as though they
were the only real gauge
of decent humanity.
I grew my hair a little,
The boats have begun to arrive
to carry us on to the next journey,
over the hills, across the sea
to what we cannot see
we who were
recently so young,
new world shining in our eyes
and now, after the proverbial
eyeblink which no poet can articulate
and no father convey to his child,
we prepare for the next journey,
aware of how far short
we fell of our dreams,
did not transform
the world for all to come.
They told us upholders
So many live
in such desperation,
they believe mass murder
will solve their problems
or bring some satisfaction
of revenge.
How does our world even survive
in the pressure cooker
of billions’ ongoing destinies,
coupled with so much
deep ignorance?
But the sun
is patient with us,
returning every day
so we may try
to grope our way.
On a long, long journey,
even if you prepare,
all your provisions run out.
Even if you’re skilled at wayfaring,
all you know gets used up.
Though you’ve gone on many test runs,
you find yourself in totally new situations.
Your vast repertoire of responses,
has become old, useless habit.
Now what?
Helpless, you go on.
This is the test.
Where is the new
beginning?
Listen to the mouth of your wound.
If you hear nothing, listen more closely.
The wound has a voice.
It will tell you
all you need to know.
Aging’s a rich
and humbling thing,
when the mold gets
inside the great
fortress of the body
and try your best, it won’t
do what you want any more.
A wheeze won’t go away,
a limp, a back injury
85% healed, but never
what it was, and you
have to say, yes,
I’m walking down the hill now,
only yesterday it was up,
into the morning, a great adventure,
but it’s good to come home, slowly,
I’ve written a book
that just came out,
and as I held it
in my hands last night
after reading a few pages,
I felt the current of all
my sixty-nine years
flowing between
those covers.
How can that be?
There are so
many mysteries.
I can remember
when I was three,
sitting in the little sandbox
in the courtyard of our
Mr. Woods sits, afternoons, on the porch
of the grey stone house across the street.
A daughter sometimes sits with him and knits.
“Cancer,” our neighbor Millie told us once.
Once or twice, while walking to his car,
Dad waves and says, “Hey Woody,” and that’s all.
A thick veil separates our dual worlds.
I watch their lives, a kind of pantomime.
His wife comes out sometimes and stands there too,
wearing her apron, then goes back inside.
Silent movies must have been like this.
What knowledge can resolve the mystery:
why lives in some homes open to my gaze,
while others on this same street stay opaque?
On our own side of Waterman I know
in happy, easygoing neighbor ways
In autumn, going for
a walk or drive
brings visions
of apocalypse.
The trees burn
slowly, singing
“This is your
fate, too.”
So glorious is their song
that in this season
life, death and rebirth
are one, with nothing
to be feared.
Lest anyone imagine
a solid wall
between the worlds
of history and fiction:
This Morning:
In the novel
I’m listening to in my car,
I hear how Minka, the title character,
is marched from Auschwitz,
escapes, then is re-captured
and sent to Bergen-Belsen.
This Afternoon:
My friend Stewart
posts a D-Day tribute
on his Facebook page,
a photo of soldiers