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ODE TO HERMAN MELVILLE
You gave me the Pacific, coral atolls with their turquoise lagoons,
slanting cocopalms and a transcendental dream. I floated like a cloud
over a thousand miles of ocean, set the sails for Namara, snorkelled
above the clear blue depths with their cruising reef sharks. I watched
the stars become a passionate sky, kissed the young copper girl
in the quiet of her open fale, walked the high jungle roads past
banyan tree and tangle, adopted the lush flowers as emblems of my
heart, caught at the ineffable as it wafted on a warm perfumed breeze.
You taught me confidence in my own five senses, nurtured in me a
desire for the sublime, taught me to reach my hand past what could
easily be reached, to pluck the perfect avocado from its high branch,
to savour the mango newly ripening, to climb to the summit of the
island in order to inhabit a green vision of eternity.
You derived from the streets of the same city, knew the nineteenth
century din as I have known the twentieth. You showed me the way
out of the urban labyrinth of what I was born to, pointed out the way
that would take me to the world.
You made me laugh with your terrible jokes and demented captains,
with those awful depictions of Pierre at his garretted labours, with
confidence tricks, with Typee and Omoo and the island excesses of
Doctor Long Ghost. Those who find you dour and New Englandish
miss the better part of what you have written.
You made me desire a life in words, simply by writing so elegantly
and reachingly beyond yourself. You taught me the power of
aspiration, the true madness of Ahab: not wanting revenge but
only wanting to touch the essence, to be lovingly touched by the kiss
and spray of an infinite ocean.
If I would prefer not to do anything, it is because you have
showed me the beautiful power of negation, the necessity for No
in the face of a mad populous hellbent on saying Yes to everything
false and trivial and shoddy.
You offered me a dream of myself, of life, I could not help but
accept. I now offer you this slim homage from the middle of my
days.
ODE TO BLUE
Ripped jeans, jagged waves, hovering implacable sky. It's the music
that moves through my heart with its mordant suffering and difficult
celebration, also the temperate cool jazz of Miles Davis in the years
surrounding my birth, a catalogue of pleasures folding into ink, into eyes,
often disguised as peace and tranquility and a pleasant vacant stare.
In fact, it's what Pearl did to my balls, what Morocco so
mystically revealed to me, what Muddy Waters crawled the long way to
Chicago to express.
I've set the sails and moved through the surging blue Pacific,
I've jumped on an airliner and taken off for the embellished ruins of
Europe, I've looked deep into the soul expressed by a lover's
aquamarine eyes and stolen a treasured photograph.
I've heard it in Bonnie's voice, in Duane's slide guitar, saw it
sold in the medina of Fes-en-Bali, smelled it somewhere off of Namara,
tasted it as blue champagne ice in the summers of a Bronx childhood,
wore it for twenty years and then some, letting it always touch me.
Sure, call it a boy's color, the essence of navy, the haunting
question. Call for it as a lighting effect as the master weaves his
way through all the chords and changes of "Have You Ever Loved A
Woman" ("this is a blue light song").
When I was broken it tore me apart. When I was whole I emerged out of
it. What it all comes down to is it's what I know, how I feel.
ODE TO MY YOUNGER DAUGHTER
XXXXfor Zoe
You remind me of me, age five and desperate to know everything.
I see the little boy I was, in the little girl you are, your smile
shattering my heart into a thousand pieces.
Oh, we are two of a kind, you and I; I identify with all of your
struggles, even see my early friendships reflected in the way you
move among your friends. Don't play second fiddle for too long, my
one; don't be glamorized by bullies; don't take a kind heart for
granted. Choose wisely, tenderly.
I will always be the father who loves you, the man who loved you
first. You are so precious to me; I would lassoo a rainbow for you
if I could, would walk on water if I thought it might please you.
Will your intensity mellow, or will you always be that way, intent
on knowing everything? Don't lose your childish joy, don't let the
world take anything away from you (it gives so little back). Love
your mother even though I cannot, keep your allegiances ever
close to your heart. Bask in the warm rays of the beams of love,
come and go in peace, be merciful, show pity, keep dancing in your
radiant way.
ODE TO POETRY
For nearly thirty years I've been walking with you, Poetry,
walking the dusty crooked roads of the world.
A young man, at first I got my feet tangled and fell face down
on the dark ground (you laughed), drowned my eyes in the pool so that
I might see the stars. It was slapstick, all pratfalls and shaving
cream pies.
Then later you restricted me to what I could find with the two
arms of a lover, and you ascended into my blood like a growing,
climbing vine. I was so easily converted to you with my first taste of
your chaliced wine.
It was wonderful, to be shattered without being consumed, to bathe
in inexhaustible waters, to arrive at that last drop that falls upon a
burning heart and revives it from its ashes. But then that wasn't
quite enough for me, and I felt bad staggering beside you, often
acting so disrespectful of your beauty. After a while I stopped
tilting the bottle back, stopped acting like a steamy naiad.
I sobered up and headed north, searching out mortal companions,
fellow workers in song. Joined together, Poetry, we made quite a
cacophony, raised our voices in a battle cry, rattling the paintings
where they hung on the walls of the gallery, storming the buses where
all the city's workers shuttled between workplace and home. Then,
riding, Poetry, we were pulled into their misery, could not help but
become voices of the struggle, of the general strife, haunting the
parades, seen in the harbors, crowned by the fragrant dust of the mills.
Tired of struggle, I tried to get back to you, Poetry, tried to
return to the purity of your crinoline I walked beside calming ocean,
danced beneath island stars. AFter a time you came to meet me and we
sailed the Pacific like Micronesian navigators, tasted papaya, tasting
eternity, and laughed and laughed at the full goodness of life.
Then you put me out to work beside the laundress, to sell books in
the bookstore, to sell bread in the bakery, to spin with the simple
weavers, to prattle with the professors, to strike iron in the
metallurgy. And you continued walking the earth with me, but you were
no longer the flowery statue of my youth. You spoke now with a ferrous
voice, your hands were hard like rock, and your heart was an abundant
source of bells.
It was then that I foolishly decided to marry my heart to the world,
to marry a woman, have children and take up the seeming heavy work.
For six years I labored in the mines of domesticity, and still you
would not abandon me. You still whispered to me, told me where I could
locate the unearthly music. No longer did you and I sleep out along
the open road; where once we wandered beneath slanting cocopalms,
now we kept close company with innocuous neighbors, rubbing shoulders
with the common man.
And when that sentence was commuted, and I was set free to wander
again, we took to the road, the ever-beautiful limbo road. We
travelled the world and you were free to speak openly again, as you
did in my youth,in a proud languorous voice.
And now, Poetry, thank you. Wife, sister, mother, lover,
thank you. Shoreline wave, lemon blossom and banner, jukebox, long
petal of gold, submerged country, inextinguishable grain, thank you.
Earth of all my days, celestial mist and blood of my years.
Because you have accompanied me from the most rarefied heights to the
simplest mats of the third world poor, because you have placed in my soul
the taste of iron and cold fire, because you have pointed out the
stars and fiery constellations along the way, Poetry, thank you. As I
age you continue to reveal your firm freshness, your crystalline
impetus, as if time and the weather (that, little by little, are
converting me back to dust) will allow to flow eternally the rivers of
my song.
XXXXXXXXXXXXafter Neruda
The first edition of 200 copies was set in Minion and printed on
Springhill Bond/Offset at Coach House Printing on bpNichol Lane in June of 1997.
The cover design is by Chris Bolduc.
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