In Rome, Rome, Rome, in Rome
all roads lead to
Rome, Roma; roads to roam
roaming roads in
Roman Roma, roving
roads, Romany
Roma, these Roman roads
rambling roads
Ramble in Rome, Respighi's
Rome, remember?
Remembering Rome
radiant Rome
Rococo Roma,
roaring Roman
Regiments, rivaling,
remove Roman
Right, roaring righteous
ravish the ripe;
Roman roads, oh help me,
all my roaming
Roads lead to
me.
I see time:
ice cakes and snow puddings,
the winter’s ingredients
that remind me
who the hell I am,
and who I am
not.
Some fall wind stacked
the leaves against the weeds
readying the ground
for winter brown;
The year dies-—and
if spring wasn’t somewhere in my head
the final ugliness would be
the final ugliness;
But, I watch
the magic show,
clap like a child,
excited, laughing.
The Magic Show.
ocean spread so far that
land is only an idea,
a memory of some myth we need
to repeat over and over
endless bed of salted sapphire waves
partially camouflaged by bulbous
cumulus clouds, pretty cauliflower
buds ready to be eaten, a huge
blanket looking like a brightly
patched blue and white quilt
then
wild drunken thoughts, tumbling
through flower vegetable patch far below
or as in my dreams flying strong and free
gliding, soaring on winglike arms;
suddenly Icarus, falling, shrieking
forgetting
all direction to the stars
where we are born
over and over again1
forgetting
how loving so much feels that
nothing else really matters
until
I grab at white stratus whiskers
whispering an ancient Hebrew melody and
chant with all the prophets learning
secrets; no longer so lonely
I stop shaking and shrug off that
bottomless whirlpool of black pitch,
that silent terror gone.
soon I know
I have been away five thousand years,
traveling through all the parched deserts
of Sinai, learning the Covenant
and Torah commandments, wandering
the wilderness of the Diaspora, struggling with
Joshua into Canaan, becoming a Maccabee,
fighting Macedonians in Jerusalem and Romans
at Masada, and begetting Abraham and
Isaac and Jacob, then Joseph and Moses and David and
Solomon, their sons
and my sons
now
in this dazzling and holy place
where I sense my God who decides
what is a Wednesday or sunlight,
whether forty-seven is the middle
or the end.
All hail to these two
Gray boulders, proud but scarred,
Hoary and pockmarked by
Barnacles, those ancient
Hangers-on fouled by
Guiltless gulls laughing loudly.
Oh, stand quietly
In salt water, holding on
Like friends who have become
Very old together,
Sharing cold misery
Remembering warmth and smiles,
Grasping wildly
For the galloping clock but soon
Silenced by the spinning
Seasons, until all their
Vanity is vomited,
Tears are tasteless,
And the tide has gone
Somewhere else forever.
sliding deep into moistened
pregnant soil, fingers spread
reaching instinct imbedded
by ancestors breathing blood into
the brown, plenteous potato
source and substance for survival
guns like angry sabers tearing,
teeth dripping red flesh
piling young bodies into bales
of wheat, the grain crumbling
scream, Russian peasant, cries of
Beshenkovitchi, burning in snowy
wastes flaming with clenched fists
whipped by laughing Cossacks who
rape daughters and wives their
faces contorted, remembering
promises once secret now destroyed
but spring returns forgetting
the blood of its sons soaked into
the steppes, and demands strong hands
to plant the new crop of babies
a soft song is heard over this land
that cannot be sung but we do try
exactly as our fathers did
on their knees, weeping next
to our mothers no longer able
to make milk, hold us or bake bread
“Ayup. Plymouth is up on the road
Above Meredith and Laconia.”
Quiet hangs there gently through stately pines and
maples,
The calm rye grass cradling the soft warmth of summer.
“And off Route 25 where Smith Bridge Road rambles
Not over but through Smith Bridge, covered not for
Tourists but sometime back last century
When they worked the fields and watched the weather.
“Then bear left past the young corn tended by old hands
Over to John Fraser’s airfield, all green sodded
Like they were back before macadam strips or
Concrete dashed with tire marks marking landings pilots
Would rather forget; they don’t seem to feel the wind
anymore.”
Pipers and Cessnas surround Eraser’s field but their
Captains bark no instructions, no motors mar
The gentle Sunday afternoon, at least not today
“Nope, there aren’t any planes for rent,” says John Fraser.
On, on toward Plymouth town past fathers patiently
Showing sons how to mow, much like when Indian
Fathers would teach theirs to corn, dance, hunt and wait.
Down on Baker River sands, mothers remind young
daughters
That a swim suit top does what it is supposed to.
The four-seasoned buildings of Plymouth State College
Now sun themselves and rest, emptied of scholars off to
work
or Play or both, and two fine Mobil stations stand
Opposite each other like squared-off chess knights.
“That 1861 house there sure needs some paint.
(New Hampshire houses always look better spanking
white.)
The Plymouth Inn is all whitened up but
Somebody'll have to paint in the guests.”
Up High Street to Red Gate Farm Antiques;
An old radio was turned on with
The Shadow and Lamont Cranston knowing what
“Good and evil lurks in the minds of men”
Well, the Plymouth Theater gets them for either
The 6:45 or the 9:00 show—it isn’t much but
Things could be a lot worse off.
“See over there that Miller factory building standing
Four stories high—The Home of Miller Shoe Trees,
Even with a picture on the sign in case
Nobody is sure what they looked like.”
The Christian Science Reading Room is closed now,
But looks laconically at that ideal couple,
The Pemigewasset National Bank and
The Plymouth Guaranty Savings Bank
Comfortable with each other after all these years.
The steady smacking of boat bottom
Like a kettle drum
Rolling to the muted
Choral rounds of my motor,
Faithful but mindless,
Servant to my demands.
Alone and undivided,
The world nowhere in sight
My ears listening without complaint
As my eyes select a 90-degree course.
“Oh, run on,
run on, Good friend, for Fm blessed by
Neptune and shall not be
Ulysses needing an odyssey
To test my fortunes.”
But fantasy inebriates my view
PT boat twists jaggedly
Like a game-winning quarterback
Toward Japanese carrier
Impervious to shells and Ack-Ack—
Fire Starboard One!
Fire Two!
It blows apart and like
Yesterday’s touchdown we outrun
Destroyers, zig the Zeroes,
Zag the Kamikazes
Getting away and winning.
But now it’s all gone and Fm afraid
Hanging rolls of flabby gray haze
Wreck chances to see where to go
And compass becomes a god to whom
Offerings may have to be made.
Friday was spent
wondering if Joan is pregnant (she is),
renting that old vacant building,
arguing about the rent and tenant changes,
hoping the bank makes the loan,
driving too fast into Manhattan,
deciding to get Mike a stuffed toy, too.
Today Walter Sullivan
writes in the New York Times about
a “black hole” in the heavens
that swallows light and matter,
a 6,000,000,000,000-mile-long
vacuum cleaner (nonelectric),
slightly larger than those noisy
street tanks sucking in November leaves
or my kitchen sink complaining as it
drains, noisily sucking in last night’s
dishwater left there by some woozy host.
Casually, back on page 62
he says (between yawns) that the
black hole is where all the missing
matter is going, but only a fraction of
what can be seen or they know exists
period, end of article. Thanks a lot.
Come on, Mr. Sullivan,
I know where the leaves and water went.
I’m not some schoolchild who has to
accept your black answers to my white
questions, as if you know everything.
You could, Mr. Sullivan,
really tell me about the black hole
write again next Saturday
this time on page one,
especially about all the light and sound
that matters at the bottom of the
black hole, where the bottom goes and
how in the world she got pregnant.