Expect Delays Page 2
That song is you.
Signature Song
Bunny Berigan first recorded “I Can’t Get Started”
with a small group that included Joe Bushkin, Cozy Cole,
and Artie Shaw in 1936.
Earlier that same year, the song,
written by Ira Gershwin and Vernon Duke,
and rendered as a duet patter number by Bob Hope and Eve
Arden, made its debut on Broadway in The Ziegfeld Follies.
By 1937, when Berigan re-recorded it in a big-band setting,
“I Can’t” had become his signature song,
even though, within a few months, Billie Holiday would record
her astonishing version backed
by Lester Young and the rest of the Basie Orchestra.
Lovers for a time, Lee Wiley and Berigan began appearing
together on Wiley’s fifteen-minute CBS radio spot,
Saturday Night Swing Club, in 1936.
Berigan died from alcoholism-related causes on June 2, 1942.
Although “I Can’t Get Started” is perfectly suited to Wiley’s
deep phrasing and succinct vibrato, she recorded the ballad only
once, informally, in 1945, during a New York theater engagement.
The Spanish Civil War started in 1936 and ended in 1939
with Generalissimo Francisco Franco’s forces entering Madrid.
“I’ve settled revolutions in Spain” goes Gershwin’s lyric, just as odd.
CT Song
Breathe in.
Hold your breath.
Breathe.
When Omar Little Died
popped in the head by the kid with a handgun in
the convenience store, I was depressed for weeks.
Still am. Baltimore. The mess
people leave.
United Gitmo Bower
In Königsberg, However
Pardon the insult, move the herd
Nothing a guy can’t do, ergo study
Harder if you are found wanting
No secret there
Part conniption, enter fate
Slow bag of viscous matter on a string
Plausible entities trade robes
Bad physics squeaks by
To cater excess of air
A favorite of the colors
This side of the angels
Under low aesthetic skies
Dress Trope
Last Lines with George
from a poem painting with George Schneeman
Slow Swirl at the Edge of the Sea
Figures in trees screech;
The sun steams, the near air boggles,
Et voilà, the brooding nimbus.
Death, real death, it’s an Old World custom,
A certain semblance of knowing
What’s what, without which nothing works.
Earth’s Debit
Sea Breeze
The flesh is sad, alas! and I’ve read all the books.
To flee! Out there! I sense some birds are drunk
From reeling amid unknown foam and skies!
Nothing, no old gardens reflected in my eyes,
Will restrain this heart so immersed in the sea
O nights! nor the barren clarity of my lamp
On the blank paper, its white defense,
And not my young wife nursing her child.
I’ll leave. Steamer rocking your spars,
Weigh anchor for some exotic clime!
Ennui, unhinged by cruel hopes,
Still believes in handkerchiefs—the ultimate goodbye!
And perhaps the masts, inviting storms,
Are those wind will send keeling onto wrecks
Lost, with no masts, no masts, no fertile atoll shore . . .
But, O my heart, listen to the sailors’ song!
after Stéphane Mallarmé, Brise Marine
The Gift of the Poem
I bring you the child of Idumaean night!
Black, with pale and bloody wing, all feathers plucked,
Through glass inflamed by spices and gold,
Through frosted panes, gloomy still, alas!
Dawn threw itself onto my angelic lamp,
Palms! And when it showed its relic
To this father venturing his inimical smile,
The sterile blue solitude quaked.
O cradle with your baby girl and the innocence
Of your cold feet, receive this horrid birth;
And with a voice resonant of harpsichord and viol,
Will your withered finger press the breast
Whence in sibylline whiteness the woman flows
For lips deprived in virgin azure air?
after Stéphane Mallarmé, Don du Poème
Two Russian Poems
for Kate Sutton
Poem
Stars rushed onward. Cliffs bathed themselves in the sea.
Salt spray blinded, and tears dried up.
The bedrooms darkened. Thoughts rushed.
The Sphinx nodded to Sahara’s whispers.
Candles swam, and it seemed the blood ran cold
Inside the Colossus. Lips swelled
Into the desert’s slow blue smile.
As tides turned, night declined.
Moroccan breezes stirred the sea.
Simoon blew. Archangel snored in its snows.
Candles swam. Rough draft of “The Prophet”
Dried, and day glimmered over the Ganges.
after Boris Pasternak
The Prophet
Parched with spiritual thirst, I crossed
An endless desert sunk in gloom,
And a six-winged seraph came
To the crossroads where I stood, lost.
Fingers light as dreams he laid
Upon my lids; my eyes sprung open
And started like a wary eaglet’s.
He put his fingers to my ears
And they rang, filling with a thunderous roar:
And I heard the shuddering of the spheres,
And the proud horn of the angels’ flight,
And beasts moving under the sea,
And the heady surge of the vine;
And he pressed open my lips,
And rooted out this shameful tongue of mine,
Fluent in vanity and lies;
And with his bloody hand he slapped
Between my frozen lips the wily serpent’s sting;
And his sword split my breast;
And my pounding heart leaped up;
And a glowing livid coal he pressed
Into the hollow of the wound.
There in the desert I lay as if dead,
And the Voice called out, saying:
“Rise, Prophet, and see and hear,
And let my Will be known to all
And passing over lands and seas,
Burn their hearts with my fiery Word.”
after Alexander Pushkin (1827)
With Impunity
Light enters the retina by way of the surge
Of heavy morning traffic down Upper Market
The province, the region, the sect
The zone of last clouds in which is spotted the Final Face
Trickle in culverts beyond
—“This call ends now”—
A bird suffocates before you know it
Eurasia of the Abstract, Russian poetry edgy
And green like chambray workshirts,
Snippets in a mineshaft, so dispersed, hurtful
The Cloud of Knowing
Peri hupsous, the poetry of hype?
“From then on, I knew
I could sell people anything,”
the artist lately known as
Jeff Koons beamed,
his juvenilia success parading
baked goods door-to-door.
And for those who can’t or won’t—
it hadn’t occurred to them,
nor had “anything” ever come their way.
Anhedonia
“You must understand, it is difficult for me to die.”
“And it is easy for us to go on living?”
—Bukharin/Stalin, Plenum of the Central Committee, 1937
Or maybe the other way around;
I’ve lost the thread:
Something about Evil Days, Evil Ways,
Business as usual,
The kids, their schools
And the Infernal Machine.
Difficult it is, regardless of what
Is said or put to writing
In the end.
Say we do as we please—tacit approval
Of a faulty transcription, sentence
Taken down, in a kind of rapture.
Premises of the Solstice
Eastern sky
at morning, all
peaches and cream—
streaks
of late-night promise
athwart the dome
of heaven,
casually fulfilled.
December 21, 2010
Birthday Greetings
To you,
one of very few
good excuses
ever given
for life on Earth.
after François de La Rochefoucauld
16 ACROSTICS IN LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
For Jim & Nina
Just as you were saying your mutual “I dos” . . .
Infinitesimal bingo! ’Twas the enamored cosmos sounding off in perfect pitch:
“My loves,” I heard it humming plainly, “marriage on Earth has this huge, undeniable
‘&’ in it—the ampersand of dailiness & rapture, of wow & whoops, of piecemeal
logic & postprandial why not, so on & etcetera!”
Nuptiality’s stupendous song of pronoun life in tandem
Is yours for openers & for keeps—a music most
Notable for keen varieties of I, you, he, she & it, & thus of tension & release.
And hence ad infinitum this cosmic sing-along: “Nina—Jim—Jim & Nina, exult.”
Nina & Jim, goodnight.
August 2, 2003
One and All, but Who’s Counting
for Eleanor, on her 100th Birthday
Elaborate party favors we elevated few convene, to cheer your centenary with flare and tonic boom.
Longevity’s not for sissies—onlookers may be dazed: You say, “I hate it when they ooh & ahh because you made it across the room”—
Egregious natter we’ll have none of. Tonight we give you praise and hope you like it, O Regal Leonine, above all other Eleanors the nice- and brightest:
Aquitaine, move over! Roosevelt, get real! Duse—that ham? No big deal! As Heaven sports its nightly
New Age clusters, out steps Eleanor to set them straight. Fast-forward from Crawfordsville-on-Wabash to naughty NYC: Feckless? Not our reckless girl!
Outer Mongolia is but one place she’s been, like Angkor Wat or Moscow in the ’60s fashion whirl:
Runways sparkle, models glide, A-List Best-Dressees command couture’s front-most rows. (How’d they get there? Eleanor only knows!)
Love—a love story—I’ve heard you say, defines your life, its greater substance;
Achievements, awards, acclaim—of the World of Fashion known as the “doyenne”—mere extras your personal sky enhancing.
Me, I believe it, who should know—lucky issue of the Lambert-Berkson wedding’s true romancing.
But credit a life’s hard work enough to tell how, on the job, you make newsworthy magic: A secret Diana Vre-
Eland in the ’30s intuited over lunch: “Such an amateur!” gushed D. V. & patted an unfazed Lambert hand.
Red heels on shoes, then turbans, pants suits: a no-fuss style is personal glamour.
Ten-sixty Fifth, 11A, at home with self, far-flung family and the many friends; say it: Toujours l’amour!
Beautiful things you’ll have, though never be rich, a gypsy once predicted.
Exactly. Blue star tattooed discreetly on one slender ankle—symbol of joys you give to others, with brio unrestricted:
Refulgent, regenerative pepper jelly, “Mother Berkson’s” on the label; a tub of vodka in your killer chili!
Keepsakes for Christmas? Keep digging ’mid the wrappings in the closet! Would you like that scarf or bangle—or this pretty lavender robe? Please take it.
Seven letters in a name spells good luck, so three-times-seven triples happy days. Still countless sentiments after so much clunky rhyme have yet to have their say!
One hundred verses more or less won’t tell the story by a half—how tonight’s encircling affections intimate a cosmic trend:
Numbers are good for counting the scale of human wonder with each breath expressed—a truth I gleaned while writing birthday lines to you, dear mother—great, inspiring friend.
August 10, 2003
Triptych for Paule Anglim
1
Preternatural weather ensconces our heroine
As she gallops down to Geary
Unfettered, mounted on her flashing yellow steed!
Lord, what’s he saying? Only this: a figurative “she,” dramatic likeness
in her own hit movie, of such finesse—
Eventful Paule! elegant of manner, mind, and dress
And don’t forget the soul, the radiant extent—
No joke, no-nonsense lady—
Glory hers to distribute and enjoy
Like Keats would say, “a good old wine”
Ineluctable (don’t interrupt)
Much good it does us? Yes, it does.
2
Picture her upon my knee? Probably not! An in-
Appropriate suggestion, though seductive thought.
Unanimously, among friends, a message no way underhanded:
Love of you makes our day
Easily assimilated, from Embarcadero to the Golden Gate suspended.
As the stars show us
Nightly how the sky’s
Glow alleviates dim
Lumbering distress
In kindness you
Match them light for light.
3
Patience, Paule, while we sing your praises
Atrocious boredom you never will allow
Unless intrinsic to a favored artist’s major meanings—
Laced with razzle-dazzle concepts, raisons d’être
Enchanté, says Theory, maybe meaning something.
Ample attitude you shine on us, Chérie—the dearest truth of person,
Naturally projected, installed as grace on gallery walls.
Greatness you command, personified without half trying.
Late-night dinners are not your thing;
Invited guests know by feeling when it’s time to go:
Magnanimity damask-jacketed you teach—and a proper kiss goodnight!
January 29, 2005
For Paul Kos
Plashes of mauve across the purple sage
Action painting was never like this. In real life,
Under Western skies, a canary rocks a slender tip.
Level mystery trickster you protects and proves.
February 3, 2008
For Kate, at 26
Kentucky ogles good neighbor Tennessee,
Acting out “Dog sees God,” an old Paradigm.
Thus the Problematic Elements mix it up,
Enjoying each other’s company, big mystery thereof.
Sure, it’s a mess, too, inside out:
Under every rainbow (art)
There lurks a pot of shit (commerce)
Turning ever more egregious (politics)
On streets paved with plastic wrap (big ideas).
Not to worry, never fret—travel light, your days, beaming up the sun.
March 21, 2008
For Moses, on His Thirtieth Year
Many years of life on Earth, all yours now—
Open the door, down the street, the chute, in a qui
ck black van, accelerator
Spun under stars, sensations and the several ways they lead existence on
Eventful estuaries, gaps and swells, rooftops, rose gardens, reefs and ledges
Sites the soul well knows, needs must know more of—in ways of intimacy, say
Baffling to live, knowing more or less in time, as wild waves wipe out panic
Echoing rages form a part, to evade the darkness may be more extreme
Resolute, melodious, the stars sing out where the song insists on going
Knowing you listen, add a verse or two, to return to them the song that’s you:
Sagacious, edgy, soulful, so impressed! (And that is you: part song, part simple fact)
On your way, in love’s regard, human depth and dizzying grandeur you attain
No moment dearer than this, to cheer you living with all you know, with friends
January 23, 2006
Six for Connie
1
Confidentially, sweetness in a perfect bundle,
Overt thrill provider, peepers sparklingly divided
Neatly by a nice little nose.
Nicer still is knowing you for x more years & running. Numbers accrue
I forget them (if I didn’t care . . . but I do!) and dreams renew.
Events are charming, too. (We two go on.)
2
Collectible you should be, the multiple loveable
Over time, the whole peony, essential roomful
Nonobjective, personal pleasure, all mine, so to speak, for you
Now you see it, the nuptial thing, ours to live, the life
In years, how often repeated (reheat it!) love
Excerpted daily, encapsulated here in name.
3
Competing over who loves who more is fun.
Only two can win on that score, even if you always lag behind.
Nightly niceties are bodies abutted under sheets;
Note too that spanks are spicy.
It’s not tulip season, otherwise I’d get you some
Except I still like roses better—here are roses.
4
Clouds do not cross the sun