Water running, The influence of anxiety at the seaside with tea, The new fedora & Ballad of the solitary diner
by Todd Swift
[ poetry - april 06 ]
Water, running
Our marriage is water running
in a bathtub with no plug.
For a moment, I want to disagree,
then don't, impressed by the image:
your image, for what is, after all
only you and me. Or, me and not
enough of you. But then, language
doesn't always connect so truly
to somewhere else: fall over and across
another thing just so, neatly joining
worlds together, like difficult puzzles
working out suddenly, from new-angled
words and other meanings piling on -
like those many-layered fountains
you loved, at the gardens in Istanbul,
which in their motion are symbols of
an Islamic paradise in letterless
signs more pure than if written;
like cold champagne cascading
over wide glasses at a wedding.
The influence of anxiety at the seaside with tea
She saw the beauty of the sea and could not rival it
For lack of depth, for cut and clarity. It screened
Itself like a blue movie. It was a mandolin. Flat,
And on a continuous feed. The sea was a pool
On a
spool, a fluid, wet circuitry, a freakish
Cola, without sugar or fizz. The sea was in business
To sell waves to sand; to deliver cetaceans to nets;
The sea is a grey-green, moon-led elephant
Who always forgets. She sank into the Sargasso
Of herself, and touched a wreck. It yielded doubloons
And Maltese falcons and other encrusted valuables;
She scooped the ice-cream starfish and the jelly
Of the sperm whales, and the cardboard villainy
Of certain sharks. She slid like a shadow, a dagger
Of slim ease in a pressurised medium. She sang
Oxygen and filtered sunlight, and salty tunes.
She was overcome by Harmonium; flush poems
With quince and tea and royal-rococo references
To the world and imagination; dove, in homage;
She wrapped herself in a peacock-daubed kimono
In silken envy. How could she not be immensely
Injured by the creations of Florida and San Juan?
The ocean and its sisters set out its store of baubles,
And she bought them. She was the eye and womb
Of the stanzas that melted and ran through the town
Like rough blue-white bulls storming a seawall.
This was the first performance of the storm, the horn
Section was off. The rain pulled toads from its hat.
The new fedora
In Budapest gentlemen wear fedoras.
I do too, mine soft and black,
made from rabbit's fur.
Today, it nearly crossed the ring-road
sans my head,
lured by the wind.
I grasped the brim
and held on with my gloved hand.
I smiled, catching my father,
being him. All the long work
of figuring manhood out, responsible
and dark, suddenly lifting
like a shy clerk just given a raise.
Ballad of the solitary diner
When I eat alone, I am alone.
Thank God I have my books.
Friends? Not many.
My wife, in her tower, earning money.
A few who live in other countries
Too far to go to share a meal.
When I sit down at noon I often feel
As sad as a man having married
The moon. You cannot love well
Someone you can't share a spoon
With, be it soup or salad.
The waiter or waitress assumes
The identity of a temporary friend,
But they are busy with their errands
And soon go to other people.
Then, as my tea cools, and the day
Gets weak in the head and fails
To keep appearances up,
I put on my winter coat to pay,
Leave a pound for their trouble,
And go out the way I came in.
Thank God I have my books.
I can tell by the limited smiles
As I turn, I no longer have my looks.
It is a shame we have to eat at all,
It hurts us to have to be so open
And quiet, even as we appear social.
If I could get by on my poetry
I'd eat a page a day in my flat.
I'd stay thin, and not become fat
As all this dining out in the world
Has made me: yes, and with nothing
To show for the tedious work
Of getting it down, but one more check
And a dark walk home, through a town.
