COLD NIGHT, MAIN STREET, CAMBRIDGE

Cold night...
Main Street, Cambridge…
As I walk to my hotel after dinner,
a guy about my age, thin jacket, walking toward me—
more than a shuffle, but not much—
whiskeyed eyes, half a cigarette in hand.
Our gazes meet—mutual nods of hello.
Perhaps he sensed that I thought he would speak to me,
so he says “I’m not going to ask you for money,
but, I do want to talk.”

He said he was homeless, and that he’d been hurt.
“I’m on my way to my parents’ house south of Boston—
 it’s okay, I got money for the T—
just need someone to talk to first.
They’re gonna give me a hard time cuz of how I live,
and I’m just gonna have to take it,
cuz I need a place to stay while I get better.
I don’t want to argue and make them mad.
And, then, my mom’s gonna fix
all the foods I ate when I was growin’ up,
but, you know, I can’t eat them cooked that way anymore…
peppers bother me now,
and anything fried,
and when I say something, it’ll only upset her.”
I said “I know what you mean,”
and we talked about getting older,
and the intestinal troubles that hit you after forty,
and how our mothers just want to take care of us,
like when we were boys.
And we go along with it, but only for so long,
and then we feel like the worst goddamned sons in the world.

We shook our heads, saying what can you do?
then shook hands and told each other
we’re lucky to have mothers
who still want to cook for us.

ODE TO U.S. 1, HOWARD COUNTY, MARYLAND

Asphalt and concrete,

rutted, cracked, pot-holed, patched,

curbed and uncurbed,

planned and unplanned,

junkyards, repair shops,

used car dealers, new car dealers,

warehouses, truck stop, rail yard,

gritty bars that open at six when the night shift ends,

gas stations, liquor stores,

shopping centers, restaurants,

motels for travelers passing through,

motels for the suburban poor,

travelers’ cabins whose residents never leave,

trailer parks, apartments,

new homes, old homes,

neighborhoods.

You proclaim your presence

with a cacophony of signs,

disorderly and non-compliant.

You do not celebrate your diversity,

which arose from the dull practicality of life.

You are not sexy like I-95,

fast moving, designed for speed from city to city.

You are not beautiful like the Parkway,

stone bridges and tree-lined;

nor are you efficient like Route 29,

moving the outer suburban elites

to work and play without wasting time.

You are the step-sister—

once first, now least.

You are the old hag,

coughing and wheezing

through diesel fumed days,

from Elkridge to Laurel,

carrying the burdens.

You have no pretense to beauty;

no tree-lined verges;

no manicured medians.

You are rough-edged, ugly, and stained.

Your open spaces are empty lots

and forest tracts waiting to be bulldozed

and opened for business.

Now we are changing you,

like we changed ourselves.

We are making you orderly and neat,

sweeping away the dross,

like we swept it from elsewhere in the county.

The tide of suburban conformity

is rising over you,

parcel by parcel;

redeveloped;

standardized

commodified.

When the transformation is complete—

the removal of the old,

the decrepit,

the unwanted,

the nonconforming—

what will you be?

What will we be?

I WAS PRIEST TO YOUR CONFESSION

I was priest to your confession,

though no screen to separate us,

only the restaurant table lain

with tortillas and glasses of rioja,

over which you bared your soul

and told me that I was the object of your desire,

the source of your salvation.

You were my inquisitor,

attempting to break down

the dispassionate screen

that protects me from emotions

and feelings kept bottled and wrapped,

or, as you said, repressed.

Inquisitor and confessor,

you took me to the precipice

where I stood agape,

only to pull back

into platonic embrace.

Published in Free State Review, Issue 2, Summer 2013

Ekphrastic Poem #5: Peasant Woman Digging Up Potatoes

I've started work again on my series of poems based on Van Gogh's paintings.  "Peasant Woman Digging Up Potatoes" was one of the first poems I began drafting, but has taken quite some time to bring to fruition.  I could never quite settle on what I wanted to say in the poem, so I set it aside.  I revisited it today, following the general theme found in "The Potato Eaters"-- potatoes as "earth apples" (aardappel in Dutch; pomme de terre in French), reference to the eating of the apple in Eden, mankind's fall from Paradise, etc.  A little research indicated that potatoes need to be harvested before the first frost, otherwise they might be damaged.  Thoughts of Eden and fields led to Elysian fields and Elysium, where heroes enjoyed the afterlife, engaging in the work that brought pleasure in life.  As I thought about that, however, it occurred to me that for someone who had toiled all their life in backbreaking work, Elysium might not be a wonderful place to spend one's afterlife.

And with that, here's the poem and the painting (courtesy the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

PEASANT WOMAN DIGGING UP POTATOES

After Van Gogh’s painting of the same name

Row after row, bent to her task,

she digs into the waning light.

Before the fall, fields bathed

in sunlight and joy. Now,

engaged against the coming

frost, she toils to the harvest,

though each thrust of her spade

only brings her closer to Elysium.

TO THE LEAST SPARROW ON THE HOUSE TOP

His goodness is extended to the smallest of the workmanship of his hands;

his gracious care is to the sparrow upon the house-top.

                                      --Mildred Ratcliff, Quaker Minister

How often do we stop and look

at the dish we just washed and dried?

Savor the warmth of clothes

fresh from the dryer?

Admire the patterns made

by the vacuum on the carpet?

When pulling weeds, do we notice

the shapes of their leaves,

the thickness and length of their roots?

Do we really look at the grass

before we cut it; the greenness

of each blade; the length of each;

the way that each blade leans?

Do we see the lines and swirls

of the grain as we cut through a board?

Feel the hardness or softness

as we drive in each nail?

How often do we ignore the sparrow

for the brilliance of a cardinal?

There is goodness in our smallest work;

grace in the most mundane.