Jerome Rothenberg
Three Caprichos, After Goya
THE END COMES WHEN IT DOES
The young & the old
change places
& will continuing changing
in the nick of time.
Old mothers sicken,
then they die.
The end comes
when it does the reckoning
lost in the shadows
from which the mother beckons,
leans her head against
the daughter’s arm.
A swarm of mothers now,
their voices
like electric bees,
is never far from where
the hag steps forth
poor doll with winter eyes
with one last yarn
to spin. The mothers fall down
hard, encumbered
by old baggage. They have sat
all night & pared
their toe nails to the bone
& only then gone out
to snag
their daughters.
Every mother’s child is up
for sale. The streets
of Buenos Aires drag down
many a poor soul,
the old song says.
TIGHT STOCKINGS
Tight stockings
make a man’s balls swell
they say. They play
love like a game,
place a slippered foot
on a bidet & rock around
the clock. Old women
count the days,
the hours left behind,
the thrusts made
by the perfect pelvis.
Some body with a name
like yours steps
from his clothes,
a dream of women in
tight stockings
filling half his brain,
the other half
long gone.
A chair goes up in flames.
The man remains inside
a burning house,
the sand dissolving
in the pit.
He dreams about his own leg
stuffed into its silk,
the fit of which
is like a miracle
& heats him.
Few of them remember
what began it,
thinking
they were always there.
Now that his pants
are halfway down
he looks at them
with wonder,
thinks that they’re halfway
up.
ALL WHO WILL FALL
A swarm of little birds
with heads of men
& women,
this is his dream
& yours.
The mothers in the world below
hold back a laugh a fart
that dances in the air
between them. One is old
& holds a bone
between her fingers,
watches how a daughter
prongs the screaming
bird man, props him
on another’s lap,
the spittle from his mouth
against her dress.
All who will fall,
like these,
have one commitment,
it is not to you
but to the air
they ride on.
Some are angels,
some are myopic men,
the one atop the tree
a woman known for envy,
hidden thoughts,
a fountain at her source.
Adrift or flying
backwards,
theirs is the fate of sailors.
Bind them pluck them.
Those who have enough of dreams
wake every morning,
ready to be the slaves
of those who dream for pleasure,
naked & wounded,
eager like them
to kill.
from A BOOK OF CONCEALMENTS
A STEAMY PARADISE
The eye stays open,
hot as sky
a mylar covering
over their heads,
a steamy paradise.
Who knows what road to take?
A coin reflected in a glass of water
shines. Small men
start on a summer journey,
puffed eyes peering,
dressed up to beat the band,
pale voyagers.
A star called wormwood
is no star no balm’s
in Gilead
no feet that walk on fire
trust its heat.
The strangers on the beach
cry out pull back
& feel the sand
cold on their toes.
The name of one is Dr. Moto.
He is the beau of Carla,
daughter of the duke,
& beds her.
squawling,
caught under his net.
They follow
where the footprints lead,
down to the pan yards.
Poetry is not their sprach,
no more is outrage.
In a froth or frenzy
someone breaks
into the vault in which
a babe, his eyes
on fire like a doll’s,
lies slain.
THE POSSIBILITY OF METAPHOR
Time comes to a stop. The fan
beats over their heads,
pukk-pukk,
& light breaks through the window
in short bursts.
We live inside a novel.
We are friends
no longer, but the journey,
once delayed,
is ever closer, opens
like a deck of cards,
a map conecting distances,
a poster with a face
& little words
extending in a line
along its sides.
The possibility of metaphor
disturbs him.
Doors slam shut.
He is nobody’s fool
but runs beside
the men with guns
cocked for the final
shootout. Mocked
by some he takes you
for a comrade,
turns himself
into a raging bull,
The throngs who rise
against him
dwindle.
Hand in hand
the dead walk in a line,
hoping against hope,
like children.
It is enough. It
is enough.
It doesn’t last.
The false commanders
lead the charge.
The story, started
in a dream,
is winding down.
A SIMPLE HEART
Each day, another death,
their little world
shuts down,
the big deaths fill the earth.
The time is never
right, the long & short of it
converge,
diverge.
A simple heart
shines from the breast
of strangers.
Everyone comes clattering,
climbs steps,
the more they rise
the more the just man
falls. Unsung
he is the last among the least,
their brother.
From his hump
he brings forth songs
but doesn’t sing
himself.
He is the fitful mourner,
you. A face
without a man
he keeps his thoughts
from God.
His doubts run deep.
The dew drips
from his fingers,
on the perch above him
sits his secret
angel mad
with stars for eyes
& mindless,
whose nostrils breathe life
to the world below.