By the Water
for Zillah Eisenstein
We know and don’t know
each other, as neighbors do
who plan to meet one day
for lunch and talk at leisure
but never find that hour.
She puts off nothing now.
I’d watched her run
in winter by the house
crimson cap ablaze
over bare head
and she a woman with hair
worth boasting about.
Today she sits by the water
with new hair, hope
of limited life ahead
as we all have except
she’s fought a rogue gene
with chemical weapons
trained on her for decades,
raised a daughter, written
books, run a marathon.
This day in late summer
is warm enough to seek shade
for a picnic by the water.
Ducks and gulls float
brown and white on the canal
as we talk of death near the water.
Now she’s retired from fighting
death each day’s a holiday.
a picnic not postponed.
for Zillah Eisenstein
We know and don’t know
each other, as neighbors do
who plan to meet one day
for lunch and talk at leisure
but never find that hour.
She puts off nothing now.
I’d watched her run
in winter by the house
crimson cap ablaze
over bare head
and she a woman with hair
worth boasting about.
Today she sits by the water
with new hair, hope
of limited life ahead
as we all have except
she’s fought a rogue gene
with chemical weapons
trained on her for decades,
raised a daughter, written
books, run a marathon.
This day in late summer
is warm enough to seek shade
for a picnic by the water.
Ducks and gulls float
brown and white on the canal
as we talk of death near the water.
Now she’s retired from fighting
death each day’s a holiday.
a picnic not postponed.
Flood
Creeks were brown where I grew up,
slow most of the year, then rising
to burst their banks. No school buses
ran on days when the wooden bridges
shuddered against the weight of water.
Cows and sheep were marooned on islands.
My dad and I took wire-cutters
to let them into the neighbor’s paddock.
We wore gumboots and waded together
through the shallow skirts of the flood
to rescue the Jersey and the calf I’d weaned
myself. We led them to high ground,
my dad’s cigarette hanging damp
from his lip, rain soaking through
our clothes, happy doing what we did.
Creeks were brown where I grew up,
slow most of the year, then rising
to burst their banks. No school buses
ran on days when the wooden bridges
shuddered against the weight of water.
Cows and sheep were marooned on islands.
My dad and I took wire-cutters
to let them into the neighbor’s paddock.
We wore gumboots and waded together
through the shallow skirts of the flood
to rescue the Jersey and the calf I’d weaned
myself. We led them to high ground,
my dad’s cigarette hanging damp
from his lip, rain soaking through
our clothes, happy doing what we did.
Bangkok by Night
The Mekong was full of floating objects
better left unseen. In the war,
they said, bodies floated past.
I only saw dead dogs.
Boats powered by outboard motors
sewed the city together, their fumes
wrapping the river in acrid gauze.
Children swam near the landing stages;
a mad American sometimes joined them.
We farangs met near the river--
teachers, journalists, a poet who showed me
how to write in old Thai form.
The moon caught on the upturned horns
of a temple lost her magic that year,
its dust sullied by the feet of astronauts,
like a country girl in a Bangkok bar.
The Mekong was full of floating objects
better left unseen. In the war,
they said, bodies floated past.
I only saw dead dogs.
Boats powered by outboard motors
sewed the city together, their fumes
wrapping the river in acrid gauze.
Children swam near the landing stages;
a mad American sometimes joined them.
We farangs met near the river--
teachers, journalists, a poet who showed me
how to write in old Thai form.
The moon caught on the upturned horns
of a temple lost her magic that year,
its dust sullied by the feet of astronauts,
like a country girl in a Bangkok bar.
Well-water
When his mother died
in the village in Epirus
the clarinet-player went back
to sit by the body
through the long night
of laments. She was old
and he shed no tears
while the women sang.
When morning came
he went out for a cigarette
and cried like a baby.
That’s what laments do,
he told me -- the deeper you dig
the more you find,
like water in a well.
When his mother died
in the village in Epirus
the clarinet-player went back
to sit by the body
through the long night
of laments. She was old
and he shed no tears
while the women sang.
When morning came
he went out for a cigarette
and cried like a baby.
That’s what laments do,
he told me -- the deeper you dig
the more you find,
like water in a well.
The Sound of Water
Is the slurp of raked pebbles
up and down the shingle
or the swish of it rounding a rock
the sound of water or stone?
Is the clatter on tin roofs
of my childhood metal’s noise
or rain’s, a roar in the ears
water’s, or aural caverns’ echo?
Does water’s noise give him away
or does he give water away?
The pond is silent till the frog jumps in.
Is the slurp of raked pebbles
up and down the shingle
or the swish of it rounding a rock
the sound of water or stone?
Is the clatter on tin roofs
of my childhood metal’s noise
or rain’s, a roar in the ears
water’s, or aural caverns’ echo?
Does water’s noise give him away
or does he give water away?
The pond is silent till the frog jumps in.
At the Falls
When a chimpanzee hears a waterfall
in the forest his hair begins to bristle.
He charges forward, hair erect,
then begins a slow dance, swaying
from one foot to another, stamping
in the stream, picking up rocks to hurl.
If he finds a vine nearby he swings out
like a boy on a rope, into the spray.
His dance lasts ten minutes.
I know how he feels. This orgy of water
can’t be ignored: it demands a dance.
When a chimpanzee hears a waterfall
in the forest his hair begins to bristle.
He charges forward, hair erect,
then begins a slow dance, swaying
from one foot to another, stamping
in the stream, picking up rocks to hurl.
If he finds a vine nearby he swings out
like a boy on a rope, into the spray.
His dance lasts ten minutes.
I know how he feels. This orgy of water
can’t be ignored: it demands a dance.
Buried Treasure
Water old as dinosaurs
lies under the Greek earth.
Dig a well and it fills
with clear fossil water
or did until yesterday.
Now no-one drinks
The water of Argos; a thousand
wells have drained the plain
where Agamemnon’s horses grazed.
Tankers bring liquid treasure
to the Aegean islands in summer
so sweating tourists can bathe.
They don’t ask where
this treasure comes from;
content to feel its coolness
on their skin they stand,
eyes closed like Danäe
in her shower of liquid gold.
Water old as dinosaurs
lies under the Greek earth.
Dig a well and it fills
with clear fossil water
or did until yesterday.
Now no-one drinks
The water of Argos; a thousand
wells have drained the plain
where Agamemnon’s horses grazed.
Tankers bring liquid treasure
to the Aegean islands in summer
so sweating tourists can bathe.
They don’t ask where
this treasure comes from;
content to feel its coolness
on their skin they stand,
eyes closed like Danäe
in her shower of liquid gold.