All of Us: The Collected Poems

  Buy food, and then some.

  Go out for dinner when he feels like it.

  And it’s okay

  to order anything off the menu!

  Buy drugs when he wants.

  Buy a car. If it breaks

  down, repair it. Or else

  buy another. See that

  boat? He might buy one

  just like it. And sail it

  around the Horn, looking

  for company. He knows a girl

  in Porto Alegre who’d love

  to see him in

  his own boat, sails full,

  turn into the harbor for her.

  A fellow who could afford

  to come all this way

  to see her. Just because

  he liked the sound

  of her laughter,

  and the way she swings her hair.

  Aspens

  Imagine a young man, alone, without anyone.

  The moment a few raindrops streaked his glass

  he began to scribble.

  He lived in a tenement with mice for company.

  I loved his bravery.

  Someone else a few doors down

  played Segovia records all day.

  He never left his room, and no one could blame him.

  At night he could hear the other’s

  typewriter going, and feel comforted.

  Literature and music.

  Everyone dreaming of Spanish horsemen

  and courtyards.

  Processions. Ceremony, and

  resplendence.

  Aspen trees.

  Days of rain and high water.

  Leaves hammered into the ground finally.

  In my heart, this plot of earth

  that the storm lights.

  III

  At Least

  I want to get up early one more morning,

  before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

  I want to throw cold water on my face

  and be at my work table

  when the sky lightens and smoke

  begins to rise from the chimneys

  of the other houses.

  I want to see the waves break

  on this rocky beach, not just hear them

  break as I did all night in my sleep.

  I want to see again the ships

  that pass through the Strait from every

  seafaring country in the world —

  old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

  and the swift new cargo vessels

  painted every color under the sun

  that cut the water as they pass.

  I want to keep an eye out for them.

  And for the little boat that plies

  the water between the ships

  and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

  I want to see them take a man off the ship

  and put another up on board.

  I want to spend the day watching this happen

  and reach my own conclusions.

  I hate to seem greedy—I have so much

  to be thankful for already.

  But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

  And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

  Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

  The Grant

  It’s either this or bobcat hunting

  with my friend Morris.

  Trying to write a poem at six this

  morning, or else running

  behind the hounds with

  a rifle in my hands.

  Heart jumping in its cage.

  I’m 45 years old. No occupation.

  Imagine the luxuriousness of this life.

  Try and imagine.

  May go with him if he goes

  tomorrow. But may not.

  My Boat

  My boat is being made to order. Right now it’s about to leave

  the hands of its builders. I’ve reserved a special place

  for it down at the marina. It’s going to have plenty of room

  on it for all my friends: Richard, Bill, Chuck, Toby, Jim, Hayden,

  Gary, George, Harold, Don, Dick, Scott, Geoffrey, Jack,

  Paul, Jay, Morris, and Alfredo. All my friends! They know who

  they are.

  Tess, of course. I wouldn’t go anyplace without her.

  And Kristina, Merry, Catherine, Diane, Sally, Annick, Pat,

  Judith, Susie, Lynne, Annie, Jane, Mona.

  Doug and Amy! They’re family, but they’re also my friends,

  and they like a good time. There’s room on my boat

  for just about everyone. I’m serious about this!

  There’ll be a place on board for everyone’s stories.

  My own, but also the ones belonging to my friends.

  Short stories, and the ones that go on and on. The true

  and the made-up. The ones already finished, and the ones still

  being written.

  Poems, too! Lyric poems, and the longer, darker narratives.

  For my painter friends, paints and canvases will be on board

  my boat.

  We’ll have fried chicken, lunch meats, cheeses, rolls,

  French bread. Every good thing that my friends and I like.

  And a big basket of fruit, in case anyone wants fruit.

  In case anyone wants to say he or she ate an apple,

  or some grapes, on my boat. Whatever my friends want,

  name it, and it’ll be there. Soda pop of all kinds.

  Beer and wine, sure. No one will be denied anything, on

  my boat.

  We’ll go out into the sunny harbor and have fun, that’s the idea.

  Just have a good time all around. Not thinking

  about this or that or getting ahead or falling behind.

  Fishing poles if anyone wants to fish. The fish are out there!

  We may even go a little way down the coast, on my boat.

  But nothing dangerous, nothing too serious.

  The idea is simply to enjoy ourselves and not get scared.

  We’ll eat and drink and laugh a lot, on my boat.

  I’ve always wanted to take at least one trip like this,

  with my friends, on my boat. If we want to

  we’ll listen to Schumann on the CBC.

  But if that doesn’t work out, okay,

  we’ll switch to KRAB, The Who, and the Rolling Stones.

  Whatever makes my friends happy! Maybe everyone

  will have their own radio, on my boat. In any case,

  we’re going to have a big time. People are going to have fun,

  and do what they want to do, on my boat.

  The Poem I Didn’t Write

  Here is the poem I was going to write

  earlier, but didn’t

  because I heard you stirring.

  I was thinking again

  about that first morning in Zurich.

  How we woke up before sunrise.

  Disoriented for a minute. But going

  out onto the balcony that looked down

  over the river, and the old part of the city.

  And simply standing there, speechless.

  Nude. Watching the sky lighten.

  So thrilled and happy. As if

  we’d been put there

  just at that moment.

  Work

  FOR JOHN GARDNER, D. SEPTEMBER 14, 1982

  Love of work. The blood singing

  in that. The fine high rise

  of it into the work. A man says,

  I’m working. Or, I worked today.

  Or, I’m trying to make it work.

  Him working seven days a week.

  And being awakened in the morning

  by his young wife, his head on the typewriter.

  The fullness before work.

  The amazed understanding after.

  Fastening his helmet.

  Climbing onto his motorcy
cle

  and thinking about home.

  And work. Yes, work. The going

  to what lasts.

  In the Year 2020

  Which of us will be left then —

  old, dazed, unclear —

  but willing to talk about our dead friends?

  Talk and talk, like an old faucet leaking.

  So that the young ones,

  respectful, touchingly curious,

  will find themselves stirred

  by the recollections.

  By the very mention of this name

  or that name, and what we did together.

  (As we were respectful, but curious

  and excited, to hear someone tell

  about the illustrious dead ahead of us.)

  Of which of us will they say

  to their friends,

  he knew so and so! He was friends with_____

  and they spent time together.

  He was at that big party.

  Everyone was there. They celebrated

  and danced until dawn. They put their arms

  around each other and danced

  until the sun came up.

  Now they’re all gone.

  Of which of us will it be said —

  he knew them? Shook hands with them

  and embraced them, stayed overnight

  in their warm houses. Loved them!

  Friends, I do love you, it’s true.

  And I hope I’m lucky enough, privileged enough,

  to live on and bear witness.

  Believe me, I’ll say only the most

  glorious things about you and our time here!

  For the survivor there has to be something

  to look forward to. Growing old,

  losing everything and everybody.

  The Juggler at Heaven’s Gate

  FOR MICHAEL CIMINO

  Behind the dirty table where Kristofferson is having

  breakfast, there’s a window that looks onto a nineteenth-century

  street in Sweetwater, Wyoming. A juggler

  is at work out there, wearing a top hat and a frock coat,

  a little reed of a fellow keeping three sticks

  in the air. Think about this for a minute.

  This juggler. This amazing act of the mind and hands.

  A man who juggles for a living.

  Everyone in his time has known a star,

  or a gunfighter. Somebody, anyway, who pushes somebody

  around. But a juggler! Blue smoke hangs inside

  this awful café, and over that dirty table where two

  grownup men talk about a woman’s future. And something,

  something about the Cattlemen’s Association.

  But the eye keeps going back to that juggler.

  That tiny spectacle. At this minute, Ella’s plight

  or the fate of the emigrants

  is not nearly so important as this juggler’s exploits.

  How’d he get into the act, anyway? What’s his story?

  That’s the story I want to know. Anybody

  can wear a gun and swagger around. Or fall in love

  with somebody who loves somebody else. But to juggle

  for God’s sake! To give your life to that.

  To go with that. Juggling.

  My Daughter and Apple Pie

  She serves me a piece of it a few minutes

  out of the oven. A little steam rises

  from the slits on top. Sugar and spice —

  cinnamon—burned into the crust.

  But she’s wearing these dark glasses

  in the kitchen at ten o’clock

  in the morning—everything nice —

  as she watches me break off

  a piece, bring it to my mouth,

  and blow on it. My daughter’s kitchen,

  in winter. I fork the pie in

  and tell myself to stay out of it.

  She says she loves him. No way

  could it be worse.

  Commerce

  A swank dinner. Food truly wonderful

  and plenty of it. It was the way I always dreamed

  it would be. And it just kept coming

  while we talked about the bottom line.

  Even when we weren’t talking about it,

  it was there—in the oysters, the lamb,

  the sauces, the fine white linen, the cutlery

  and goblets. It said, Here is your life, enjoy.

  This is the poem I wanted to live to write! Then

  to come upon the spirit in a flaming dessert —

  the streaks of fire shooting up, only to drop

  back, as if exhausted.

  Driving home afterwards, my head aswim

  from overeating. What a swine! I deserve

  everything that fellow’s going to say about me.

  Falling asleep in my pants on top of the covers.

  But not before thinking about wolves,

  a sultry day in the woods.

  My life staked down in the clearing.

  When I try to turn my head to reveal

  the fleshy neck, I can’t move.

  I don’t have the energy. Let them go

  for the belly, those brother wolves

  with the burning eyes.

  To have come this far in a single night!

  But then I never knew when to stop.

  The Fishing Pole of the Drowned Man

  I didn’t want to use it at first.

  Then I thought, no, it would

  give up secrets and bring me luck —

  that’s what I needed then.

  Besides, he’d left it behind for me

  to use when he went swimming that time.

  Shortly afterwards, I met two women.

  One of them loved opera and the other

  was a drunk who’d done time

  in jail. I took up with one

  and began to drink and fight a lot.

  The way this woman could sing and carry on!

  We went straight to the bottom.

  A Walk

  I took a walk on the railroad track.

  Followed that for a while

  and got off at the country graveyard

  where a man sleeps between

  two wives. Emily van der Zee,

  Loving Wife and Mother,

  is at John van der Zee’s right.

  Mary, the second Mrs van der Zee,

  also a Loving Wife, to his left.

  First Emily went, then Mary.

  After a few years, the old fellow himself.

  Eleven children came from these unions.

  And they, too, would all have to be dead now.

  This is a quiet place. As good a place as any

  to break my walk, sit, and provide against

  my own death, which comes on.

  But I don’t understand, and I don’t understand.

  All I know about this fine, sweaty life,

  my own or anyone else’s,

  is that in a little while I’ll rise up

  and leave this astonishing place

  that gives shelter to dead people. This graveyard.

  And go. Walking first on one rail

  and then the other.

  My Dad’s Wallet

  Long before he thought of his own death,

  my dad said he wanted to lie close

  to his parents. He missed them so

  after they went away.

  He said this enough that my mother remembered,

  and I remembered. But when the breath

  left his lungs and all signs of life

  had faded, he found himself in a town

  512 miles away from where he wanted most to be.

  My dad, though. He was restless

  even in death. Even in death

  he had this one last trip to take.

  All his life he liked to wander,

  and now he had one more place to get to.

  The unde
rtaker said he’d arrange it,

  not to worry. Some poor light

  from the window fell on the dusty floor

  where we waited that afternoon

  until the man came out of the back room

  and peeled off his rubber gloves.

  He carried the smell of formaldehyde with him.

  He was a big man, this undertaker said.

  Then began to tell us why

  he liked living in this small town.

  This man who’d just opened my dad’s veins.

  How much is it going to cost? I said.

  He took out his pad and pen and began

  to write. First, the preparation charges.

  Then he figured the transportation

  of the remains at 22 cents a mile.

  But this was a round-trip for the undertaker,

  don’t forget. Plus, say, six meals

  and two nights in a motel. He figured

  some more. Add a surcharge of

  $210 for his time and trouble,

  and there you have it.

  He thought we might argue.

  There was a spot of color on

  each of his cheeks as he looked up

  from his figures. The same poor light

  fell in the same poor place on

  the dusty floor. My mother nodded

  as if she understood. But she

  hadn’t understood a word of it.

  None of it had made any sense to her,

  beginning with the time she left home

  with my dad. She only knew

  that whatever was happening

  was going to take money.

  She reached into her purse and brought up

  my dad’s wallet. The three of us

  in that little room that afternoon.

  Our breath coming and going.

  We stared at the wallet for a minute.

  Nobody said anything.

  All the life had gone out of that wallet.

  It was old and rent and soiled.

  But it was my dad’s wallet. And she opened

  it and looked inside. Drew out

  a handful of money that would go

  toward this last, most astounding, trip.

  IV

  Ask Him

  Reluctantly, my son goes with me

  through the iron gates

  of the cemetery in Montparnasse.

  “What a way to spend a day in Paris!”