Book of Longing

  Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.

  Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

  Even though she sleeps upon your satin.

  Even though she wakes you with a kiss.

  Do not say the moment was imagined.

  Do not stoop to strategies like this.

  As someone long prepared for this to happen,

  Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.

  Exquisite music. Alexandra laughing.

  Your first commitments tangible again.

  You who had the honour of her evening,

  And by that honour had your own restored –

  Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.

  Alexandra leaving with her lord.

  As someone long prepared for the occasion;

  In full command of every plan you wrecked –

  Do not choose a coward’s explanation

  that hides behind the cause and the effect.

  You who were bewildered by a meaning,

  whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed –

  Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.

  Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

  – Hydra, Greece, September 1999

  A PUERTO RICAN SONG

  ‘The Devil’s Broken Heart’

  that was the song

  and it was the Devil singing it

  and whoever heard that song

  would never be the same

  and in every heart

  of those men and women who heard

  ‘The Devil’s Broken Heart’

  the weakness weakened

  and the Christ of Love strengthened

  and people went to bed that night

  holding on to each other

  like everything else was death

  I listened to it

  with Armand and Oscar Dorente

  and Kathy Hanking

  and a lot of other people

  I’ve never seen again

  BOOGIE STREET

  A sip of wine, a cigarette,

  and then it’s time to go

  I tidied up the kitchenette.

  I tuned the old banjo.

  I’m wanted at the traffic-jam.

  They’re saving me a seat.

  I’m what I am, and what I am,

  is back on Boogie Street.

  And O my love, I still recall

  the pleasures that we knew;

  the rivers and the waterfall

  wherein I bathed with you.

  Bewildered by your beauty there

  I’d kneel to dry your feet.

  By such instructions you prepare

  a man for Boogie Street.

  So come, my friends, be not afraid.

  We are so lightly here.

  It is in love that we are made;

  in love we disappear.

  Tho’ all the maps of blood and flesh

  are posted on the door,

  there’s no one who has told us yet

  what Boogie Street is for.

  O Crown of Light, O Darkened One,

  I never thought we’d meet.

  You kiss my lips, and then it’s done:

  I’m back on Boogie Street.

  A LIMITED DEGREE

  As soon as I understood

  (even to a limited degree)

  that this is G-d’s world

  I began to lose weight

  immediately

  At this very moment

  I am wearing

  my hockey uniform

  from the Sixth Grade

  A LIFE OF ERRANDS

  If You Are Lucky

  You Will Grow Old

  And Live

  A Life Of Errands.

  You Will Discern

  What People Need

  And Provide It

  Before They Ask.

  You Will Drive Your Car

  Here And There

  Delivering And Fetching

  And Neither The Traffic

  Nor The Weather

  Will Bother You

  In The Least.

  You Will Whip Down

  The 405

  To San Diego

  To Pick Up An Acorn

  For Someone’s Proverb

  And So On And So Forth.

  In Spite Of The Ache

  In Your Heart

  About The Girl You

  Never Found

  And The Fact That

  After Years Of

  Spiritual Rigour

  You Did Not Manage

  To Enlighten Yourself

  A Certain Cheerfulness

  Will Begin To

  Arise Out Of Your Crushed

  Hopes And Intentions.

  How Thirstily

  You Embrace Your

  Next Commission:

  To Sift Through

  The Sunglasses

  At A Lost And Found

  In Las Vegas

  Just A Few Hours

  Across The Desert.

  Your Hair Is White

  You Have Breasts

  And A Gut

  Over Your Belt

  You Are No Longer A Boy,

  Or Even A Man

  But A Sense Of Gratitude

  Enlivens Every Move

  You Make.

  Yes, Sir, These Are The

  Very Gold-Rimmed Pair

  She Left In The Plastic Tray

  Beside The Dollar

  Slot Machines.

  No, Sir, I Am Not Lying.

  WISH ME LUCK

  a fresh spiderweb

  billowing

  like a spinnaker

  across the open window

  and here he is

  the little master

  sailing by

  on a thread of milk

  wish me luck

  admiral

  I haven’t finished anything

  in a long time

  MISSION

  I’ve worked at my work

  I’ve slept at my sleep

  I’ve died at my death

  And now I can leave

  Leave what is needed

  And leave what is full

  Need in the Spirit

  And need in the Hole

  Beloved, I’m yours

  As I’ve always been

  From marrow to pore

  From longing to skin

  Now that my mission

  Has come to its end:

  Pray I’m forgiven

  The life that I’ve led

  The Body I chased

  It chased me as well

  My longing’s a place

  My dying a sail

  RELIGIOUS STATUES

  After a while

  I started playing with dolls

  I loved their peaceful expressions

  They all had their places

  in a corner of Room 315

  I would say to myself:

  It doesn’t matter

  that Leonard can’t breathe

  that he is hopelessly involved

  in the panic of the situation

  I’d light a cigarette

  and a stick of Nag Champa

  Both would burn too fast

  in the draft of the ceiling fan

  Then I might say

  something like:

  Thank You

  for the terms of my life

  which make it so painlessly clear

  that I am powerless

  to do anything

  and I’d watch CNN

  the rest of the night

  but now

  from a completely different

  point of view

  one of the dolls

  WHAT DID IT

  An acquaintance told me

  that the great sage

  Nisargadatta Maharaj

  once offered him a cigarette,

  “Thank you, sir, but I don’t smoke.”

  “Don’t smoke?” said the master,

  “What’s life for?”

/>   THE CIGARETTE ISSUE

  This is beginning again

  and like the first time

  the girl’s name is Claire

  and she’s French

  But this time

  the boy’s name is Jikan

  and he’s an old man

  It’s not Greece any more

  it’s India

  the new place for unhappiness

  but this time

  the boy is not unhappy

  with his unhappiness

  and Claire also has noticed

  that the boy

  is sixty-five years old

  But what is exactly the same

  is the promise, the beauty

  and the salvation

  of cigarettes

  the little Parthenon

  of an opened pack of cigarettes

  and Mumbai, like the Athens

  of forty years ago

  is a city to smoke in

  Well, that’s enough for now

  I will be able to love her

  and also love the rest of my life

  from my experience with books

  I MISS MY MOTHER

  I want to bring her to India

  And buy her

  Gold and jewels

  I want to hear her sigh

  For the poor in the street

  And marvel

  At the unforgiving greyness

  Of the Arabian Sea

  She was right about everything

  Including my foolish guitar

  And where it got me

  She would make sense of

  The cotton flags

  The sorrows of the port

  The arches of the past

  She’d pat my little head

  And bless my dirty song

  THOUSANDS

  Out of the thousands

  who are known,

  or who want to be known

  as poets,

  maybe one or two

  are genuine

  and the rest are fakes,

  hanging around the sacred precincts

  trying to look like the real thing.

  Needless to say

  I am one of the fakes,

  and this is my story.

  MY BABY WASN’T THERE

  My Baby wasn’t there

  When I went to test Her love

  But She’ll be there today

  I pray to G-d above

  I’ll sneak a look or two

  And if I see Her melt

  I’ll know that it was true

  This feeling that I felt

  My heart is like a thorn

  Hers is like a Tree

  My heart is dry and torn

  Hers a Canopy

  I’ve been up all night

  And all I’ve got is this

  I know that it’s not right

  But nothing really is

  She’s there at Her Machine

  I’ll tiptoe down the aisle

  And if it’s meant to be

  She’ll greet me with a Smile

  Then I’ll be so happy

  I’ll live another day

  I’ll thank Her for Her Charity

  And then I’ll limp away

  DUSKO’S TAVERNA 1967

  They are still singing down at Dusko’s,

  sitting under the ancient pine tree,

  in the deep night of fixed and falling stars.

  If you go to your window you can hear them.

  It is the end of someone’s wedding,

  or perhaps a boy is leaving on a boat in the morning.

  There is a place for you at the table,

  wine for you, and apples from the mainland,

  a space in the songs for your voice.

  Throw something on,

  and whoever it is you must tell

  that you are leaving,

  tell them, or take them, but hurry:

  they have sent for you –

  the call has come –

  they will not wait forever.

  They are not even waiting now.

  UNBECOMING

  It’s unbecoming

  to find you

  in a place of entertainment

  trying to forget

  the tiny horror

  of the last million years

  Most of all

  I dislike the brave violin

  scraping against

  the side of the massacre

  as if to infer

  that the killers are weak

  and the victims will win

  It complicates the nightmare

  with a dream

  It turns the nightmare

  outside-in

  Discard the violin

  And put away your courage

  Haven’t you noticed

  how the thugs

  and the blood-drinkers

  are drawn to your courage

  It is a provocation

  in their sight

  Give it back to the rocks

  to the mud

  to that which supports the mud

  End this ugly experiment

  with the human heart

  Please do not tell me again

  about the lonely railway station

  where we undressed each other

  in a hail of apple seeds

  And this voice of ignorant

  understanding –

  experience the deep humiliation

  as the tidal silence

  refuses to affirm it

  Stand there

  in the vanity

  of your solitude

  Summon the short-lived tears

  the shallow laughter

  the comforts

  that obey your suffering

  that embrace your defeat

  Stand there

  goosefleshed and proud

  high-breasted one

  in the erotic rags

  of religion

  I sincerely hope

  we do not have to meet again

  at the next amusement

  – 1979

  THE OLD AUTOMAT ON 23RD ST.

  I wandered into the Automat

  Wearing a kind of religious hat

  The meatballs were round

  And the pancakes were flat

  I asked G-d in heaven

  To keep it like that

  – 1970

  TOO OLD

  I am too old

  to learn the names

  of the new killers

  This one here

  looks tired and attractive

  devoted, professorial

  He looks a lot like me

  when I was teaching

  a radical form of Buddhism

  to the hopelessly insane

  In the name of the old

  high magic

  he commands

  families to be burned alive

  and children mutilated

  He probably knows

  a song or two that I wrote

  All of them

  all the bloody hand bathers

  and the chewers of entrails

  and the scalp peelers

  they all danced

  to the music of the Beatles

  they worshipped Bob Dylan

  Dear friends

  there are very few of us left

  silenced

  trembling all the time

  hidden among the blood –

  stunned fanatics

  as we witness to each other

  the old atrocity

  the old obsolete atrocity

  that has driven out

  the heart’s warm appetite

  and humbled evolution

  and made a puke of prayer

  THE BEACH AT KAMINI

  The sailboats

  the silver water

  the crystals of salt

  on her eyelashes

  All the world

  sudden and shining

&nbs
p; the moment before G-d

  turned you inward

  DURING THE DAY

  I sit here

  At the window

  Waiting for you

  To come jogging past

  In your crucifix uniform

  You remind me of myself

  Perhaps (I wonder aimlessly)

  I could comfort you

  I love the furrows between your eyes

  And the ravages of anxiety

  Across your clenched expression

  You have the new face

  The coming face

  The face of no objective experience

  And you have chosen the path of muscle

  Toward your sorrow

  How private you are

  In the minds of everyone

  I salute you

  Brave spirit

  Who has swallowed so much

  And tasted so little.

  LAUGHTER IN THE PANTHEON

  I enjoyed the laughter

  old poets

  as you welcomed me

  but I won’t be staying

  here for long

  You won’t be either

  – 1985

  DEAR DIARY

  You are greater than the Bible

  And the Conference of the Birds

  And the Upanishads

  All put together

  You are more severe

  Than the Scriptures

  And Hammurabi’s Code

  More dangerous than Luther’s paper

  Nailed to the Cathedral door

  You are sweeter

  Than the Song of Songs

  Mightier by far

  Than the Epic of Gilgamesh

  And braver

  Than the Sagas of Iceland

  I bow my head in gratitude

  To the ones who give their lives

  To keep the secret

  The daily secret

  Under lock and key

  Dear Diary

  I mean no disrespect

  But you are more sublime