(for 2 East Side poets and a friend who loved her the most)
Well, not dal sonno (i.e. dreaming as I sleep) but now that I feelingly
see it, I see
the conversations in each other's arms,
hours til dawn--
In the Village neons say she's a poet (and I'd gone in search of it once,
like a tourist, stupidly)
and can also mean pilgrim on the curb,evicted
daughter's small hand
Apt. rails rose thru pain to the South (for one) while she,
at Basho's own pool,
tossed green-blue pebbles
(she who'd felt stir great ripplets in a friend's womb)
They were bones and nerves both, & despite the green-blue & pain,
went down 2 roads, one towards
parks & stone sparkling like neon or sun,
the other moving in great curves--
At the end of their street,
not far from water--
hungry for talk
2 East Side poets
but that intensity of hers above all, not a dream--
sandy hair
and always as I am about to start up, first over the rails, always a tourist,
she flies straight to her, among the holly
swelling 'gainst her
*Title taken from a 60s song
2 comments:
con,
speaking of The City here is a true story:
"speaking of Harley's and motor=cycles...
John Cage gave me his address
over on Bank Street
and i was with Fay over on
2 nd Ave
so on a drizzly day I walked over to Bank Street
and
had to walk by an Hell's Angels club
with, maybe 24 Harley's parked in a row
by the time that I got to Cage's house
107 Bank Street I was soaking wet,,,,
I knocked on the door and Robert Duncan opened it
and said: "John's down stairs, go knock"
as Duncan was saying this... John Lennon and Yoko Ono
were coming out John said to me: "Loh" (Hello)
when I got back to Pauline's (Fay''s) I told her.
she said " you're impressed ? don't be an idiot"
The Village must've been quite a happening place (only read about by me)
My poem's a tribute to Hortensia--though of course Samperi's part of the same pain & isolation-- I shoulve gotten to know her better (when I had the chance): that's me stupidly looking up at her neon sign, like a tourist and, of course, the brilliance and talent only appreciated afterwards.
Well, she at least had one real admirer (to whom she's already appeared) who'd always spoken her uniqueness & integrity. I've always been jealous of that real affection between poets.
Post a Comment