POEM: "Marion"

Marion

                           Lovers, if they knew how, might utter
                           strange things in night air. Since it seems
                           eveything hides us.

                           R.M. Rilke, Second Duino Elegy (Tr. Kline)


When she was a child she made faces
Whenever they took photographs

Already knowing that she was
At grave odds with the world

Hearing the loud machinery
Outside the levelling of the choir

At 12 years old reading Nietzsche
Tossing that aside for Rilke at 14

Then the Japanese Zen cases later
Other mystics social astrophysics

Not waiting around the silent library
For knowledge at the end of the world

Accidents come after painting & music
Poetry and the men came after that

I place my hand on her shoulder
She spits and shivers like a cat.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Marion & Damiel"

Marion & Damiel


Circus dreams. Is this the end?
Clumsy performance that eventually
Changed to pleasure, now slipping off
I'm going down, suddenly forgetting how
These fake wings could ever fly with art and love

How I watch her beautiful on the trapeze
Arguing with all the gravities of need
Less effort, Marion! More swing!
Today the circus Berlin is pulling down the tent
And elephants are doing tricks for themselves

O Angels of solitude and tears
Why do you all look like criminals?
How do you spend the eternal days?
Would you have me sing my song
At night alone in my little van?

There is no answer, why be desperate?
This shall go on for a very long time
Singing the epic of peace, dreaming
Like the old man, breathless, he looks
For the past and remembers Nazi flags

You're the angel. They almost lived happily
Ever after. Sensing the breezy motions
The dozens everywhere, tremor or itch
I can't even tell if you're beside me now
Hiding, utter me anything real tonight.


© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Peter Falk"

Peter Falk

                             "These people are extras...extra humans."

I.

A single tree grows out of a lake
Primordial, surrounded by fog and
Quiet water. Water as cold as it gets

Winter in Berlin. Bombs were dropped
An old man walks through a wasteland
His Potsdamer Platz still can't be found

A pre-war car is taken out for a drive
Every street has its own hard borderline
A schoolgirl waits for a john in the cold


II.

The clowns don't speak, doubles and ghosts
The clowns try on hats, ghosts and doubles
Lies, if you didn't have it, you would miss it

Charivari. A trained goat is walking a barrel
It's their last performance, free for the kids
They race into the ring to get their balloons

This one is for those who wished they were alive
This one is for all the evil places in the world
This one is for the poets. 

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Who Would Rather Not Think Anymore"

Who Would Rather Not Think Anymore


Sit in the van getting ready
The last night will be your best
A little bit afraid of the full moon
Thinking where were our angels
When the bombs were falling?

Before the story of war
It was going quite well
The days of ecstatic dance
Learning to live with animals
Before it was all paved over

Is the antiphon dirge or beatus
That plays when life is risky?
There will be a party afterwards
But first the audience applauds
The woman who fights the air

Furry ropes and tired props
And cigarette butts joining
White feathers on the water
All of it invents the story
You will keep on having

Glory is all drunken singing
There is a sorrow in angels
No doorways or corners
The set of war is suicide
Why are you crying?

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "So Many Good Things"

So Many Good Things

                                                Als das Kind Kind war...
                                                Peter Handke

I.

It is very late. A Turkish woman
Is vacuuming the empty library

Then she'll go to an all-night laundromat
And watch hope go through its cycles

When the child was a child
She lived in Room 29 next to mine
She could imagine anything


II.

Wake up with the holy armor
When it is thrown down at you
Later that day you'll pawn it for $50

Your head is still bleeding a little
But there are so many good things left

A stranger gives you your first money
To buy your very first cup of coffee

And you'll burn your mouth
Wondering about the first snow

You give a stranger exquisite directions
And wait for first bliss in a circle of sand

Compañero, compañero, they whisper 
Other wings will grow that will be valid

You will find her. You will find a home.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "It Doesn't Have To Be Perfect"

It Doesn't Have To Be Perfect

At 5 o’clock listening for the birds
They wake up and start their calling
(As if nobody again will listen)

Drive in to work, play Keith Jarrett
And there’s no one there to disagree
Driving home, AC/DC’s Highway To Hell

On Sunday you don’t go to church, instead
You go to the pharmacy “Family Planning” section
& stare too long at the inverted commas

The music in there is horrible
All mixed up with improbable fears
(You probably still love your wife a little)

A parking lot in the afternoon—
But no she says, it’s more like sunset
She throws her leg over you and sighs.


© 2011 Rob Schackne

A Philip Larkin Poem

 

High Windows


When I see a couple of kids
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.


(1974)

A Tomas Tranströmer Poem

 Alone

   
I.

One evening in February I came near to dying here.
The car skidded sideways on the ice, out
on the wrong side of the road. The approaching cars –
their lights – closed in.

My name, my girls, my job
broke free and were left silently behind
further and further away. I was anonymous
like a boy in a playground surrounded by enemies.

The approaching traffic had huge lights.
They shone on me while I pulled at the wheel
in a transparent terror that floated like egg white.
The seconds grew – there was space in them –
they grew as big as hospital buildings.

You could almost pause
and breathe out for a while
before being crushed.

Then something caught: a helping grain of sand
or a wonderful gust of wind. The car broke free
and scuttled smartly right over the road.
A post shot up and cracked – a sharp clang – it
flew away in the darkness.

Then – stillness. I sat back in my seat-belt
and saw someone coming through the whirling snow
to see what had become of me.

    

II.

I have been walking for a long time
on the frozen Östergötland fields.
I have not seen a single person.

In other parts of the world
there are people who are born, live and die
in a perpetual crowd.

To be always visible – to live
in a swarm of eyes –
a special expression must develop.
Face coated with clay.

The murmuring rises and falls
while they divide up among themselves
the sky, the shadows, the sand grains.

I must be alone
ten minutes in the morning
and ten minutes in the evening.
– Without a programme.

Everyone is queuing at everyone's door.

Many.

One.

(2011) Tr. Robin Fulton

A Norman Dubie Poem

 The Novel as Manuscript
                         — an ars poetica


I remember the death, in Russia,
of postage stamps 
like immense museum masterpieces
patchwork
wrapped in linen, tea stained,
with hemp for strapping...
these colored stamps designed for foreign places
were even printed during famine—
so when they vanished, so did the whole
Soviet system:
the Berlin Wall, tanks from Afghanistan
and Ceausescu's bride before a firing squad.

It had begun with the character of Yuri Zhivago
in a frozen wilderness, the summer house
of his dead in-laws, his 
pregnant mistress asleep
before the fireplace
with flames dancing around a broken chair, piano keys
and the gardener's long black underwear.

Lara lying there. A vulgar fat businessman
coming by sleigh to collect her for the dangers
of a near arctic escape...

But for Yuri, not that long ago, he was
with celebrity, 
a young doctor publishing a thin volume
of poems in France, he was writing
now at a cold desk
poems against all experience
and for love of a woman buried
in moth-eaten furs on the floor—

while he wrote
wolves out along the green treeline
howled at him. The author of this novel,
Boris Pasternak arranged it all. Stalin would
have liked to have killed him. But superstition kept him from it.
So, the daughter of Pasternak's mistress eventually 
is walking with a candle
through a prison basement—
she is stepping over acres of twisted corpses
hoping to locate her vanished mother...
she thinks this reminds her of edging slowly
over the crust on a very deep snow, just a child who believes 
she is about to be swallowed by the purity of it all,
like this write your new poems.



(2011)

POEM: "Spirit As Evidence Based On Non-Zero Mass"

Spirit As Evidence Based On Non-Zero Mass

How to press firm against the world

concrete pavement and harder hearts

now at the smallest threads of gravity?

On ground from which we are not free

the strains, the stops, the push, the hold

& every single thing we come across

we ask, could anything not work better?

On this day when prayers are answered

careless men do sometimes fall from Earth

who leap up like fish without grip to dance.

Tonight, generous equinox, it is for them

the inflected half-moon, herself unfolded

when all are invited to a golden exit, then

to be perfect, unbound, graceful and alone.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Waxes"

Waxes

                       for Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Except the brushes sigh
drawing in more detail
their love is a painting

when she waxes the moon
(broom is not a surfboard)
the bushes look different

he walks safe in his sleep

in the garden after midnight
you seldom read about it

when he grows weaker
her poems get stronger
the points of measurement

bag of grain, good souls
at the gravity of love
point of hope (and heaven)

the sun and sweet fields
& at night in the granary
water mixed with wine and tears.


© 2011 Rob Schackne

A Maurice Riordan Poem

 Stars And Jasmine

Each of them has been a god many times:
cat, hedgehog and – our summer interloper – the tortoise.
A perfect triangle, they can neither eat
nor marry one another.
And tonight they are gods
under the jasmine under the stars.

Already the hedgehog has scoffed the cat’s supper
and she’s walked nonplussed beside him
escaping headlong into the bushes.
Wisely now, she keeps an eye on him there,
and on the tortoise
noisily criss-crossing the gravel.

For the cat, jasmine is white
but the stars have colours.
For the hedgehog, there are no stars
only a sky of jasmine,
against which he sniffs something dark,
outlined like a bird of prey.

Wisely, the tortoise ignores both jasmine and stars.
Isn’t it enough, she says, to carry the sky on your back,
a sky that is solid, mathematical and delicately coloured –
on which someone, too, has painted
our neighbours’ address: 9a Surrey Rd.
Come September, we will post her through their letterbox.


(2011)

A Matthew Rohrer Poem

Garden of Bees 

The narcissus grows past
the towers. Eight gypsy
sisters spread their wings
in the garden. Their gold teeth
are unnerving. Every single
baby is asleep. They want
a little money and I give
them less. I'm charming and
handsome. They take my pen.
I buy the poem from the garden
of bees for one euro. A touch
on the arm. A mystery word.
The sky has two faces.
For reasons unaccountable
my hand trembles.
In Roman times if they were
horrified of bees they kept it secret.

(2011)

POEM: "A Black Hair"

A Black Hair

Lessening rain

forget it was stuck

on the window

if it’s breathing

keep it close

to the glass

burn a candle

swear don’t look

one eye closes a poem

one eye opens a poem

know things always

attach then let go.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

A Gabrielle Calvocoressi Poem

 A Word From The Fat Lady


It isn't how we look up close
so much as in dreams.

Our giant is not so tall,
our lizard boy merely flaunts

crusty skin - not his fault
they keep him in a crate

and bathe him maybe once a week.
When folks scream or clutch their hair

and poke at us and glare and speak
of how we slithered up from Hell,

it is themselves they see:
the preacher with the farmer's girls

(his bulging eyes, their chicken legs)
or the mother lurching towards the sink,

a baby quivering in her gnarled
hands. Horror is the company

you keep when shades are drawn.
Evil does not reside in cages.


(2005)

POEM: "Philippe Petit, Twin Towers, NYC, 1974"

Philippe Petit, Twin Towers, NYC, 1974

                                         
                                              (Imaginary fragment: Sept. 11)


damn these towers high off the deck
check the anchorage over and over
winds howl the quick pure moment
only the act of one God could let this go
I recite my prayers and banish hubris
the last time high in the air a small bird
flew on to my wire I stilled it waited there
while I thought no-thing no-thing nothing
till it vanished with a slight vibration


© 2008 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Shark Attack/Lines On A Beach"

Shark Attack/Lines On A Beach


I.

Are the frangipanis forever sweet?
And does the wind still whisper
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Possums clinging to their trees?
Stars come out from their shells
Like bugs crawling across the sand?


II.

Yesterday off Bunker Bay in WA
A brave young surfer was taken by a shark
Swimming today with bad indigestion
Of nylon steamer, bathers and a bracelet
With an ankh, a Hello Kitty & blood-type tag
(An emergency alert for tigers and this poem).


III.

There's a serious case for other murders
(Hear the call for drum-lines off the beaches
To mutilate & deter our brothers-at-sea)
A spot of fun, a feed, a surf, more death?
Rest easy as you can, fortunate friend
To be one at last with what you loved.



© 2011 Rob Schackne

A C.P. Cavafy Poem

Caesarion

In part to verify a date,

and in part just to pass the time,

last night I picked up a volume

of Ptolemaic inscriptions and began reading.

Those endless poems of praise and flattery

all sound the same. All the men are brilliant,

great and good, mighty benefactors;

most wise in all their undertakings.

The same for the women of the dynasty, all the Berenices

and Cleopatras, wonderful, each and every one.

When I managed to find the date in question,

I'd have put the book aside had a brief mention

of King Caesarion, an insignificant note really,

not suddenly caught my eye...

Ah, there you stood, with that vague

charm of yours. And since history has devoted

just a few lines to you, I had more freedom

to fashion you in my mind's eye...

I made you handsome, capable of deep feeling.

My art gave your face an appealing,

dreamlike beauty. In fact, I imagined you

so vividly last night, that when my lamp

went out—I let it go out on purpose—

I actually thought you had come into my room;

you were there, standing before me,

just as you would have looked in defeated Alexandria,

pale and tired, ideal in your sorrow,

still hoping for mercy from those vicious men

who kept on whispering 'too many Caesars.'

(1918) Tr. Avi Sharon

POEM: "A Dream In September"

A Dream In September


This morning I woke up, blood on
The pillow, don't know whose it was
Then we both started to explain
She was our only knowledge
We were young, we tossed our curls
Flirting with the dangerous big waves
Thirty years later now we remember
All that has happened. Yes. It does.

That time I came home afterwards
You were shuddering like the wind
But I know what you saw, the Moon
Hooked bad on the horns of the bull
That had been racing through the sky
The better part of a week. I ask you
Tossing curls, did it come your way?
You grimace again. Yes. It did.


© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "In Strong Winds"

In Strong Winds


The earthworms know the future
the birds fly away for the bombing
only much later do you pick up the pieces
holding your breath for the thousand leaves
your water in bottles in an unlighted room
you bite your own hand like a hamburger
a hurricane has come taking angry stock
flaying rivers and trees, sending roof slates
miles off in search of a field without a house
but you're going to miss the Apocalypse
now you have to eat the left-overs fast
before the moon sets and dark animals come
it's only August, the lucky month of leaders
you've just lost your job, you have $20.


© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Today The Lesson Is Fresh Air"

Today The Lesson Is Fresh Air


A 60-year-old man, and she is 23
And naturally she is very beautiful

Walking on the bridge he breathes
The air suspended between 2 peaks

She waits for each word, she presses
His hand to her ear. He doesn't say it.

Sunset seagulls play shivaree below,
One has what looks like a banana peel

Zen lessons years ago he remembers
Detachment from all that causes pain

Though desire can make a lousy poem
He will not carry her from his mind.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Why Maps Matter"

Why Maps Matter

The bugs are plaguing you

The ruts are getting deeper

You are unfolding the map

There’s a dead beast up ahead

Her giggling continues, you reach in

A brown bag for a sip of Jack D

The machine almost out of control

Not exactly because of you, but well

Damn, levity is beyond your powers

She slaps foul goo all over you

The tube says Use By 2006

And the map is nearly useless

A million insects suddenly go nuts

Their number’s been dialled at last

You swat at them hard with the map

When you get back on the sacred road

You miss your turn-off, damn it all

How far do brutal tracks go?

© 2011 Rob Schackne

POEM: "The Art Of China"

The Art Of China


WW in prison
as a punishment
the guards make him
wash his own clothes

(Never pleasure for them both)

Pavement night
there was no moon
summer impenetrable
a beggar lay beating
long summer odds
feigning sleep

To walk on, to hum
to admire the skulls

(What's that in Chinese?)

Around the clock
& inches away
they're shouting
they want you to wake up

Get back on board!

Released.

Then write again.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

A William Matthews Poem

 Office Life

Drab bickering, the empire dead and tax

reports alive, paperwork, erasure,

the grime on the philodendron leaves

since who tends everybody’s plant?

It’s the triumph of habit over appetite,

like comparing the stars to diamonds.

We make copies. We send out for food. Food

arrives. We have spats and tizzies and huffs.

Isn’t it great being grown up, having

a job? We get our work done more or less

and go home. How was it today? we’re asked

and don’t know what to say. It’s like wet soot,

like us, like what we feel: stuck on itself,

as, from here, starlight seems stuck to its star.

(from New Hope For The Dead: Uncollected Matthews, 2010)

A Jorge Luis Borges Poem

  Limits


Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.


(Tr. Alastair Reid)

POEM: "Y Por La Mañana Miraba"

Y Por La Mañana Miraba

                                   Yo soy yo y mi circunstancia
                                   José Ortega y Gasset

You think you know
the histories of a person's hand
what touched it, what it did

these hearts are leather gloves
whether pounding a kitchen table
or shooting something inattentive

of course there's a gentle side
the hands of the farmer husband
who makes paper birds for children

now the hot summer months

need trucks to carry water

and the beasts are sullen

I am I and my circumstances, he says
pick up the bullet and show me
you say it to any human heart.

© 2011 Rob Schackne

A Rosemary Nissen-Wade Poem

Quietly Surprising

(Found poem: Cryptic crossword clues)


One enters
very quietly
the final conduit
quiet knock
Len returning
with bits of broken shell
nice to come back
into quiet, first-rate court area
the French shelter
outside the open atrium
with a kind of concealed energy
the boy it brings back
makes hand signals in water surges
surprising boy dancer
a pro, he is faultless.

(2011)