PIGEONS
AND MEN IN TIGHT BLUE SUITS
I think the pigeons are
friendly,
Although they strut by
without a
glance;
And I think the man in the
tight
blue suit is friendly,
Although he does not smile
And hides behind his paper.
Pigeons and men in tight
blue suits
Can walk with us on shady
streets,
Sit easily at dinner with
us,
Smoke our cigarettes and
wish us
well,
If we only call to them,
Remembering that pigeons
and men
in tight blue suits
Are not to be confused,
even for
a moment,
With nightingales in
summer gardens,
Or with men who now wear
fashionable
pinstriped suits
In apartments high above
the city.
ON
MEETING
BEAUTY
from an etching by Chaim Koppelman
What shall we say of
the clear light
Curving swiftly across the
gray
skeleton of our mind,
Illuminating dusty corners,
Stirring old hopes?
And when heavy iron doors
are swung
open
To reveal a summer
landscape where
couples
Deep in conversation
Move quietly along red
brick paths,
How shall we see this?
What shall we do?
1
He sits stiffly in the
yellow room,
His arms bent at a careful
angle,
His eyes fixed on an
invisible spot
That moves as he moves.
Statue-like, he smiles,
And his teeth are white
and strong.
The sun is hot on the
angles of
his knees,
And he moves his head
slowly,
Avoiding mirrors,
Knowing he is cold,
Feeling the dark spot move
as he
moves,
Wondering if he is still
alive.
2
She runs along the rows of
benches,
Embracing each new image
that arrives,
Plump and serene in the
evening
light.
She cannot speak,
But hugs each image to her,
Smiles tearfully,
Remembers a long-forgotten
childhood
name,
And moves on quickly,
Adoring each new image
That settles itself on a
crowded
bench
And falls pleasantly
asleep.
3
With fingers intertwined,
They sit facing the high
wall,
Leaning lightly against
each other
for support.
With his free hand, he
plays with
an open book;
With her free hand, she
strokes
a furry kitten;
And both tell each other
the story
of the wall,
And praise its great
height,
And smile and kiss,
And praise each other, and
kiss
again,
Unaware that neither of
them makes
a shadow on the wall.
BECOMING
MORNING
Silver-footed I come
through the
night,
Carrying the wings of the
morning
in my cupped hand,
Holding them lightly,
warming them
Against the silver of my
breast.
For what is morning but
the trembling
against my heart,
That in a moment will leap
into
the world,
Scattering its light to
reveal
The splendor of the day
For people everywhere to
see.
THE
FUNERAL
It was a hot June day,
And a breeze made the tall
trees
Wave in friendly welcome.
Sunlight moved across
white headstones,
Around mausoleums,
Along grass, alive and
growing.
On the coffin were flowers,
White and pink,
And the breeze came and
moved them
a little
With a small, scraping
sound,
And the sun was hot on the
pink
and white flowers.
The people stood
motionless,
Bent in grief,
And a dead voice clothed
in black
prayed,
And the flowers did not
move.
The people stared into
space,
Cold and still,
And the sun shone on the
grass,
And the tall trees waved,
And the breeze came again,
And the flowers moved.
RHODA
My mother could not take in
enough air,
The doctor explained,
And so she died.
I walk to my office through crowded streets,
And pass people,
Busy with thoughts of the coming day,
Who are not aware of how wonderful it is
Just to breathe in and out.
I do not think my mother
cared enough for air.
It was not like fine fabric or rich carpets
That you could admire and bring into your home.
Only when breathing could no longer be taken for granted,
When walking across a room
Became a high act of determination,
Did she see wonder in breathing;
And caring more for air,
She came to care more for the things air has to do with.
People and objects changed for her,
Came closer,
Became more dear;
And she grew closer to herself
As she reached out to things.
I walk to my office through
sunny streets,
Thinking of my mother.
She did not care enough for truth,
Or for the beauty of mind--
Things that many moving, breathing people scoff at,
Or are uncomfortable about.
But in the two years before my mother died,
I saw that these are not matters to be clever about,
Or to be met with a dull stare of indifference.
When breathing is involved,
The true characters in the drama of self
Stir and emerge to assert themselves.
My mother never distinguished clearly
Among the characters who were herself,
But she was reconsidering and revising who she was.
And when she could no longer take in enough air,
She was more quietly real to herself
Than she had been in all the years
When the taking in of air
Was a simple, hardly-to-be-thought-of fact.
I cannot say I know who my mother was,
Or what she is,
But I think she is friendlier now to air,
And is revising still her notions
Of what it means to have to do with things.
