Sailing Alone Around the Room (5 page)

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.

Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.

And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,

time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,

or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me

recapture the serenity of last month when we picked

berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.

I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees

and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light

flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse

and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,

letting my memory rush over them like water

rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.

I was even thinking a little about the future, that place

where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,

a dance whose name we can only guess.

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,

wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hill towns.

How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,

fully grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard

and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous

domes and there is no need to memorize a succession

of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.

No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s

little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home

than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.

Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?

Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera

eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,

I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress

known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning

paper, all language barriers down,

rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone

willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.

I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal

what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.

It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself

and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off

down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

I love the sound of the bone against the plate

and the fortress-like look of it

lying before me in a moat of risotto,

the meat soft as the leg of an angel

who has lived a purely airborne existence.

And best of all, the secret marrow,

the invaded privacy of the animal

prized out with a knife and swallowed down

with cold, exhilarating wine.

I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,

a citizen tilted back on his chair,

a creature with a full stomach—

something you don’t hear much about in poetry,

that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.

You know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,

small birds searching for berries in winter.

But tonight, the lion of contentment

has placed a warm, heavy paw on my chest,

and I can only close my eyes and listen

to the drums of woe throbbing in the distance

and the sound of my wife’s laughter

on the telephone in the next room,

the woman who cooked the savory osso buco,

who pointed to show the butcher the ones she wanted.

She who talks to her faraway friend

while I linger here at the table

with a hot, companionable cup of tea,

feeling like one of the friendly natives,

a reliable guide, maybe even the chief’s favorite son.

Somewhere, a man is crawling up a rocky hillside

on bleeding knees and palms, an Irish penitent

carrying the stone of the world in his stomach;

and elsewhere people of all nations stare

at one another across a long, empty table.

But here, the candles give off their warm glow,

the same light that Shakespeare and Izaak Walton wrote by,

the light that lit and shadowed the faces of history.

Only now it plays on the blue plates,

the crumpled napkins, the crossed knife and fork.

In a while, one of us will go up to bed

and the other one will follow.

Then we will slip below the surface of the night

into miles of water, drifting down and down

to the dark, soundless bottom

until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,

below the shale and layered rock,

beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,

into the broken bones of the earth itself,

into the marrow of the only place we know.

You know the brick path in back of the house,

the one you see from the kitchen window,

the one that bends around the far end of the garden

where all the yellow primroses are?

And you know how if you leave the path

and walk up into the woods you come

to a heap of rocks, probably pushed

down during the horrors of the Ice Age,

and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now

against the light-brown fallen leaves?

And farther on, you know

the small footbridge with the broken railing

and if you go beyond that you arrive

at the bottom of that sheep’s head hill?

Well, if you start climbing, and you

might have to grab hold of a sapling

when the going gets steep,

you will eventually come to a long stone

ridge with a border of pine trees

which is as high as you can go

and a good enough place to stop.

The best time is late afternoon

when the sun strobes through

the columns of trees as you are hiking up,

and when you find an agreeable rock

to sit on, you will be able to see

the light pouring down into the woods

and breaking into the shapes and tones

of things and you will hear nothing

but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy

falling of a cone or nut through the trees,

and if this is your day you might even

spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese

driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things

how the voices of light enter the body

and begin to recite their stories

how the earth holds us painfully against

its breast made of humus and brambles

how we who will soon be gone regard

the entities that continue to return

greener than ever, spring water flowing

through a meadow and the shadows of clouds

passing over the hills and the ground

where we stand in the tremble of thought

taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.

Come knock on my door

and I will walk with you as far as the garden

with one hand on your shoulder.

I will even watch after you and not turn back

to the house until you disappear

into the crowd of maple and ash,

heading up toward the hill,

piercing the ground with your stick.

It was not the Five Mississippi Blind Boys

who lifted me off the ground

that Sunday morning

as I drove down for the paper, some oranges, and bread.

Nor was it the Dixie Hummingbirds

or the Soul Stirrers, despite their quickening name,

or even the Swan Silvertones

who inspired me to look over the commotion of trees

into the open vault of the sky.

No, it was the Sensational Nightingales

who happened to be singing on the gospel

station early that Sunday morning

and must be credited with the bumping up

of my spirit, the arousal of the mice within.

I have always loved this harmony,

like four, sometimes five trains running

side by side over a contoured landscape—

make that a shimmering, red-dirt landscape,

wildflowers growing along the silver tracks,

lace tablecloths covering the hills,

the men and women in white shirts and dresses

walking in the direction of a tall steeple.

Sunday morning in a perfect Georgia.

But I am not here to describe the sound

of the falsetto whine, sepulchral bass,

alto and tenor fitted snugly in between;

only to witness my own minor ascension

that morning as they sang, so parallel,

about the usual themes,

the garden of suffering,

the beads of blood on the forehead,

the stone before the hillside tomb,

and the ancient rolling waters

we would all have to cross some day.

God bless the Sensational Nightingales,

I thought as I turned up the volume,

God bless their families and their powder blue suits.

They are a far cry from the quiet kneeling

I was raised with,

a far, hand-clapping cry from the candles

that glowed in the alcoves

and the fixed eyes of saints staring down

from their corners.

Oh, my cap was on straight that Sunday morning

and I was fine keeping the car on the road.

No one would ever have guessed

I was being lifted into the air by nightingales,

hoisted by their beaks like a long banner

that curls across an empty blue sky,

caught up in the annunciation

of these high, most encouraging tidings.

There are many that I miss,

having sent my last one out a car window

sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded ones, of course:

after sex, the two glowing tips

now the lights of a single ship;

at the end of a long dinner

with more wine to come

and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;

or on a white beach,

holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations

of flame and gesture;

but the best were on those mornings

when I would have a little something going

in the typewriter,

the sun bright in the windows,

maybe some Berlioz on in the background.

I would go into the kitchen for coffee

and on the way back to the page,

curled in its roller,

I would light one up and feel

its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,

trailing behind me as I returned to work

little puffs of smoke,

indicators of progress,

signs of industry and thought,

the signal that told the nineteenth century

it was moving forward.

That was the best cigarette,

when I would steam into the study

full of vaporous hope

and stand there,

the big headlamp of my face

pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

Each one
is
a gift, no doubt,

mysteriously placed in your waking hand

or set upon your forehead

moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,

the ground heavy with snow

and the thick masonry of ice,

the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window

everything is in its place

but so precariously

this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,

all the days of the past stacked high

like the impossible tower of dishes

entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself

perched on the top of a tall ladder

hoping to add one more.

Just another Wednesday,

you whisper,

then holding your breath,

place this cup on yesterday’s saucer

without the slightest clink.

By the time I get myself out of bed, my wife has left

the house to take her botany final and the painter

has arrived in his van and is already painting

the columns of the front porch white and the decking gray.

It is early June, a breezy and sun-riddled Tuesday

that would quickly be forgotten were it not for my

writing these few things down as I sit here empty-headed

at the typewriter with a cup of coffee, light and sweet.

I feel like the secretary to the morning whose only

responsibility is to take down its bright, airy dictation

until it’s time to go to lunch with the other girls,

all of us ordering the cottage cheese with half a pear.

This is what stenographers do in courtrooms, too,

alert at their miniature machines taking down every word.

When there is a silence they sit still as I do, waiting

and listening, fingers resting lightly on the keys.