The Tomb of Stuart Merrill
from Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975)
It is the first soir of March They have taken the plants away. Martha Hoople wanted a big “gnossienne” hydrangea Smelling all over of Jicky for her Card party: the basement couldn’t Hold up all that wildness. The petits fours have left. Then up and spake the Major: The new conservatism is Sitting down beside you. Once when the bus slid past Place Pereire I caught the lens-cover reflection: lilacs Won’t make much difference it said. Otherwise in Paris why You never approved much of my pet remedies. I spoke once of a palliative for piles You wouldn’t try or admit to trying any other. Now we live without or rather we get along without Each other. Each of us does Live within that conundrum We don’t call living Both shut up and open. Can knowledge ever be harmful? How about a mandate? I think Of throwing myself on the mercy of the court. They are bringing the plants back One by one In the interstices of heaven, earth and today. “I have become attracted to your style. You seem to possess within your work an air of total freedom of expression and imagery, somewhat interesting and puzzling. After I read one of your poems, I’m always tempted to read and reread it. It seems that my inexperience holds me back from understanding your meanings. “I really would like to know what it is you do to ‘magnetize’ your poetry, where the curious reader, always a bit puzzled, comes back for clearer insight.” The canons are falling One by one Including “le célèbre” of Pachelbel The final movement of Franck’s sonata for piano and violin. How about a new kind of hermetic conservatism And suffering withdrawal symptoms of same? Let’s get on with it But what about the past Because it only builds up out of fragments. Each evening we walk out to see How they are coming along with the temple. There is an interest in watching how One piece is added to another. At least it isn’t horrible like Being inside a hospital and really finding out What it’s like in there. So one is tempted not to include this page In the fragment of our lives Just as its meaning is about to coagulate In the air around us: “Father!” “Son!” “Father I thought we’d lost you In the blue and buff planes of the Aegean: Now it seems you’re really back.” “Only for a while, son, only for a while.” We can go inside now.