Poems
THESCRIBESPACKEDCAPITALSACROSSTHEPAGE
as if they were still chiseling stone until
at last in minuscules they fixed a wedge
of space between the words and a hush fell
upon the page as if light filtered through
trees to a forest floor. It is the space
inside the vessel, said Lao-tzu,
that is its usefulness. It is the space
inside the u that gives it life. And where
the leaflets of the white ash meet the stalk,
not sessile but set a space apart, the air
moves in between them in the give and take
of interpenetration, as now nearing
the end, the poem itself comes to a clearing.
ELEGY FOR WHOM
They spoke my native tongue. I felt at home
despite the oceans I had crossed to come.
“Who do you wish to see?” I sighed for whom.
They led me down a corridor to meet
the lotus sage, disciples at his feet.
So many weeks we chanted the mystic om.
“Who will you travel with?” Now it was time
to go. He vouched for him and they for them,
but who was there to say a word for whom?
The flight attendant handed out a list
titled “Who To Call,” and someone hissed,
“Shouldn’t that be whom?” She sputtered, “Um . . .”
How clear it was that throat and mouth could frame
om and him and um and them with vim,
but when it came to whom, the word was mum.
Brain branches that had been the habitat
where whom could flit had all been leveled flat.
I raised a cry. My seatmate murmured, “Hmmm.”
At home I climbed up to my windowed room,
fearing our warbler word was now but dream.
All day I sat and sang a hymn to whom.
ATLANTIC MACKEREL
The back of the mackerel gleams
green-blue to steel-blue with stripes
running down to the silver belly,
all iridescent and not scaly
to eye or hand. I have a theory
or two about that beauty.
First: that the striped pattern mimes
the waves as the fish swims.
Or else that underseas perhaps
an Oriental master dips
his brush in ink and writes a poem
on that smooth back as if it were a scroll.
And I would gladly school
with mackerel to read that poem
and fathom that open ocean home.
THE COSTUME DESIGNER AS STUDENT
Ladislas Czettel at the Debschitz School, Munich, 1910
I haunt the galleries to see the clothes:
a pharaoh naked from neck to navel
wears only a kilt in his striding pose,
his queen a sheath that heat cannot dishevel—
so thin and snug her mound of Venus shows.
For sheer simplicity they have no rival.
I guess Fourth Dynasty as I exalt
to see white linen carved in black basalt.
Half the Greek statues are completely nude!
I might as well be in my drawing class
behind an easel with my eyes glued
to our model's perfect hour-glass
of creamy flesh. Believe me, I'm no prude,
but all I longed to do was draw a dress
over her shape to add some interest—
some decoration, inspiration, zest!
And so I did: a peplos—pure illusion!—
a gown and blouse from just a tube of cloth
folded over, pinned at top—instant fashion!—
with a cord around the waist to gather both.
I braced for censure at my emendation.
"Czettel, you'll never be accused of sloth,"
the teacher said (no change in his demeanor).
"I see Aphrodite has become Athena."
Exactly! What you wear tells who you are
and where and when. A dragon robe in golden
yellow silk befits an emperor,
especially embroidered to embolden
him alone, and horsehoof cuffs declare
it Qing. To this the court remains beholden.
A robe may hide your body, yet it will
reveal your concept of the beautiful.
That's what's so intriguing about the Tang
funerary figurines aglow
in their three-color glaze. Isn't a long
green streak on an amber skirt (or cream) a flaw?
The potters clearly loved what looks so wrong!
I catch their spirit and dream about a show
with court ladies, singers, dancers, and their ilk—
I have a yen to paint those drips on silk!
The medieval room with its millefleur blooms
holds me in thrall to a tapestry:
real mint, carnations, lilies, orchids, mums;
the gentlewomen in high-waisted V-
neck gowns; the men in doublets, hose, and plumes.
Here wealth is cloth, and cloth is pageantry:
brocade, moiré, red velvet, damask, wool—
one warp and weft to re-create them all.
And what about Rembrandt? He loves to paint
burghers and beggars in clothes that glisten:
exotic costumes or the richly quaint.
But his self-portraits in work clothes by the dozen—
is it humility or pride he meant?
As he grows older and his brushstrokes loosen,
is that a sturdy robe or a splendid gown?
I think the black beret may be a crown.
The little geometric princess looks
sweetly grand: her bodice an inverted cone,
her skirt a vast rectangular box
on which her arms rest their entire span.
Velázquez paints a bow to match her cheeks
and gives the well-dressed dwarfs around the throne
their dignity, no matter each one's lot,
some perfectly proportioned, others not.
What could be farther from the artifice
of farthingales and corsets than this pure
Empire style echoing ancient Greece?
The low-cut bosom burgeons with allure;
the cinch beneath makes it a precipice:
Gérard depicts the sheer drop to the floor—
(one color, one fabric for home and ball)
white muslin plunges like a waterfall.
I step outside into the dusk among
men and women in their long black coats,
so like the endless black when I was young
and Mother mourned my father—black gloves, black hats.
In all this bustle, not a single thing
turns my head and makes me wonder what's
that she's wearing. Oh, it will be sweet
to see my sketches walking down the street.
WORK, PRAY, AND SING
Macaye, France, 1902
Between the blackboard and the map of France
Sister Célèste embodied reverence.
Her black serge tunic almost touched the floor;
her starched white guimpe was a half moon she wore,
the two colors her habit's correlate
to her white script in chalk across black slate.
She drew a grid as an enlarged example
of crisscross in each cotton canvas sample.
"Girls, let's look closely at our cloth. The warp
threads stretch down like strings of a harp.
The horizontal threads are called the weft;
they weave through the warp from right to left,
over and under, then back. At every juncture,
see, there's a small square hole? You'll never puncture
the cloth! Just aim for that hole. That's where you'll
plunge your needle loaded with colored wool."
She paused to check that she'd been understood.
Forbidden to speak Basque in school, they could
already follow almost all she said.
The girl, alert and pert, who was a head
or two or three heads shorter than the rest
(like a ring if a bracelet were compressed),
smiled back at her. Sister Célèste could see
that she had caught her curiosity.
"The tools we need for needlepoint include
graph paper and pencil for exactitude.
To center letters you must count your squares
and leave the margins blank in equal shares.
Here are the letters for your tallying:"
Souvenir of School
Work, Pray, and Sing
She wrote the motto on the board and drew
a pot of flowers underneath with two
initials as her signature in fancy
cursive framing peony and pansy.
The girls sketched as she moved around the room,
helping to shape a letter or a bloom.
"Léonie, your A for Amestoy looks bigger
than your L," she said to a rippling snigger.
"That's A for Amuse-toi!" dared Adrienne.
"Oh ho! Your A is for A. D. Rien!"
the tiny child flung back in jest and taunt.
"Girls, no giggling, no whispering! I want
you to perfect your drawings and then pair
your paper squares to canvas holes; that's where
we'll count and stitch, count and stitch and spell.
The lines must be exactly parallel."
As the girls stitched, Sister Célèste surveyed
each student's effort and the progress made.
"Léonie, am I seeing what you mean?
First line in red and second line in green—
the Basque Country's colors! Now you just need white!"
"But, Sister, I've already cut the bright
pink yarn for my initials and to scatter
among the flowers."
"Ah, that's even better.
Like rose, it symbolizes joy," she said.
"Good work! Good even tension on your thread."
———
Good work! Something her mother would never say
if all her children slaved from break of day.
Being mother meant one thing: the boss!
They were her workers, and one was the cross
she had to bear: Léonie, who could not grow,
and no way for the village not to know
that she, Catherine née Bidegain,
had birthed a midget who'd endure the bane
of stares lifelong. Léonie was her eighth
(three infant deaths before her borne through faith),
no safer than any from her caprice:
"You are now big enough to feed the geese,"
she said one morning, handing her a pail
of corn to empty, and she dared not fail.
Flapping in a frenzy of honk and hiss,
the geese agreed she was their nemesis,
thrusting their torrid orange beaks to nip
wherever they could get her in their grip,
assaulting her till she could not defend
her legs, her arms, her hands, or her rear end!
After that, she'd unlatch their pen and run
nearer the house to have a garrison.
From there she'd call them. An uneasy peace
began to grow between them, girl and geese.
"It's time to fatten the geese for the table,"
Mother declared as winter came. "You're able
to calm them now." Fatten meant force-feed!
"Mother, please don't make me!" she begged.
"You need
to do this!" Mother said. "They're in your charge.
They may be ornery but not too large."
Léonie's sisters didn't say a word,
weighing the tasks they had themselves incurred.
But hers was worst! She had to catch each goose
and hold it as it struggled to get loose.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she cried. "Stay still
or else the pipe will bruise your throat and bill."
She sat and pulled the goose between her thighs,
a vise of muscles to immobilize
it while she gripped its neck till she could cup
its head securely in position up.
In her right hand she raised the giant funnel
topping a long pipe meant to be a tunnel
from beak to crop and eased it down its throat.
Then she poured the corn in, trying not
to push it down with her baton too fast,
caressing the long neck as the mixture passed.
Who could say which one was more accursed:
the goose that was about to burst
or she for forcing it beyond its fill,
she who hated to bend to Mother's will.
About one thing there wasn't any doubt:
like her, the goose would grow not up but out.
Christmas dawned for parishioners and priest.
At church they sang, at home they'd have a feast.
The children found an orange in their stockings,
its fragrance fresh, its color sweetly shocking.
Mother served the meal, and Father said grace,
lingering first upon each happy face:
"Jauna, eskerrak ematen dizkizugu,
Lord, we thank you. Lord, we thank you who
have given us the bounty of this food
and shelter of this house, who have renewed
our strength. We thank you for the streams and fields,
the pastures, gardens, vineyards and their yields
that you have granted for our use. . . .
And we thank Léonie for this lovely goose."