A Selection of Poems

Robert Friend

by Robert Friend

From Shadow on the Sun (The Press of James A.Decker, Prairie City, IL, 1941)

History

What was theshadow on the sun? Looking up

we saw thesudden headlines heavy under the sky:

they moved,broke ranks, swirled, and now a wave

washed over us,engulfing the Brooklyn restaurant:

the Italianshave entered the last Ethiopian city.

Ebbed; and thequiet sunshine on the cutlery

resumed the historic pathway of itslife,

the trolley carclanged its bell, the waitress

came with theorder, the radio wept again.

When we lookedat the cold clock on the wall,

we saw it wasthe twentieth century.

From The Next Room (The Menard Press, London,1995)

History

Because hisfamily could not pay the bill,

the electricityhad been cut off,

so in theevening the boy of seventeen

had to write hispoems by candelight.

Was he writing “asan antidote to history?”

Hardly. Not even as an antidote

to familyhistory: years of Home Relief

and unclesbringing rolls in paper bags.

His mother wrungher hands, his father fled

to the warmerdarkness of woman after woman,

but he,luxuriating in the candles’

shadowy romance,went on writing.

From Shadow on the Sun (The Press
of James A.Decker, Prairie City, IL, 1941)

Unemployed

Under the roofsof houses a sullen force is sleeping,

resting itsweight on motionless rocking chairs,

on papers fallento floor, tables littered with dishes,

hairpinsdangling in hair.

And if the clockis the one thing still in motion,

it is becausesomething must go on

in a world gonedead, and people

with their wishfor living gone.

Their despair isquiet, the miserable marble,

expressing aninfinity of pain.

The man sittingthere on the sofa brooding,

will he everlift a hand again?

Will the handreach out for a comforting cigarette,

caress the womanin the cheap gingham dress?

Will she put upthe coffee, arrange her hair,

give back thetouch of love in happiness?

There are athousand thousand homes this evening

as the moonslides across the sky

where the clocktick is the only sound

to measure theirhistory by.

But the moonsaid: It is going to happen,

that room isgoing to explode and there’ll be nothing to lose.

The stars knewsmall flames everywhere

were eatingthemselves to the fuse.

From The Next Room (The Menard Press, London,1995)

Ars Poetica

The perfectparadigm

of the youngpoet –

quivering,sensitive,

painfullysincere,

and “thin enoughfor any wind

to blow him back

as far asTennyson” -*

camepassionately prepared

to argue the causeof the sonnet.

Dr. Williams waswaiting

at the San Juanhotel lobby,

and havinglistened

somewhatimpatiently

soon diagnosedthe case.

Taking the young man by the elbow

affectionately,but firmly,

he led him tothe terrace

that overlookedthe sea,

and said:

Look,

pointing to thebathers

running alongthe beach

and sporting inthe waves.

* What Irwin Shaw said about a certainyoung poet in the Brooklyn College–Yearbook of 1934.

From The Practice of Absence (Beth-ShalomPress, Israel, 1971)

The Doll

Dollmaker, snugin your house

with your shelfpiled with dolls, how can

you sleep?Yesterday in the grass

I saw, with herhead full of bran

and her eyes onedead blue stare,

a doll that achild had flung

down carelessly,running off elsewhere

with ashrieking, living tongue.

But careless ofthat neglect,

she simpered asshe lay,

still stifflycircumspect

beneath thechanging day.

And if sheblushed, it was not

anger, or shamefor that fickle child –

merely a paintedspot.

She would driveno parents wild,

whose cry was abuilt-in cry,

and not forpleasure, not for woe.

Not from thatwax thigh

would the thickblood flow.

Dollmaker, doyou not fear

that on JudgmentDay,

her limbs willbegin to stir,

her Cupid lipssay:

“He has much toanswer for,

who to satisfy his pride,

out of wax,paint, and straw,

insolently hasmade,

though with acraftsman’s art,

this body Icould not live,

perfect, withouta heart

to suffer andforgive.”

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998(The Menard Press, London, 2003)

In the Graveyard

A righteousvoice was teaching me to behave.

“Don’t you knowit is forbidden to sit on someone’s grave.”

“Well, what ifit is? It happens to be my own.

See, here is myname, and a first date cut in the stone.

So while I waitfor the second – if it’s all the same to you –

I shall sit hereas long as I can and enjoy the view.”

From Selected Poems (Tambimuttu at TheSeahorse Press, London, 1976)

The Moment

Perhaps it’smorning—and you’re waiting for a train,

or evening—onthe point of dozing off.

Although therewas no knocking at the pane,

no warningwhisper or embarrassed cough,

you know it’sthere. You’re sitting at a play

and hear asilence not quite loud enough

for you to makeout what it has to say;

you glimpse amessage on the back of leaves

when the windshakes them to your side of day.

Whatever it is that’s tugging at yoursleeve,

half of yourwish is that it wasn’t there.

Now is the timethe timeless spider weaves

out of itselfthe labyrinthine stair

that you mustclimb, no matter where it wind,

unwindingNowhere till it leads to Where,

if only you canhold on with your mind.

You do. You do.You never do. And home again,

tremble withterrible gladness to be blind.

FromSalt Gifts (The Charioteer Press,Washington, DC, 1964)

The Complicated Lover

Hewas at sixes and sevens

withall his heavens.

Takelove. Was there ever a face

(nomatter how fine) or grace

(giventhe leisure to assess)

whosedefect or excess

hewas not disappointed with?

Lovealways turned to myth,

notan ancient gleam of gold,

butbrass. And once more sold

downthe river, he turned his leaf over.

Othersassume their swans

areswans, never throw stones

whenthey who ride the flood

gobbleworms, dredge mud,

orcloud the water; but render homage

duetheir imperial plumage,

thoughdirties by fickle weathers

toless than snow-white feathers.

Nothe. Flecks of disaffection,

weaningfrom affection,

weresimple to discover.

Wasthere ever on a white hip

amole; was there a lip

drawnlike a crooked seam

hewould kiss? Roses had deafened him

tothe prayer in an armpit.

Hispassion had too much wit

tonuzzle in that grace

likeothers of the race.

No,no. He was not fond or mad;

hefound no freckle tenderly sad

tokiss over and over.

Andsupposing—a fiction—

thegoddess of perfection

layoutstretched on his bed.

True,he would wed.

Nothis the blank refusal

ofthe plump espousal.

Butafter! Not eager for boars, less simple,

hehunts the moral pimple;

notasking: Do you love me? but, why?

Whatdo I mean when I sigh?

Uncoversonly to discover

thecomplicated lover.

FromSalt Gifts (The Charioteer Press,Washington, DC, 1964)

The Hunchback

Within the houseof mirrors

amazedly he sits

and studies inthe mirrors

how well hishunchback fits.

He picks up hisbook of riddles

and tumbles hisgame of blocks.

How many tearsin an onion?

How many springsin clocks?

Flies turn tobones of amber

when the spiderspins itself,

and he sighsinto the cobwebs

and the clocksighs on the shelf.

He treads hisgrowing shadow,

and walks theendless round

along the edgeof the mirror sea

where ahunchless ghost lies drowned.

From Shadow on the Sun (The Press of James A.Decker, Prairie City, IL, 1941)

The Gift

Quietly now instraw, in harbor, in nest

breathings aregentle with sleep. Night, a great water,

washes the laststrains from the flecked sky,

washes theworld.

An ocean ofillimitable tenderness,

sea-bottomworld, green leaves, green wind,

and home asea-cave

under the wavesof time.

Now lamps arestars through water, shine

as we had wishedso long ago god’s eyes

to shine, lightup your face who wait for me each night

with the greatgift of love.

FromSalt Gifts (The Charioteer Press,Washington, DC, 1964)

In the Orchard

For Elizabeth

We sat in theCambridge orchard drinking tea.

Above, theapples rounded to a fall.

Preservingbalance, cup upon a knee,

we thought no thoughtat all,

but rumored idlywith the idle bees

deep in theheart of flowers, who triggered thus

anothergeneration’s histories.

But what was that tous?

A cheek mayflush, a heart may miss a beat.

I am not masterof such languages.

I settled backinto the rural seat,

“Another biscuit,please.”

Master or not,was she not signaling?

And was I notinterpreting her eyes?

For suddenly Ifelt it like a sting:

Why, this wasParadise!

and almostdropped my cup. Something was slithering.

Well, here wasone man it could not deceive.

I laughed—asif I hadn’t heard a thing.

And she laughed back—asif her name were Eve.

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998(The Menard Press, London, 2003)

Hatred: A Sestina

Hatred

is wanting

to hurt

and itsfulfillment

dancing

on someone’sgrave.

Because the insult was grave,

I must repay hatred with hatred,

abandon all pleasure: the dancing,

the flirting, the wallowing wantings

of every day. Howdrab their fulfillment

when compared with the pleasure to hurt.

I plan to avenge the hurt

if it takes all my life to the grave.

Revenge is the deepest fulfillment.

I shall give myself to my hatred.

No means too mean shall be wanting

when the consummation is dancing.

I dream day and night of that dancing.

His death will not save him from hurt.

There’s more than a grave he’ll be wanting

when I get to dance on his grave,

whirling in an orgy of hatred,

stamping on his slab in fulfillment.

But if I am to enjoy that fulfillment

my thoughts must be spinning and dancing

endlessly. What of myhatred’s

last rites: What shoes shall I wear to hurt

in? What tune shall Idance to? Grave

decisions. And how shall I get there? Wanting

answers to all these. What a desolation of wanting

that murders all other fulfillment.

I might as well be in my grave.

For under that frenzy of dancing

whose body’s writhing? Whose heart’s mortally hurt?

I am the corpse of my hatred.

Dare I dig a grave for that hatred,

abandon abandonment there, the terrible wanting to hurt?

Thatthought itself is fulfillment. My heart, my heart begins dancing.

From Somewhere Lower Down (The Menard Press,London, 1980)

The Plot

If only we couldsee what lies behind

A door, whatcourage then would knock? But I

Had beeninvited. The stranger had been kind.

I stood upon thethreshold with a sigh.

I stood upon thethreshold with a sigh

Knowing whatblind blood knew: that I would move in trance

When a darkmusic in the wings would cry,

Into the taleforetold, the chained steps of the dance.

The chained stepsof the dance, the story long since told,

And now themusic cries: Begin, begin.

On either sidethe door a heart grew cold.

And I mustknock. And he must let me in.

From Somewhere Lower Down (The Menard Press,London, 1980)

Seashore

Whatever growshere grows wild:

Cactus andsudden nettles in the dunes,

Boys in carelessconstellations

Scattered, orshyly fugitive.

Passive to mylook they lie

While dreamlessfish leap long bows in the sun,

And lean birdsstalk the seas

Tempting theirtongues of foam.

From After Catullus (The Beth-Shalom Press, 1997)

Out of the Closet

A closet-queen of words

who hid his meaning

in fashionable ironies

I now declare myself

in shameless clarities

and turn

all my tailored "she’s"

into naked "he’s".

From Dancing with a Tiger: Love and Sex Poems (The Beth-ShalomPress, 1990)

On the Train

As the train roars on

mile after mile after mile,

I see

not foreign fields and farms–

only your mindless smile,

the bed you lie upon,

and him–

as he locks you in his arms.

From The Next Room (TheMenard Press, London, 1995)

No Master of Languages

(In Jerusalem)

It’s difficult enough to die.

But to die in Hebrew!

That’s asking too much.

How can I

when desperatefor breath or keeling over,

both press theemergency button on my chain

and find words for “Quick,

I’m dying.”

By the time Iremember enough to say

“heart attack”or “stroke”

all will beover.

I suppose I’llhave to stick to the word I know,

the word so manywear around their neck,

Hai, Life,

and go on livingin my wretched Hebrew.

From The Next Room (The Menard Press, London,1995)

The Tray

Translated forme a long time ago,

it took me manyyears to understand

the wordsengraved on my old Arab tray:

to teach theyoung is to carve in stone;

the old –to carve in dust.

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998(The Menard Press, London, 2003)

Letter

We are lost: webegin to think it is all a farce,

We begin to weara cynical smile that we really mean,

We question themornings and afternoons and nights,

We sit in aparlor.

We drink tea andwine, we praise pure perfect poetry,

We question ourinner springs and what makes us stop and go,

We halt atstreet corners under a yellow light,

We speak of ourloss –

Which is women,which is money, which is wanting to fight,

Which is anideal and bread and a spinal support,

Something ofmagic, something to shake enervated bones

And churn paleblood.

It is time forsomething, surely to arise,

To arise andshake this dignity off us,

To shake the airtoo still with stultified

Ambitions, tocry out,

Shaking notheaven but our own stupor,

Our sickpondering: lost, lost, we are lost.

And we are,quite, and the midnight moon

Is weaving, and we

Weaving prepareour clever endings,

For we reallyshan’t emerge, shall we?

Edward andMurray and David, shall we emerge

Or perish indarkness?

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998(The Menard Press, London, 2003)

White Dream

After receivingthe relentless news

and experiencingthe terrible invasion,

I was strangelyunafraid, and even glad

as I sank intoeach day as into a soft pillow

and wafted likea child into healing sleep.

Perhaps it wassimply resignation.

I knew it asunconditional peace.

Pain, I knew,would come later.

Let it.

I turned over onmy pillow

and sank intoanother

white dream.

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998(The Menard Press, London, 2003)

The Last Year

This is the lastyear.

There will be noother,

but heartlessnature

seeminglyrelents.

Never has awinter sun

spilled so muchlight,

never have somany flowers

dared such earlybloom.

The air isbrilliant, sharp.

Never have I taken

such long, longbreaths.

From Dancing with a Tiger: Poems 1941-1998 (TheMenard Press, London, 2003)

My Cup

They tell me Iam going to die.

Why don’t I seemto care?

My cup is full.Let it spill