he expects from a grandson
he loves to praise as only a free man can praise
but likely it’s a bill, what must be paid
in a certain period before penalties apply
and debts accrue and demands mount
and a day passes in which he fails to relish
this heaven-side of grass, neglects the glory
in birdsong! – and in men whose songs rise
so smoothly from their natures we forget
how both ease and fine form came to pass
out of a morning’s work in the low house
with green decorative siding not far from
his grave, a domicile easy to pass by without
a murmur of wonder – though the German words
under his photo leave me squinting, envious
of those who know more than I, who knew him
as a neighbour, summer visitor to Kirchstetten
on a back road bordered by willows ready to bud
from soggy forest floor with leaves faint for now
in Duino
narrow roads off the autobahn
offer tour buses no place to park
should passengers want
to see where Rilke slept
Princess della Torre e Tasso’s gilded
family portraits of past aristocrats
staring down, uncomprehending
I step onto a balcony overlooking
the Gulf of Trieste, notice no angels
though commercial oyster beds
at the mouth of the Isonzo River
provide a symmetry the poet
may have admired from his cliff path
I am thinking a trace of gravitas
might remain on this stone
balustrade he may have touched
(or pounded) and where
in three languages is written
on its limestone lip the command
not to lean over, which I heed
Apollo beams down to warm
my thoughts again, so once more
I wonder how the poet saw from here
‘wind full of cosmic space’
what remains for me white cliffs
and blue sea, curve of the gulf
and sunlight calling one wave
to appear just as another dips and
disappears without any ‘endlessly
anxious hands’ framing
what cannot so easily pass away
Nicholas Lanier, 1628, by Anton van Dyck
his long nose and wary look, cocked
right elbow, left hand casual on a rapier
poking back from the sparkle on its hilt
and the brightest mark? his wide forehead
below an abrupt line where brown curls
shine and announce pride, head’s width
of blue sky softly clouded, sun-streak burning
above a background of fake ruins
and the focus? Lanier’s lips, straight and stern
ready to sneer, yet showing beneath refinement
how many times he has been bruised
(note the hint of green at the left temple)
hairs on his red moustache curving up above
his pointed beard ready and set to quiver
he sat seven days for van Dyck, and both
clearly relished that wide swath of rich cape
tumbling down from his left and out of which
bulge his arms in red-striped fabric
such a pleasure to paint that the artist
could manage in an afternoon, highlights
of folds easy compared to the eyes some
call cold, others unarmed, the gift of art
to reflect and reveal each viewer accurately
commemorative rooms
Georg Trakl (February 3, 1887, Salzburg to November 3, 1914, Kraków)
not a word in English, yet I understand
yellowing paper holds up faded words
small books plain in design
black and white photographs
light from windows muted (a storm
is building, and later its mountain
violence breaks and drenches
my T-shirt: Salzburg, it says)
from in here I can almost see
the school he attended, still severe
and grand and yet submitting
in this city of churches, it is functional
first and only with time dignified
and perhaps saddened
that many were dead
in the short film a man’s voice
