Maatstaf. Jaargang 26

[p. 11]

Stephen Dobyns More Poems

Rain Song

For Mekeel

The woods are full of men with umbrellas -
the butcher from Roy's Market, the mechanic
who fixed my car - they are looking for you.
They heard of a woman lying naked in the fields:
that was you. For days you lay in the north pasture
to encourage spring, as the sun touched your thighs,
your belly and breasts, and was at last so
disconcerted that the sky clouded over
and the president of rain took you for his wife.
You wore blue to the wedding; even the crows sang.
Now, hurrying through the trees, the black umbrellas
do not realize it is you dripping from juniper
and birch, forming puddles, then rivulets and
running downhill to the river flowing through town.
The people of Peterborough bathe in your body.
They drink glass after glass and say they feel better.
They smash their televisions and prepare to go dancing.
The fat town clerk and tax consultant, legions
of Republicans removing their clothes, baton twirlers
and firemen's band - all march naked through the street,
banging cymbals and drums as you touch them,
blowing their horns as you run down their backs,
tumbling at last into lascivious piles on this
rainy Sunday they will long remember but which you
have already forgotten as you flow down to the sea,
into the stories of sailors and promiscuous fish,
and past that small promontory where I stand,
body greased and waiting for the long swim.

[p. 12]

Song of the Drowned Boy

Three oranges on a blue plate,
black loveseat on the cropped grass:
curlicues of iron; August afternoon,
small white clouds; pond surrounded
by a ring of birch, white rowboat half up
on the shore, clothes folded in the bow;
white hand below the surface of the water -
in the distance someone is calling;
fish break the surface, ever expanding circles;
a crow caws three times and is gone.

Lady of darkness wants a fair child;
Lady of cold needs someone to warm her;
Lady of water has taken me home.

[p. 13]

The Photographs

For R.A.

Turning within him moment by
moment separate lives which
through his life he tries to
give name to or simply discover
on the street for instance when
from shop windows he is the only one
to return his glance or in early
morning as first birds describe
the day and he says may I not be
that one, not that one, or this moment
as the photographer arranges the world
around him and he turns like ducks
on a bent wheel and the camera shoots
once and once again: refugees from
the village of self, first the barefoot
those with empty hands, then the rich
each with a gold tooth, one tin spoon.

[p. 14]

Fragments

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.
His house spins faster. He holds down books,
chairs; his life and its objects fly upward,
vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.

The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.
He tries to repair it, but the memory
of death is like paste on his fingers
and certain days stick like dead flies.

A small table in the center of a plowed field,
three glass balls in the center of the table -
he covers the table with paper hands.
A single blue icicle breaks through.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky
and the sun continues as always. Now, knowing
what you know, how can you not see thin
cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air?

My friend, what can I give you or darkness
lift from you but fragments of language,
fragments of blue sky. You had three
beautiful daughters and one has died.