for Barry Spacks
the last poem he wrote
to me was in pen, about tears—
indelible metaphor
*
his words like bathtub
rings on my mind, nothing
will rub them out
*
meanwhile, our flesh
is written in lead and is already
nearly erased
*
sometimes I would
curl inside his words and make
a home there
*
into my breath
he tattooed
kindness
*
sometimes his words
would curl inside me
and then explode
*
not any of these words
the right words
oh sad alphabet
Wonderful. Barry would be proud. My only thought about this one is that I’d probably try a different line arrangement, something more tight. The triplets with breaks divide it so much, and I think it would read better combined somehow. What you’ve written doesn’t seem like haiku, though it looks like it on the page. But perhaps it imitates something Barry did with his writing…
I see what you mean. Hmmmm … He would have liked asterisks, but even more he would like it to read well … Thanks for the thought …
These poems are bittersweet and beautiful, Rosemerry. Spacks is one of my favorite poets and sadly overlooked, I think. Here’s my favorite of his poems—or one of them!
THEMES ON LOVE
Grading themes on love at M.I.T.,
one-man Symposium at 3
a.m., across the court I saw a light;
another office-holder working late.
While Plato on a silver pillow rode
above the waves of pre-sophistic prose,
I jotted teacher’s notions that were not
as brave as our two lamps against the glut
of dawn. But when I clicked mine off
his too at once was gone, had been
my echo in a distant sheen
of glass; had been my own, and I
was lonely then, and wrote
these English words.
It’s as if he’d been possessed by the ghost of Edward Hopper….
Thanks again for your fine work!
I had no idea he was so well known, though I am not surprised. And I hadn’t seen this one, but it is so Barry.
Hugs to you …