Jerome Rothenberg: 'The mysteries of mind laid bare in talking,' for David Antin (1932–2016)

Photograph by Charles Bernstein
Photograph by Charles Bernstein

1

 

I would also say it

speaking    would like to hear it

catapulting from my mouth

 

not like a flow of words

but a barrage of pulses

one athwart the other

 

mindful how some spirit

wracked you

who were singular in speech

 

the mysteries of mind

laid bare in talking

discovered first, then lost

 

the way all times

are lost   when no one

counts them off

 

a dream expresses it

still harder to remember

pressured to write it down

 

they wait a new device

a camera to record

the images in dreams

 

the images in memory

of days in New York

or of walks in Paris

 

linked in talk

& warm embraces

on the other coast

 

is where we come

to die    at last

the more we wander

 

conversant with the dead

companions all

stiff necked & lonely

 

when you ask me for

a discourse

still more satisfying

 

that our cheating hearts

hold back

then let it fly

 

 

2

the memories

of being young

your black hair

in the wind

 

later to be lost

like something

keys hair someone

a contingency

 

my noble forehead

that you saw

or claimed to

in the loss of yours

 

the stream of language

hard to fix

or to deflect

once lost

 

first meetings

faces also lost

like words on paper

that we shared

 

carried over time

the thoughts

of sickness

shared with all

 

like dying

thrice denied

the distance between

now & now

 

I do not see you

any longer

but know the voice

full in my mind

 

so much like mine

someone had said

imagination all

that makes it sound

 

timed to my heart

that keeps the beat

flesh sundered

turned to ash

 

imagination

only

can it be fair

to write

 

a love song

to a friend

 

3

from friend to friend

the voice comes

& the answer

that a stranger overhears

robs him of speech

 

the guest is half

oracular

nowhere he turns

or runs   caught

in a web

 

or caught between

two open doors

is right for him

the way out west

leads back to asia

 

asia leads him

into wilderness

a bitter landscape

where no friend

survives

 

no gaze or touch

so tender

those who fight

for love

once living

 

know it as a taste

sweet in the mouth

though distant

at length   at last

the friend is double

 

in your sight

but turns from you

the time to come

draws nigh

then shatters

                                   

& does the poem exist

when there is no one there

to hear it?

 

 

4

who does not dream

dreams deeper

by not dreaming

 

until the door

swings open

draws you to

sleep within

 

what forms

assailing us

the scattered dreamers

 

curtains closing

on our eyes

in frantic bursts

lights streaming

 

take the shape

of birds & stars

outlyers

 

move across the sky

the eye in love

with tentacles

in mauve & amber

 

the new year

underway

without you

 

then the rest

is dream

whether the images

arise or not

 

the screen goes blank

foretold by you

the dreamer

 

here is the death

we feared

infinite space

to every side

 

absent all light

 

5

After Wang Wei

O my friends! there is no friend.

 

at Weiching

            morning rain

                        the fine dust damped

a guest house

            green among

                        green willows

urge a friend

to drink a final

glass of wine

west of Yang Pass

            there is

                        no friend

 

 

6

except the memory

the loss   a dream

that will not stick

but comes & goes

as if we hadn’t

dreamed it

 

for which I name you

poet of the dream

in whose denial

dreams come forth

the word “desire”

foremost

 

pleasures first

a place as large

as Prospect Park

where others

feast & bathe

some sleeping

 

& the dreamer

kicks his shoes off

wades into a pool

the north branch of

an old estate

its master far away

 

then goes from room

to room in search

of shoes   as prelude

to a silent movie

buried like his life

too deep for tears

 

for which the word

the woman

throws at him

is hog (he says)

not out of shame

or fecklessness

 

but turning

subject into object

echoing the master’s

words   the world

is everything

that is the case

 

waking & dreaming

much the same

 

1.ii.2017

 

[N.B. The dream covered lightly in the final section, above, is from David Antin’s “On Narrative: The Beggar and the King,” published previously (2010) in Poems and Poetics (Jacket2). The present posting on February 1, 2017 coincides with what would have been his eighty-fifth birthday.]