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DARK WOODS AND OTHER POEMS BY
RICHARD SELTZER
She said she feared dark woods
like those
nearby
yet knew not
why;
for dark or
light,
the substance is
the same,
the beasts are
tame;
there's naught
to fear but fancy.
And yet the fear
held tight
that only light
was right,
that even night
needed a moon.
She said the tales
that she had
heard,
when but a babe,
of monsters
lurking
in the dark,
had left a mark
upon her mind
too deep
for reason's
rubbing
to erase.
So we let fancy
have it's will,
skirted the
wood,
stayed on the
hill;
for it was May
and many a day
would pass
before the fall.
Now when I dream
that scene
returns;
and as I yearn
to enter there,
her words I hear
of dark and
light
and share her
fear
of moonless
nights
and shapeless
beasts
that feast on
minds
till bodies flee
from nightmare
woods
and leave me
here
alone, alone
in fear.
(Written May 16-20, 1965 at Brentwood School, Essex, England. Long forgotten, then found Jan. 25, 2018 in Milford, CT.)
(Answer to a prompt to write a poem on silence)
In the beginning,
was the unspoken word,
the All-Tacit One
answering Adam
in unsound bytes,
truly blank verse.
Maybe some day he'll get Eden.
(written Sept. 1, 2019, Milford, CT)
Footsteps
on the newly fallen snow
in the graveyard
lead nowhere.
Perhaps he changed his mind.
(written 2/14/2019 in Milford, CT)
The river breaks to channels,
the channels to jets of racing water
broken by rock after black rock
to droplets flying in formation
past the edge of the earth
suspended
their plummeting
jostling, joining, streaming,
and breaking again to droplets in the wind
sideways, rising, swirling
meeting other droplets
rising from the pounding depth
and drops of falling rain formed from the rising mist.
There is no shadow in this valley of death
where all is mist
and nothing is remembered,
where everything that falls must rise
and fall again
as mist
on the camera lens.
(written January 25,1998, at Victoria Falls, on the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe)
Who owns the Internet? -- No one.
Who controls the Internet? -- No one.
Where is the Internet? -- Everywhere.
Can you understand all and penetrate all with the click of a mouse?
To produce things and to make them well,
but not to sell them,
rather to give them away freely to all,
and by giving to become known and valued;
To act, but not to rely on one's own ability,
to build on the works and lessons of others,
and to let others do likewise --
this is called the Way of the Web.
The best is like water.
Water benefits all things and does not compete with them.
Water dissolves barriers.
Water reaches out and covers the earth.
This is called the Way of the Web.
(written 1995, intended as epigraph for the book The Way of the Web)
(On the occasion of the closing of Thee Coffee House, San Angelo, Texas, and the assemblage of its nostalgic friends, many of whom hadn't been around for months. November 28, 1970.)
Finnegan died,
as people do every once in a while,
so they held a funeral, an Irish funeral,
and relatives and old friends who hadn't seen him for months or years all gathered,
and it being winter, they held the picnic inside by candlelight;
and everybody had such a good time
that Grandpa promised to die next year so they could have another good time just like it,
and Grandma volunteered for the next year,
then all the aunts and uncles and cousins and third cousins and friends,
till they had two centuries all booked up,
and some pessimist in the crowd complained that he probably wouldn't live long enough for them to celebrate his funeral,
and one of the aunts complained that hers was scheduled after one of the cousins, and she wasn't going to play second fiddle to any mere cousin;
so Finnegan got up out of his coffin and told them to stop their squabbling --
they'd just open up a coffeehouse,
and every week they'd close it again,
and if people died, well, they could do it when they felt like it, in no particular order;
but everybody could get together anyway, once or twice a week,
and celebrate the funeral of the coffeehouse.
(published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 137)
I caught a glimpse of eternity
and it winked back at me
(1963)
***
A bucket needs water
A
beggar a quarter
The world needs order,
But we just keep walking
along, along
A voice needs a song
We should all get along
But we just keep walking
along, along
(1968)
it rains
it snows;
it comes
it goes.
what is "it"?
"it" grows on you
"it" happens
"it" matters
(2012)
Black Church spires
married in sunset silhouette --
Muscovite
power
of darkness --
(and no film in the camera).
[written Feb. 7, 1971 in Allston, MA; published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 138]
Beneath the pound of the rain
and the rush of the tides,
a gentle peace abides,
a weary ease.
A thrush chirps softly,
calmly through the thunder;
a worm crawls from under
the burden of earth.
It's a reverential hush:
liquid peace pours from heaven,
as God snores
in weary ease.
(written March 19, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, summer 1965; also in the Calhoun Literary magazine, May 1966; also in Colorado North Review 32/1&2; also in "Letters from the Soul" published by Poetry.com in the fall of 2002).
Weep, but weep gently.
Torrents such as this
Do but gut the ground
and wreck the young growth.
(written march 18, 1965, Brentwood School, Essex
In May the bombs blossom.
The sweet aroma of gas fills the air.
The sing-song
Mekong
May song
me
doe
ray
me lie
me down to sleep,
and pray the Lord
(what else can one
two
three
four,
right face
the press of the crowd, shouting, mad
men giving orders
on the borders of insanity,
a neutral nation
at least officially,
but everyone knows
thyself
is an archaic term
in jail
waiting for trial,
by hook or by crook,
we'll pull this impotent giant
to a hard
line on
and on and on and
onward, Christian
humility
in defense of freedom is no
situation
comedy
featuring
Nixon, Mitchell, Agnew,
and a fourth horseman of the Apocalypse
to be announced,
so stay tuned
to looney tunes,
on most of our network stations,
brought to you by,
bye
happiness
is a warm gun,
in the age of hilarious,
who cannot wash away our sins
with a flood
of tear
gas,
for there was a limited supply
of war,
one day
in May
the bombs blossom.
(written May 5, 1970 in New Haven, CT)
(written May 1971, Boston and Saratoga)
may
next spring
not be
silent
majority
of housewives use Dove
so gentle to the hands
of this callous
calley
assed
the president for mercy
and the president said, "Oh, pardon me,"
and kept his peace,
for peace is a precious thing
and shouldn't be given away lightly,
it's just common sense
input
in-
sens-
itivity
experiment
in mob psychology,
incense
to burn
baby
burn
mother
but side-burns shall not extend below the middle of the ear
and thine eyes shall see the gory
newsreel
and unreal
reeling
in this atomic age
of unfishinable
streams
of consciousness
expanding
war
or less
the same,
moralless,
insane
Six days shalt thou labor,
till the long thin week becomes a broad
and work is forgotten.
For all our Saturdays have lighted fools their way to drunken beds,
that our accidents may be fruitful and fill the earth.
So we multiply allusions and illusions
and therein clothe our works and days,
for the joy of unbuttoning,
unzipping, and pulling off
to see
what we always knew was there.
[written Jan. 29-30, 1966, New Haven, CT; published in the Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966]
Ensemble
il errait dans la rue
du brouillard dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur
dans la tête
il ne
cherchait rien partout
elle errait
dans la rue
toute seule,
perdue
du brouillard dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur
dans la tête
elle ne cherchait
rien partout
ils se sont rencontrés
ils flânent
dans les rues ensemble
clarté dedans dehors
rien que le monde dans les poches
rien que l'autre
dans la tête
ils cherchent
demain ensemble
(written Christmas 1964 in Brussels and Feb. 5, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, Essex, summer 1965 and The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966)
Translation of the above
Together
He
wandered through the streets,
alone
and lost.
fog inside and out,
nothing but his hands in his pockets,
nothing but his heart in his head.
He looked for nothing everywhere.
She wandered through the streets,
alone and lost,
fog inside and out,
nothing but her hands in her pockets,
nothing but her heart in her head.
She looked for nothing everywhere.
They met.
Now they stroll through the streets together,
clarity inside and out,
nothing but the world in their pockets,
nothing but one another in their heads.
They look for tomorrow together.
I heard a gong
and again a gong,
resounding long --
the sound of a hammer on a loose-held shield of bronze
They say the way he spoke
moved those who knew not
what he said.
He with the hammer,
me with the shield,
the short and bloodless battle left a long loud gong,
clear and strong.
The bronze still
quivers in my grasp.
(written Washington, DC, Silver Spring, MD, and on the train to Pennsylvania, March 29-31, 1966; published in Yale Literary Magazine, Jan. 1967)
Teach me a new language.
When I lean close to whisper
I don't want to use other people's words,
the whole world staring over my shoulder --
cop's flashlight in the window
of my words.
Teach me words that only we understand
alone, together,
looking
through one-way mirrors
at their world.
(written March 9, 1968, New Haven, CT. revised Jan. 25, 2018, Milford, CT)
tree leaves
its accustomed home near the ground
stretches forth
leaves
to the sun
(written Jan. 28,1971 in Brookline and Cambridge, MA)
reddish stone
or only so at sunset
on snowy sand
with gull tracks
and other markings
undecipherable
with the rosetta
stone
or only so at sunset
[written Feb. 7, 1971 in Allston, MA]
she looked so sweet
the way she crossed her feet
on the soft seat in the corner.
the flair of the curl in her hair,
of the pair of curls of the pair of girls
on the soft seat in the corner
was oh so right for such a night
so hard to resist, to desist
when they beg to be kissed,
with the flair of their hair
and the cross of their feet
on the soft seat in the corner
(written midnight July 9, 1965 in the Irish Sea between Fishguard and Cork)
black track
blue sky
the gun raised high
it's all a question of...
to soar with the shot
to the end
of the wind
to the bend
of the track
with the sun
at your back
at your side
in your eyes
with your spikes
in the ground
in the grit
in the sound
of the guy
at your back
at your side
and the dust
in your eye
in the stretch
and the fire
in your throat
at the line
as you jog
to a stop
to rest
in the cool, cool grass
it was all a question of...
(written spring 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, summer 1965; also published in The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966)
J'y suis arrive
tout a fait étranger,
je venais de Calais,
le
vent m'y poussait.
Poussière, fumée,
pierres, acier,
pavés,, chantiers,
pleine de gens, d'industrie,
peu de vent, de vie;
de beauté
il n'y avait pas,
sauf toi.
Mais tu es apparue
sur
murs, sur rues,
musées, fumée,
chantiers, acier,
je n'y vois que toi.
Quelle belle ville
qu'est Lille.
(written April 1965 in Lille; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, Essex, summer 1965)
Translation
of the above
I arrived there
completely a stranger.
I came from Calais.
The wind pushed me there.
Dust, smoke,
stone, steel,
pavement, construction sites.
Full for people and industry,
with little wind or life.
There was nothing beautiful
but you.
But you appeared
on walls and streets,
museum, smoke,
construction sites, steel.
I don’t see anything there but you.
What a beautiful city
is Lille.
C'est le moi que je vois en toi qui m'attire.
C'est le toi que tu vois
en moi quit t'attire
Au début quand on s'aime,
On se voit soi-même
Et se soi devient
Peu à peu le même.
(written
March 30, 1965, Brentwood School, Essex)
Translation of the above
You
It’s the me that I
see in you that attracts me.
It’s the you that
you see in me that attracts you.
In the beginning,
when you are falling in love
you see yourselves,
and the self that
you each see little by little
becomes the same.
I come from the land of Frost and Sandburg
The land of mountains and cities:
The land that shaped the people
And the people that reshaped the land:
A living organism,
A giant striding toward tomorrow.
I come from the new generation;
I dwell in tomorrow:
When tubes and paper shape minds
And minds reshape tubes and paper:
A maze-trapped mouse
Wondering where he started, where he's going.
(written Feb. 1, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Cyclotron, summer 1965)
In a hither, thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of horns, engines, brakes
I chanced upon Avernus in a department store.
The path indeed was easy on a downward escalator
An assembly-line inferno built to suit the population.
There in the emptiness of light-saturated air
Manufactured breezes smothered in sweaty mobs,
Mammon turned housewives into demons with magic slashes of price.
From this helter-skelter swelter the exit too was easy.
Glad to leave, yet swelled with pride, from Inferno I returned.
Here illumed from every angle, piles of bones, complex stuffed,
Lack the reassuring shadows of by-gone days.
It was just a lower circle.
In a hither thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of horns, engines, brakes,
Silently we praise and thank creators of confusion, divinities of diversion,
All sweet saviors from thought.
(written spring 1964 in Plymouth, NH; published in Flame, 1965)
on the sofa, squatting yoga-like
with protruding eyes
small empty island in seas of white
a Ben Gunn, marooned within himself
he hypnotized
or rather spoke with such contagious intensity
that all stared fixedly till the room swam
and he seemed to have a halo
for he had seen God,
or so he said,
and the way he said...
he was a Hebrew prophet
with foaming mouth and wild unworldly eyes
proclaiming the doom of Babylon and Nineveh
the curse of Israel
and a fate worse than death for the unbeliever.
he was a modern American prophet
endorsing the five-dollar God-cube,
the divine peep show
instant Zen,
the all-purpose household...
his eyes could see the essence of the soul
and speak with spirit
or so he said
and he had wandered through the city streets
staring wildly at strangers' eyes
seeing here a glimmer
there an impenetrable darkness,
stopping once to converse with a new-born infant.
he had the power...
but he couldn't see the soul without his glasses.
(written 1965, New Haven, CT)
a
free translation by Richard Seltzer
Helen,
no, not Hell, but Heaven
-ly chill you refresh my heart,
your virtue rouses my strength,
and your eye leads me whither it will.
What
happiness to suffer love pain
for that Hellenic name; sweet the sorrow,
blessed the torture, that comes
for eyes, no not eyes, but star,
yes, heavenly body of Helen.
Name
that toppled Troy, cause of my distress,
my prudent Penny and my Helen too,
who with loving care enfolds my heart.
Name
that raises me to the heights of heaven,
who'd ever thought that I'd uncover
a Penelope in that same classic lover?
(for an assignment in a translation class at U. Mass, 1971)
(inspired
by the poem "Surrender in Petersburg" by Garret Sweitzer)
"What's your favorite country?"
(Did she mean music?)
Strolling down the streets of Crime and Punishment,
her gaze arrested me.
I only had a three-month visa.
But give me credit --
love need not end.
There's always MasterCard.
(at a poetry workshop in Norwalk, CT, August 2019)
I'd rather save time
than spend it.
But no matter where I put it,
when I look for it again,
it's
gone.
(tweet, May 2020)
Your
turn,
my
turn,
turn,
turn, turn.
turn
in,
turn
out,
in
turn
intern
internal
external
eternal
iternal
iturnity.
I
turn forever.
Now that I don't
have a wife,
I take my soul for
walks to the beach,
where I read and
write
while he chases
minnows and gulls
like the
three-year-old who
once was me.
(Milford,
CT October 2020)
Poetry without metaphor.
What is
is
a vision shared,
caught me by surprise
while rocking on a porch
in New Hampshire.
Everyone lives in a different one.
so I can see yours,
and you mine.
lending each other a life
at harvest time.
(Milford, CT, 2020)
God imagined one fleeting
moment —
a butterfly fluttering above a pond at sunset.
And He created the universe —
all the past and all the future,
every galaxy, every puppy, every poem, every typo, every kiss, every snowflake,
every teardrop
to make that moment happen.
Any moment, in all its detail, would require the miracle of all of creation.
The creation of any being would require all of creation.
Perhaps there was no beginning and will be no end, and
every moment we witness the miraculous creation of everything and everyone.
The Creation of
Language
A path through the woods
or through the snow
is a creation,
a construction project,
involving many people
who never meet,
and most of whom never
realize
that they are building a
path,
like the creation of
language.
(Feb. 2, 2022. Dobbs
Ferry, NY)
You didn’t write your life.
There was no plan, no
outline.
You improvised from
day to day.
Now, looking
back,
you realize
it was a story,
and you wish
you could rewrite
it.
But for it to work,
you’d need a better
character.
(Feb. 2, 2022. Dobbs Ferry, NY)
Dela has a friend
who cannot hear.
They talk with
their hands.
They hear with
their eyes.
Dela has a friend
who cannot see.
She reads with her
fingers from books with dots that mean letters and words.
If you know and I
know,
anything can mean
yes or no —
a nod or shake of
the head,
a wink of the eye,
a wave of a flag.
If you know and I
know,
we can talk lots of
ways —
one if by land and
two if by sea,
flashes of light,
tap, tap, tap,
dot dash dot dash
dot.
There are signs
that everybody knows —
thumbs up for good
thumbs down for bad
fingers make an “O”
for “Okay”;
the sign for “safe”
and the sign of “out.”
Red means stop
and green means go
if you know and I
know.
Kisses and hugs are
signs of love.
Xs
and Os are signs of kisses and hugs.
Signs can be signs
of signs.
Dela and her dog
George talk with signs —
She waves her arm
this way and that.
He sits, he barks,
he rolls over.
George nudges her
leg and looks up at her
and Dela knows he
wants to go out.
She taught him and
he taught her
and they both
agree.
Baby brother cries
and laughs
and Mommy knows
baby’s hungry,
baby’s wet, baby’s happy.
Baby teaches Mommy
signs.
Mommy’s good at
learning baby’s signs.
Mommy hugs, Mommy
sings.
Baby knows she’s
safe, knows she’s loved.
Baby knows lots and
lots
long before baby knows words.
"Billy went to his grandma's farm
and learned lots of stuff.
Can I go to a farm, too, Mommy?"
"What did Billy learn?"
"He learned how to ride a cow
and milk a horse,
how to sew fields
and sheer chickens,
and pluck sheep,
how to billy a goat
and bill a duck
and pay attention,
how to oink pigs
and gander geese,
how to pony up
and feather down,
how to draw water
and draw people,
how to butter cups
and shuck wheat,
how to corn toes,
how to spin wheels and thread and stories,
how to slow pokes
and poke cattle,
how to lay bread
and knead eggs,
how to darn a thing
and sock it to you,
how to scare a crow
and spare a quarter,
how to climb a fish
and scale a mountain
and skin a knee,
how to knock on wood
and wish on wells,
how to ding a ling
and sing a long,
how to ditch a shovel
and crack a joke.
Billy knows everything,
and I want to know everything too."
Until he became a father
Telemachus’ life was a
journey to fatherland.
Then he realized that
finding his father
was
finding himself.
You never cross the same stream twice — Heraclitus
because
the stream changes
because
you change
because, in crossing, you change the stream
What host arrived as a guest
and killed a host of suitors
before he was guessed?
if up were down
and here were there
and now were then
and left were right
and right were wrong,
what would you do in If-aca?
If Trojans
were condoms
and Calypso were a dance
and suitors were tailors
and Penny were a coin,
what would you do in If-aca?
God was having trouble communicating with humans.
Even the best of them didn’t understand him.
So He signed up for a course in English as a Second Language.
Next He plans to try Russian, French, German, Japanese …
It would be so much easier if people learned His language.
To talk across centuries
all you need is
an
old book
with
annotations.
This edition of Homer’s Odyssey
had
notes by three readers,
distinguished
by
the ink, the boldness of the strokes, and the handwriting.
Reader Two responded to One,
and Three to One and Two,
doubling or tripling the underlining,
adding a question mark,
commenting on comments,
offering new thoughts
or taking issue,
sometimes words spilling over
to the next page and the next.
The new owner of this book stared in awe,
Then turned the pages with carefully.
The
print conveyed the Greek text of The
Odyssey
as
it was known in the days of Champollion.
Overlaid were the quill markings of Reader One
the fountain pen of Reader Two,
and the blue ballpoint pen of Three.
From their erudition and precision, they were all scholars.
They corrected typos in the printed text
and instances where the first in a series of
editors
misconstrued the handwriting he was working from,
or scribes may have miscopied manuscripts.
Sometimes
they suspected the first written version,
strayed
from the intent of the bards,
who
we call Homer,
who
reshaped earlier tellings
and
still older legends —
layer
upon layer of narrative,
transgenerational
dialogue,
giving rise to this printed text
and the
handwritten reactions of three readers.
This book was a miracle of time travel,
spanning two thousand,
maybe three thousand years,
and requiring only ink to make it so.
In the handwriting of the commentators,
holograph on top of holograph,
it conveyed not just their words and emphasis,
but also their styles
and sometimes their emotion
at a moment of puzzlement
or in the joy of discovery,
finding
unexpected meaning and consequence.
These readers were not just scholars.
They
were teachers as well,
reviewing this text repeatedly
over the course their careers.
And Two and Three,
instead
of marking the pages of newly printed editions,
chose
to write beside
those
who came before them,
who died before they were born,
whose views they sometimes revered
and sometimes differed with,
who were sometimes wordy
and sometimes left little space for further
comment.
Reader Two wrote carefully, respecting the writings of One
and not wanting to spoil them.
Reader Three, with little room to work in,
was more concise,
no doubt in awe of this book as artifact, not just
text,
made
with quality paper,
before the invention of pulp
that in a single generation could crumble to dust.
Having found this gem in a secondhand shop in Cambridge,
the new owner thought he should donate it to a
rare book library
that would recognize its worth and preserve it in
its present state
for generations to come.
No.
He couldn’t.
He mustn’t.
Rather
he should become Reader Four,
adding his strokes,
distinct and yet in harmony
with those who came before.
He chose a pen with green ink,
and when the ink ran out,
he used new ones with the same shade of green.
After a lifetime of teaching Homer,
in his will,
he left the book to a student
who, in turn, was teaching Homer.
He
recommended his successor use purple ink.
Red
would be too bold and self-assertive,
implying
previous notes wee flawed
and that this was the ultimate pedantic correction.
There
was no absolute truth,
rather a dialogue.
He willed that it go on for another generation,
knowing
that it could not last forever,
because
books too are mortal,
as
are planets
and
galaxies.
The Second Tortoise
Tortoise Two didn't win a race.
An eagle picked him up, flew high,
then dropped him to shatter his shell and make him an easy meal.
But instead of a rock, he hit the bald head of an old man.
The head cracked, but the shell did not.
Aeschylus, the tragic playwright, died in comic absurdity.
But the tortoise landed on his feet.
He had seen the world from on high,
and a great man had died that he might live.
After twenty-five hundred years,
he still walks proudly,
standing on the world,
even if he can’t understand it,
and doing so at his own pace.
Be
well.
Be long.
Be lieve.
Be gin
Be witch
Be come
Human being.
(July 17, 2022)
He bought a yellow
rose,
not for anyone in
particular.
He was alone,
and didn’t want to
be alone.
So he bought a
yellow rose;
and walking down
Main Street,
every woman over
forty who he passed
smiled at him.
Some waved.
Some greeted him as
if they knew him.
One walked up to him
and hugged him and said,
“Thank you. You
shouldn’t have.”
They walked
arm-in-arm to her house.
She put it in a vase
and cooked supper for the two of them.
They’ve been married
now for ten years.
(Milford, CT, Oct. 17, 2023
How
Many I's Am I?
Your faraway look intrigues me more than the meeting of our eyes.
Where is the place you go to when your eyes drift
and you don’t see me while looking at me?
Am I there, too?
Do you, did you see me there, though I have no memory of it?
Is there a switch that shunts us from one world to another?
Or can we be in both places or more than two at once?
How many eyes do you see with?
How many I’s am I?
Say it.
Say it better.
Then say less to prompt more.
Let readers
connect dots,
see stills as motion.
Let your text be like a lover’s glance.
Let your words wake worlds
as painters do with brush strokes.
Pause.
Don’t brush so hard.
Light strokes make haze stacks.
At close of day,
let there be twilight.
Wind-swept and trunk-tied,
voiceless, but signing,
branches sway.
How can I reply?
An eagle, perched on a mountaintop,
doesn’t need a push.
The wind it faces lifts it.
Endgame
Survival is secondary.
Birds eat so they can soar.
We came without directions,
not knowing which way truth lies
or how it does so.
Should we pray facing east?
If there is an Author,
how clever She is,
telling us nothing,
making us solve riddles on
our own,
engaging us in the stories of
our lives.
seven poems, Dobbs Ferry, November 2023
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