does that mean I can't speak their language?

At night when I dream, who is it
that whispers in my ear--
soft guiding words?

When I was a boy I would wake
from an afternoon nap
and see him rocking in his chair.

But he's not there anymore.
Not even a shadow.

I've found I'll never find answers,
only more questions to spur me on.

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.


And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.


Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.


Berkeley, 1980.


Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky

Each note in my ears
conducts an orchestra of memory
a rush of blood
from my heart to
my head
                I remember
                my summer of love
                                                  making
The­ King of Carrot Flowers in California
                                                  his stubble- cactus needles
                                                  rubbing­ my lips numb like *******
She Came in Through the Bathroom Window, in Michigan
                                                   her hair a brambled bush
                                                   tangled in my fingers
******* for the Holidays, in her bed
                                                   her body like going home
                                                   each time "the last, I swear"
Every Little Thing She Does, in her car
                                                    trips to the playground
                                                    wh­ere we explored like children
and
The Communist Daughter, who set me free
                                                     the feeling of forever
                                                     my hand in the small of her back
                                                     as we danced in our underwear
                                                     to Waltz #2
I remember lying
on blades of grass
as hot air balloons
fell into the sky
stirring her algae eyes
my mouth dry and expectant
I knew exactly why I had to leave.
The Southern State
called me nightly
when I heard the train
shouting my future.

So
I rode her to Chicago
with Tom Waits
on my smoke breaks.
From Chicago to Dallas
I wrote poems of
                              "true love"
                              "****** obsessions"
                              "surprise thoughts"
***** singing
'1. 2. 3. 4.' in Chris's guest bedroom
                                                         ­       her boyfriend calling
                                                         ­       we whispered promises
                                                        ­         of a future before
                                                          ­       we kissed goodbye.

Taut and stretched 
across
his chest, tracks deep
over his shoulder.
A year alone
 running like valleys 

down the cracks 
between his ribs.

I dreamed about your
face in a pile of teeth beneath
my bed.
I don't know if you left them there
or if I left them for you but
you still live there.