Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SURFACES AND MASKS; 9, by CLARENCE MAJOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SURFACES AND MASKS; 9, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: There he was, a boy, looking over


There he was, a boy, looking over
the canal
at the hostile area with its grandiose
structures.
It was years later
that he thought
it unnatural they locked the gates
(closing them in) at night --
prisoners in their own beds.
Why should he ever want
to go over there?
The boys threw rocks at them.
Everybody he felt safe with
wore yellow hats.
Heathen roughs wore no large Os
on their breasts.

The day before Dead Day,
we are on the ship
to Torcello -- happy,
bright and warm.
Brief and sweet.

Saw contemporary paintings
at Palazzo del Diamanti.
The one of casanova soup
suited my innocence best.
P. favored the winged crudities.
Search me!

Went back to San Erasmo
for the fiesta -- this time
it was sunny
and they had ribs.
Didn't stay for the breakdancing.

Must take the ferry
from Alberoni to Pellestrina
because
everybody says we must.

Man scrapes rust from fondamenta
rail all
morning. Paints it black
after four.

M.L. came down from France.
Spent three nights.
Wonderful, seeing her.

On the Lido again --
Winter sky. Coffee

outside. Via Negroponte
and Gran Viale Santa Maria
Elisabetta.
Girl misunderstands
my misunderstanding
regarding the lira.
Later, walked on the beach.
Breeze, sharp green
and gray.

Dreamed about the Festa del Mosto.
In the dream, stayed for
the dancing.
All of it --
Manifestazione
Regata mita
Spettacolo
etc.

To the train station
to buy the paper.
Lonely and cold, the weary
children
of all Western nations
sit
on the steps with the birds,
gazing at the boats
going by on the Grand Canal.
Backpacks stashed
by their legs.

They sleep
in the protective coves
of quiet campi
and grand old churches.
If winter is not here yet,
it's coming --
and fast.

Seagulls scream
as they circle
the fish market.
The fish seller
laughs and throws them
little sardines
and innards scraped out
of the larger fish.
They swoop down,
fighting over the gifts.

The gondola riders look up
insecurely at windowns,
not trusting the trip
they are on.
In darkness, they drift
silently along -- wildly
drinking wine from the bottle
and
slapping
each other's knees.

Smells of fried fish
and grilled steaks
at outdoor table
across from Piazzale Frari.
Italian lessons, anybody?
Signora carries her boots
till she comes
to a puddle. There, she puts
them on and
walks right through
like nobody's business.

Girl takes off shoes
walks barefoot
through, while
the anarchists come
to Venice
wearing cool irritation
like suede boots!
The tour guide has a bright scarf
pinned to his hat.
The group follows the scarf.

Signora brings the chicken
back to the butcher,
sticks it under his nose,
commands him
to smell its rotten odor.
Swirling feather falls
from sky in front
of the school of birds.
"When I went back
to America I was shocked
by the sound of cars."
"Gondola! Gondola!" -- the mournful
call...

After the rain, the canal water
rushes along, tossing
the boats violently against
embankments.
In the afternoon,
the city is sluggish with humidity --
a heaviness made more
of silence than air.

A sudden, hard clear sky!
My head clears in
the strong morning light.

Japanese tourists
armed to the teeth
with cameras go by
under the window
in a string of gondolas.
On TV, Japanese
cartoons in Italian --

Graffiti -- as history:

Yankee Go Home!
Tanz [swastika]
Ratz Cloax
Terroristi!
Fuk!!
Brigate Rosse!
Il Duce!

Signora sits on chair
in restaurant, waiting
for hard rolls and creamed coffee.
Her feet do not touch the floor.

Water level drops low
in the canal
and the stink rises.
My knee swells
and the foot shrinks

and Poe's man
cemented in a wine cellar wall,
at carnival time; you see,
"There is such a thing as being
too profound.
Truth is not always in a well."


Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA
98368-0271, www.cc.press.org




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