ONWARD CREELEY

 

 

I learned

of your passing

six months late

(and a euro short)

living

as I am

up in these

mountains

in this village

where Lorca played

before

they killed him.

 

 

I didn't

like it

when I got

the mailer daemon

on the last

email I sent you;

I thought

something was wrong

and found out

the next week

(I was trying

to send

you

a poem –

The Boat –

that's about

right).

 

 

 

You read

my poem

about rabbits

and longed for

the pigeons

in your past.

 

 

I just heard

the flutter

of sparrows' wings –

it may actually

be

a flutter,

whoosh

might be

more correct,

a rumble

in the air:

with eight

or more,

a concerto

of rumbling air.

 

 

Robert,

Poetic Brother,

I've got pigeons

at 12 o'clock,

pigeons at ten o'clock,

pigeons at four o'clock

(I'm not talking time

here;

I'm talking

12 O'clock High –

bogies at 12 o'clock).

At four o'clock

they are drinking from

the spring's fountain.

Today, Diecinueve de

Septiembre 2005,

they are drinking

at the fountain

early.

At 1:30 pm

instead of sunset.

The seasons

are changing

today

the seasons

are changing

today.

 

 

I think it

was sent

with my second email to you:

a nice photo attachment

of the then nicest bar

in the world –

the Closerie des Lilas

in Paris.

The barman

was mixing

a sidecar –

I knew it was

a sidecar because

it was

for me –

a beautiful blonde

walked outside:

you could see her

on the terrace

where Brett,

Jake and Bill

had drunk

in Hemingway's best

dream.

I don't know

if you had

made out

the blonde,

as I had,

late,

but you had

made out

the barman

and the bar,

and the perfect wooden

barstools

and the bottles

of Remy Martin XO

and Courvoisier Napoleon

and five different varieties

of Cuban rum.

 

 

I received a

two-word email

from you

in reply.

You said,

in succinct Creeley

fashion,

Let's Go.

I wish we

could have,

Amigo,

to our own dream

of Brett,

Lady Ashley,

a young girl

with heavy French calves

but perfect skin,

a face of

white of white:

I saw her

my last time

in Paris –

my first night

of the all-night

music in June.

 

 

I can see

her

in front of me now

as if she were here

in front of me now,

standing

in front of me

now,

a girl of about twenty,

(as nice

as finding fresh

music,

as nice

as finding fresh

Mozart),

the most beautiful white

face

you have ever seen,

a smile

on the Boulevard St. Michel,

beyond the trailer

selling beer and lemonade,

beyond the street-corner

musicians,

she is in front of me now,

standing,

with the face of

white orchid

whiteness,

a fresh orchid

on the night

of the all-night

music,

standing

in front of me now,

standing

in front of me

now,

white orchid

whiteness

in front of me

now,

white orchid

whiteness

white orchid

whiteness

white orchid

whiteness.

Let's Go.