Three Poems by Clayton Eshleman

Without Caryl
how thingness looms,
pressed up against this bland
   hotel room,    place
without aura. The wallness in life
mostly backed off when I am with her.
Now I see the edge of the dead carpet,
the dead plastic phone
               in its cradle.
I am in the land of the still,
hand on crisp bed-sheet
--even it is strange
without her.
                     Returned to a time in my childhood
when I felt no human other. Sensation of listening
to my father beat Sparkie or Ginger
because they shat where they were not supposed to.

Mutual presence is a fluidity diminishing
    the thingness in life,
enabling mind to move as metaphor,
                  making possible
             mental pleasure.

                                  [London, April 10-15, 2007]

Golub Smiling

Leon Golub, primarily smiling.
Or that is how he strikes me, as a soul now, gone and
present, a rugby of a soul, all bristle and scraping and delving into,
feisty Leon, writing funny letters to art critics
calling them in effect or literally assholes.
But we laughed much more than we growled,
for years, especially at 71st and Broadway,
Nancy making chicken dinners in the tiny kitchen
where the six of us sat at counter facing a wall,
then to range in the unfurnished main room, one big table, chairs,
a single work of art:
           an African crocodile head sculpted out of wood—

                                           I am still amazed at how warm and
totally “furnished” that apartment seemed. Leon’s anger
mixed with yelling and guffaw, his twang and his bottomless good
feeling for what was right about the world.
                                                                           Vallejo
in his negativity is affirmative. The engagement, its depth, and its desire,
makes the listener, or reader, feel right about being alive, or
so people tell me. This comes back looking at this photo of elderly
Golub smiling, which does not play false his relentless ripostes,

or last night smiling, convivial Ron Padgett with his darts
and thoughtful undercuts, yet comedic with the humor of experience.
I listen to him at my old university, he talks to the students,
afternoon lecture on collaboration, useful stuff, delivered with warmth.

DIA DE MUERTOS

DIA DE MUERTOS

Nora, Leon, Bill—I would be adrift with you in that dinghy
Bill painted off Bosch’s Ship of Fools,
the four of us, as souls, with wine and watermelon,
our ofrenda between us, with burins, scrapers, brushes, notebooks

and, just to keep everything true to imagination,
a squirrel smoking a cigar. On our mast a tricolor would flap
so that the Matisse’s words Travail et amour, as on a mobius band,
would circulate within each of us. And our talk!

We would have finally gotten our whole lives into what we say.
Our conversation today, concerning kalokagathia,
or “the beauty and goodness of a consoling art” would

spin out, angel cradles between our gesturing hands and mouths.
Then it would be time for me to go. I would slip out, regain the shore,
and wave farewell to you, dear friends, for another year, by Caryl.


		Clayton Eshleman
		Without Caryl
		Without Caryl how thingness looms, pressed up against this bland hotel room, place without aura. The wallness in life mostly backed off when I am with her. Now I see the edge of the dead carpet, the dead plastic phone in its cradle. I am in the land of the still, hand on crisp bed-sheet --even it is strange without her. Returned to a time in my childhood when I felt no human other. Sensation of listening to my father beat Sparkie or Ginger because they shat where they were not supposed to. Mutual presence is a fluidity diminishing the thingness in life, enabling mind to move as metaphor, making possible mental pleasure. [London, April 10-15, 2007] Golub Smiling Leon Golub, primarily smiling. Or that is how he strikes me, as a soul now, gone and present, a rugby of a soul, all bristle and scraping and delving into, feisty Leon, writing funny letters to art critics calling them in effect or literally assholes. But we laughed much more than we growled, for years, especially at 71st and Broadway, Nancy making chicken dinners in the tiny kitchen where the six of us sat at counter facing a wall, then to range in the unfurnished main room, one big table, chairs, a single work of art: an African crocodile head sculpted out of wood— I am still amazed at how warm and totally “furnished” that apartment seemed. Leon’s anger mixed with yelling and guffaw, his twang and his bottomless good feeling for what was right about the world. Vallejo in his negativity is affirmative. The engagement, its depth, and its desire, makes the listener, or reader, feel right about being alive, or so people tell me. This comes back looking at this photo of elderly Golub smiling, which does not play false his relentless ripostes, or last night smiling, convivial Ron Padgett with his darts and thoughtful undercuts, yet comedic with the humor of experience. I listen to him at my old university, he talks to the students, afternoon lecture on collaboration, useful stuff, delivered with warmth. DIA DE MUERTOS DIA DE MUERTOS Nora, Leon, Bill—I would be adrift with you in that dinghy Bill painted off Bosch’s Ship of Fools, the four of us, as souls, with wine and watermelon, our ofrenda between us, with burins, scrapers, brushes, notebooks and, just to keep everything true to imagination, a squirrel smoking a cigar. On our mast a tricolor would flap so that the Matisse’s words Travail et amour, as on a mobius band, would circulate within each of us. And our talk! We would have finally gotten our whole lives into what we say. Our conversation today, concerning kalokagathia, or “the beauty and goodness of a consoling art” would spin out, angel cradles between our gesturing hands and mouths. Then it would be time for me to go. I would slip out, regain the shore, and wave farewell to you, dear friends, for another year, by Caryl.
		These three poems by Clayton Eshleman are from his new collection, Anticline, to be published by Black Widow Books (Boston) in the spring of 2010. Other recent books by Eshleman include: The Grindstone of Rapport / A Clayton Eshleman Reader (Black Widow, 2008), Archaic Design (Black Widow, 2007) and a translation of The Complete Poetry of Cesar Vallejo (University of California Press, 2007). Eshleman is currently cotranslating poetry by Bei Dao and Aime Cesaire. He continues to live in Ypsilanti, Michigan, with his wife Caryl.
		© Clayton Eshleman All Rights Reserved