Sybil Greate taught Snorckie the names of the strings by colors. She herself was always a smiling brown study, arriving late for the lesson, almost too straight, Verchadet could not help thinking. Miss Greate never brought her own too valuable fiddle. She illustrated on Snorckie's quarter-size:
"Little Baron, my fingers are too thick to hold down the right color," she said. --"I'm not used to your fiddle, but you must get used to it.--I'm surprised, Snorckie, why Snorckie, the red is flat.--Good, good, Little Baron, the blue sounds true.--O the green that's as if it had never been," and she would hurry to strain a peg, ending her sentence a minute later, "tuned."--"O but you must play with expression, dolce, sweetly, dolce that's Eyetalian for sweetly, Snorckie, and the white must be heard very, very bright! Little Baron, will you ask your mother to give me that last note on the piano?"
"What color?" Snorckie questioned.
Verchadet accompanied him in a text of exercises called Scratch A While.
Miss Greate also taught Snorckie "the notes."
"Every good virtuoso," she told Snorckie who held his mouth open and Verchadet who watched the half-hour go by on the clock as her left eye -- the weaker one -- acquired crow's-foot, "studies theory. Now this big round empty thing is a full moon. And if you add a stem to it, it's a half-moon."
"No, Miss Greate, my father who's a Greek -- or is he a Turk, Vechadet? -- calls that phi. That line, let me show you," Snorckie said, applying great effort to Miss Greate's pencil, "goes through the center. Or is it fee?" he asked exposing the Greek letter to Verchadet. "Full fathom fi'," mumbled Verchadet.
"No," Miss Greate interrupeted him gently, firmly taking the pencil out of his hand, "this is music -- it's different. And this with a stem attached to a bright black darkened thing is a quarter-moon!"
"Now don't tell me," Snorckie begged avidly, "don't tell me, Miss Greate, I know, this" he said pointing to a blank space of a staff, "is a new moon."
Remember that Verchadet was only a mother that Little Baron had made his accompanist, and she had never read Pre-Youth. All this musical moon kind of teaching was very hard on her. After stretching patience over half a term of lessons, she came home one day and asked Baballo, "what do you teach?" She had never asked him this, so that all he said Hamlet-like, or hammock-like as Snorckie would say who had seen the movie, for Baballo was rocked and racked continuously by passion, was: "Ha?!"
"Is all education today moon and sub-moon?" asked Verchadet.
"Moon Mullens, what do you mean?" said Baballo.
"And the spectrum? What about the spectrum?"
"Are you out of your mind, Verchadet?" he quavered.
"Don't quaver," she said, "my right ear is queasy as it is. All I mean is, I shall soon be as moonstruck and as color mad as the dye industry."
It was St. Valentine's Day and Baballo, who was not unromantic and sometimes not too slow at understanding Verchaudet, said: "Don't be that way Verchadet. Isn't Snorckie learning the fiddle?"
"He is, but not his color exercises. Maybe I'm wrong. With me, you hear him every evening don't you, he's up on Bach's Third Partita, but with Miss Greate he doesn't know green from red."
"Tse-tse-tse-tse," said Baballo, looking like the poet-baron behind the Great Wall of China he felt he was at the moment. "Waut a minute, Verchadet," he said, as he hurried upstairs. A minute later he came down. "Verchadet, St. Valentine's Day -- your poem!
We may be old-fashioned,"Stop, Baballo," Verchadet said. "That makes sense. I'm too run-down to make Tuesdays at four any more. Snorckie's getting a man teacher!"
But -- we're impassioned.
When a fiddle string's red
Music is dead!
Then up with Johansen
Bach and his ensin
Or we'll be singing with colors
And painting red hollers
A note is a note
And comes from the throat!"
Louis Lukofsky, Little (1970)
Piotr Szczepanik, kochać ('to love'), poland (1966)
Of uncleanliness, he was saying, there are, one must come to think, a good many kinds. Or more, put it, than dirt on the hands.
The wind shifted, slightly, pulling them down the lake and in toward the dock which he saw now as a line, black, on the water, lying out and on it.
Not one, he said, not one sense would give you the whole of it, and I expect that continues what's wanted.
But they sat quiet, anyhow, the woman at the far end, slumped there, and the length of her very nearly flat on the canoe's bottom. The man kept upright, the paddle still in his hands, but he held it loosely, letting it slap the water, lightly, as the waves lifted to reach it.
Nothing important, she said. Nothing to worry about, and what about tonight? We forgot that.
He began to paddle again, but slowly, and looked back at her reluctantly, almost asleep.
That doesn't please you, she said. You seem determined not to enjoy yourself.
Not that, he answered, and it had taken him, at that, some way beyond where he had been.
Not so simply, he said. You make it too easy.
But why easy, she answered. I don't see that it's not easy, any of it. These people will hardly care to attack you personally. They are all much too busy.
Looking down at her, he found her laughing at him, and smiled himself.
You are all so very serious, she said, all of you. What is it makes you think the world is so intent on you at whatever age you are.
Because I don't know, she added, just how old you are. But you look young. You look very young.
He whistled, a little song, and looked back toward the dock which they now came to, bumping against it, and he reached out to steady them, and then pulled the canoe alongside for her to get out.
Easy, she said. Don't jerk it.
He watched her swing out, a foot on the dock, then pull herself up, and clear, to wait for him.
Help me pull it up, she said. It might break loose.
He got out and helped her lift it, and then pushed to roll it over, on the dock, easing it down gently, when her hands were clear.
There, she said, now it will be safe.
He followed her back along the dock, crossing at the end, another, and then up a path to where her car sat, shaded, by the trees. She opened the door for him, and reaching in, spread a towel on the seat, then crossed round to the other side. Sliding under the wheel, she leaned over and caught him with one hand, pulling him to her, to kiss him.
For your sullenness she said, although you hardly deserve it.
He pushed free and watched her start the car.
Sometime you will have to answer me, she said. Sometime there will be nothing else for you to do.
They moved off quickly, along the road, and coming to another, swung in, grating, and up to the house, and stopped there and got out.
Leaving her, he went to his room, took off his bathingsuit and dropped it on the floor. To his right a mirror hung, on the wall, and he turned to look at himself, the whiteness, and then dressed quickly, and left the room.
Here, she called.
The voice echoed a little, finding him, and he followed it out to where she was sitting, waiting for him.
There's not too much time, she said. Would you like a drink before we go?
He nodded and she got up, and went out. Returning, she came to him and put the glass on the small table by his hand. Then she went back to her own chair and sat down.
Thanks, he said, and picked up the glass from where she had put it.
But nothing at all! Very happy to do it.
He smiled, then drank, and put the glass back.
This is a very comfortable room, he said. Very airy, very nice and big.
She nodded, quiet, and looked round at the walls, the high ceiling, then back at him.
He wanted it this way, she said. He did most of it himself.
He looked away, turning, and settled on a picture which was across from him, a small one of some trees and a house.
His favorite room, she said. This and the shack were all he cared about.
A damn shame, he said, to have just got it, and then to have to lose it.
She didn't answer, and looked, instead, out the window, her head somewhat bent, and loose, and he watched her, quietly, letting the time pass.
It makes me feel rather dirty, he said, rather stupid, if that's how to say it.
It's not you.
But it must be me a little, he said. That I walk in on it.
You don't. There's nothing to worry about.
She had got up and now looked at her wrist, the little band there, of one bright metal, and then at him, saying, it's very late.
He followed her out and into the car, and starting it, she drove off quickly, hurrying because of the lateness. Some cars were already there and they pulled in behind them, and stopped.
It won't be bad, she said, or it won't be if you'll try to help a little.
He shrugged and went after her up the path, waiting behind while she knocked, lightly, on the door. Abruptly it opened and he saw a woman smiling at both of them, reaching, to pull them in. He let them talk, standing back, and then went in after them.
You're the last, the woman said, but that's an honor?
Yes, she said, and they went in, closely, following the woman, laughing, and he saw them all sitting in a ring about the room, the chairs all back against the wall, and going to one near the door, he sat down.
Mr. Briggs, they said, and all laughed, is a strange young man!
But he had not heard them, and only sat, placid, and again waited for a drink, thinking it enough that there should be one for him. It came soon and taking it, he thanked the woman and lifted the glass to his mouth.
Cheers!
He sat back, more relaxed, and nodding to the man beside him, said, very fine, and smiled.
There's not much hope for them, the other answered, if they won't make an attempt to see both sides.
No, he said, I can't see that they will find any other way out of it.
But it doesn't matter, she asked. Who could care about such a thing.
The sandwiches went by him, and reaching out, he caught one smiling, and put it into his mouth.
The truth, the other said, is what rarely seems to be considered.
But they had not heard either, and one woman now stood up, and looked at all of them, saying, to John. Wherever he is. They drank in silence. A windy void, which he felt himself, lifting the glass, and drinking, then, with all of them. It was love, she said, a very true love.
From the next room the children's voices came, clearly, for they were crying, wailing, he thought, with a very specific injury. Getting up, he said, I'll go, not thinking, and had gone through the door before anyone had noticed him.
But, seeing him, they cried louder, screaming, and the woman was there behind him, and motioned him out.
But no, she said, it's no use. You bad children, go to sleep!
Bewildered, he looked down at her, beside the bed, and younger than she who he had come with, he thought, but she will not allow me, she will not understand.
We'd better go back, she said. They'll go to sleep by themselves.
In the other room they had got up, and stood only to wait for her, to say, goodnight, apologetically, and left. She watched them go, blankly, and he stood beside her, trying, as he thought, to help.
My party, she said. There's no reason to leave.
It's late, someone answered. It's been very fine.
The room cleared, slowly, the doorway crowded but at last empty, and they sat, the three of them, on the couch, looking after the others. In the room behind them the crying continued and softened, finally, to die out.
They're all asleep, he said, and turned, but could not see her face.
Does it matter, he said. I mean, does it matter in any way you can think of?
But the woman had got up, and the other now raised herself, to lean over, and seeing him, laughed, and sank back.
You make it sound momentous, she said. You really prefer disasters.
She smiled at him quickly, lifting again, but he had turned his head and she could not see him.
Anyhow, it was a good party, she said then, turning to the younger woman. There was certainly nothing wrong with it.
Robert Creeley, The Party (1960?)
samonikli/самоникли ('the natives'), takav covek ('a person like that'), yugoslavia (1967)
1
I will forget everything and turn into pure nature, which forgets everything. I will walk the animal and see where it goes.
Outside, the dog waited but wouldn't go anywhere. The dog was old and red and very tired. It stayed by the house-door waiting. Waiting for him, not waiting to go.
Sign of the dog. Or can he trust any sign, even to be a sign? Wondering. A long time.
See it pass. See the dog stay.
What are you waiting for. Dogs don't talk but this one did. It said a word by pressing its head against his leg. Unmistakable, indecipherable. He hardly spoke that language, but didn't move his leg away. This is called listening.
The dog, roused once by his arrival on the terrace, settled down again.
I will listen to everything and say nothing. I will be the reciprocal of any natural thing, which says and says and never listens. The heavens declare the glory of God -- but do they ever pause to listen? Or is all the glory spoken at once, and only one word ever spoken. Are the echo, jaws of the skies still trying to get the feel of what they heard just that once?
Base surmise in a green time.
2
In another life he is a boat, or a man on a boat.
When will I be a woman, to be the qualities and energies all my lives keep demanding of them? What a woman I will be! Glamorous and fierce and very true I'll be, true as sin and pots of basil fragrant in the sun. My breasts will be a public treasure, and my footsteps, followed, will lead all beings to the arch where in half-light half-shadow truth tells its naked secret. There is this and only this and it suffices and more than suffices, and if you want more, it is a sign you haven't truly tasted this.
But he is a man on a boat, a scoured white deck, and his footsteps, naked, lead only here and there around the boat. Followed for a long time -- assuming they left a permanent vestige -- his steps would reveal only the limits of the boat, the bounded nature of vessel.
A boat is curious. It goes everywhere, but on it there is nowhere to go.
3
Halfway to Portugal. To Paradise. Neither abstracted nor at ease, he scrutinized the sea. Where is my little dog, where is my red dog? No sun, and no dog. Why am I always alone? And why don't I mind it?
Towards him coming now a sea-beast, crest over wave, spitting salt, coruscant with rubies and emeralds, glittery, with the glad cheapness of nature at her tawdry best, a belua, a sea-serpent on the make. Coils and fins and vestigial hands, mighty dorsal plates, spine like a setting sun, maw like a ceremony of fangs, a piano of chromatic torture, gullet infested with darkness and a word coming out of it. He has to hear it. One more to listen to. One more not to comprehend.
And in the eye of the thing nothing worse than the blue haze of distances, or maybe all the distances in the world glinting in one little point above the lower lid, like a sapphire on a woman's hand or a ripe olive alone on a plate.
He sighed and understood his predicament, without for a moment understanding why he was in it.
4
Was it a life at all, this thing he was living? Serpent winding, to shun the bare sun's uneven power, and yet retrieve by night the ray's heat stored in rock or tarry roads. Running towards and running from. Desire and abhorrence dressed him in clothes he could not bring himself to take off, any more than a tree at nightfall, rustle though it please in the wind, can shake the clustering darkness from its leaves. For both, for man and tree, a waiting must suffice. Craving and loathing will both fall away in time, but he from whom they fall will seldom call that falling "morning." And yet it is.
Robert Kelly, In the County of the Living (1994)
Marika Gombitová, koloseum, czechoslovakia (1987)
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