killed.
His personal safety was guaranteed by the mayor of Milan.
The Aeronautica Nazionale Repubblicana was done. Absolutely futile to fight on.
Visconti was respected.
The partisan commander saluted.
Visconti turned to walk across the courtyard to the espresso
The commander had offered, and was shot dead. Caro mio, addio.
MOUNT STREET GARDENS
Iâm talking about Mount Street.
Jackhammers give it the staggers.
Theyâre tearing up dear Mount Street.
Itâs got a torn-up face like Mick Jaggerâs.
I mean, this is Mount Street!
Scottâs restaurant, the choicest oysters, brilliant fish;
Purdey, the great shotgun makerâthe street is complete
Posh plush and (except for Marc Jacobs) so English.
Remember the old Mount Street,
The quiet that perfumed the air
Like a flowering tree and smelled sweet
As only money can smell, because after all this was Mayfair?
One used to stay at the Connaught
Till they closed it for a makeover.
One was distraught
To see the dark wood brightened and sleekness take over.
Designer grease
Will help guests slide right into the zone.
Prince Charles and his design police
Are tickled pink because it doesnât threaten the throne.
I exaggerate for effectâ
But isnât it grand, the stink of the stank,
That no sooner had the redone hotel just about got itself perfect
Than the local council decided: new street, new sidewalk, relocate the taxi rank!
Turn away from your lifeâaway from the noise!â
Leaving the Connaught and Carlos Place behind.
Hidden away behind those redbrick buildings across the street are serious joys:
Green grandeur on a small enough scale to soothe your mind,
And birdsong as liquid as life was before you were born.
Whenever Iâm in London I stop by this delightful garden to hear
The breeze in the palatial trees blow its shepherdâs horn.
I sit on a bench in Mount Street Gardens and London is nowhere near.
MOTO POETA
IN MEMORY OF STEPHEN A. AARON (1936â2012)
You were the loudest of us all by far,
And the sweetest behind your fear,
Brilliant expositor of Arthur Miller and Shakespeare.
There you are at the beginning of your career
Bellowing like a carny barker
In the Freshman Commons, selling tickets to some
HDC production with your tuba voice and bigger nose.
The stylish fellows like myself were appalled.
Steve Aaron was a lot brasher than was posh,
And a lot shyer, and smart.
Suddenly he was mounting a staging of Eliotâs
Murder in the Cathedral to stop your head and start your heart,
The most gifted man in Harvard theater
In thirty years.
I remember him in Manhattan in analysis
Right across from the American
Museum of Natural History and its tattered old stuffed whale.
Aaron had an ungovernable phobic fear of the whale.
He asked me to go with him, literally holding hands,
So he could stare it down with an analytic harpoonâ
And then backed out.
Years later, Goldieâhis motherâpulled out of a closet
A brush and mirror set meant for a baby,
For baby Steve, and scrimshawed into the ivory back
Of each item was a tiny spouting whale!
The psychoanalystâs name was Tannenbaum.
One day Aaron came in and, after lying down, said: âI donât know whyâ
Thereâs this tune I canât get out of my head! Tum tum tee tum. Tum tum tee tum.
O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree! â Steve,
Youâre a blue forest of oceans, seagulls flying their cries.
I come from an unimaginably different plan.
Iâve traveled to you because my technology can.
I ride the cosmos on my poetry Ducati, Big Bang engine, einsteinium forks.
Let me tell you about the extraterrestrial Beijings and New Yorks.
You are dear planet Earth, where my light-beam spaceship will land.
Iâll land, after light-years of hovering, and take your hand.
SCHOOL DAYS
I
John Updike
Updike is dead.
I remember his big nose at Harvard
When he was a kid.
Someone pointed him
His personal safety was guaranteed by the mayor of Milan.
The Aeronautica Nazionale Repubblicana was done. Absolutely futile to fight on.
Visconti was respected.
The partisan commander saluted.
Visconti turned to walk across the courtyard to the espresso
The commander had offered, and was shot dead. Caro mio, addio.
MOUNT STREET GARDENS
Iâm talking about Mount Street.
Jackhammers give it the staggers.
Theyâre tearing up dear Mount Street.
Itâs got a torn-up face like Mick Jaggerâs.
I mean, this is Mount Street!
Scottâs restaurant, the choicest oysters, brilliant fish;
Purdey, the great shotgun makerâthe street is complete
Posh plush and (except for Marc Jacobs) so English.
Remember the old Mount Street,
The quiet that perfumed the air
Like a flowering tree and smelled sweet
As only money can smell, because after all this was Mayfair?
One used to stay at the Connaught
Till they closed it for a makeover.
One was distraught
To see the dark wood brightened and sleekness take over.
Designer grease
Will help guests slide right into the zone.
Prince Charles and his design police
Are tickled pink because it doesnât threaten the throne.
I exaggerate for effectâ
But isnât it grand, the stink of the stank,
That no sooner had the redone hotel just about got itself perfect
Than the local council decided: new street, new sidewalk, relocate the taxi rank!
Turn away from your lifeâaway from the noise!â
Leaving the Connaught and Carlos Place behind.
Hidden away behind those redbrick buildings across the street are serious joys:
Green grandeur on a small enough scale to soothe your mind,
And birdsong as liquid as life was before you were born.
Whenever Iâm in London I stop by this delightful garden to hear
The breeze in the palatial trees blow its shepherdâs horn.
I sit on a bench in Mount Street Gardens and London is nowhere near.
MOTO POETA
IN MEMORY OF STEPHEN A. AARON (1936â2012)
You were the loudest of us all by far,
And the sweetest behind your fear,
Brilliant expositor of Arthur Miller and Shakespeare.
There you are at the beginning of your career
Bellowing like a carny barker
In the Freshman Commons, selling tickets to some
HDC production with your tuba voice and bigger nose.
The stylish fellows like myself were appalled.
Steve Aaron was a lot brasher than was posh,
And a lot shyer, and smart.
Suddenly he was mounting a staging of Eliotâs
Murder in the Cathedral to stop your head and start your heart,
The most gifted man in Harvard theater
In thirty years.
I remember him in Manhattan in analysis
Right across from the American
Museum of Natural History and its tattered old stuffed whale.
Aaron had an ungovernable phobic fear of the whale.
He asked me to go with him, literally holding hands,
So he could stare it down with an analytic harpoonâ
And then backed out.
Years later, Goldieâhis motherâpulled out of a closet
A brush and mirror set meant for a baby,
For baby Steve, and scrimshawed into the ivory back
Of each item was a tiny spouting whale!
The psychoanalystâs name was Tannenbaum.
One day Aaron came in and, after lying down, said: âI donât know whyâ
Thereâs this tune I canât get out of my head! Tum tum tee tum. Tum tum tee tum.
O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree! â Steve,
Youâre a blue forest of oceans, seagulls flying their cries.
I come from an unimaginably different plan.
Iâve traveled to you because my technology can.
I ride the cosmos on my poetry Ducati, Big Bang engine, einsteinium forks.
Let me tell you about the extraterrestrial Beijings and New Yorks.
You are dear planet Earth, where my light-beam spaceship will land.
Iâll land, after light-years of hovering, and take your hand.
SCHOOL DAYS
I
John Updike
Updike is dead.
I remember his big nose at Harvard
When he was a kid.
Someone pointed him
Similar Books
