Invitation to Elizabeth Bishop
Mortal to immortal
come walk with me
on the trippy floor
of Amazonian Brazil.
Walk
in the rain
forest.
Slog in search of Giant Toad
and Snail
and water lilies (my contribution)
those cupped blankets
blooming white.
We can marvel and quake
at the mosquitoes
haloing the latter.
It would be fine
to have your company
for that.
We could move as mudlarks
in the forest
rain, search out
find Strayed
Crab, see where
she's gone to
now.
I might question your "too big,"
say I think they are just right
these Giants here in the damp
and soaking waterworld.
They prevail; they stay afloat.
We can be their wakeful ears.
We can join their encounter
if you wish...or
metamorphically retire
to a bar on the periphery
and sip a vinho verde.
Elizabeth, please consider.
Do this with me.
это дом Чехова
This is the house of Chekhov
and that was about all I understood
but the tone, lilting, so respectful,
from the guide as she directed me
to the felt slippers at the entrance
behind a small group of school
children, middle-aged, and I wondered
what they already knew of Chekhov.
As I shuffled along in the beautiful
room glazed with age, stopping for
framed photos on the walls, his writing desk,
I expected him to be sleeping
in the room with the closed door.
When I arrived in Yalta
I saw The Lady With The Dog on the boardwalk,
(many do), walking beneath the annular moon lights.
I remember her simply, the man too,
without nuance, took them at face value,
but not now.
So much revealed through age experience
so much delusion illusion re inlovedness
marriage. Then. Now. Then now.
Ode to That Diner
Careful where I sit. Don't want to mess with the elegant composition,
the ethereal trapezoid, so I go into the background with a good view
of the light on the four players.
Night Hawks (two words) was its original name and it makes sense
as there is nothing blending here. As to why hawk
the theory it was inspired by beak-shaped nose on man
in middle bears no weight with me. No siree.
Oh, I do love you! Even though a blazing love does not seem
welcome here; it would cause a shake-up and film noir detectives
would be called to do the questioning.
Where have you been every night since 1942? Here.
And who is that woman near the coffee urns? We have not the foggiest.
As we sit or perch, the others and I are comforted
knowing we are accommodated in the nighttime
effects of man-made light, with bad coffee and
eternal speculation.
We are cut-outs from life
waiting for enlivenment.
Linda Umans taught for many years in the public school system of New York City where she lives, studies, writes. Recent publications include poems in Spillway, Composite {Arts Magazine}, DIALOGIST, Carbon Culture Review, The Maine Review, LIGHT - A Journal of Photography and Poetry, Gris-Gris, 2 Bridges Review, and pieces in Mr. Beller's Neighborhood.