he liked his handsome face

Ted Hughes

walked away with a half-filled glass

of warm beer,

slowing to offer a sip to the young lady writing

her life story while standing

with sharpened pencil

at a corner of the neighborhood pub.

she initially wanted her own glass,

but intuitively knew that wouldn't be allowed;

she finished her final sentence by taking

a lonely, deep breath.

when word got out that Ted left the bar

without reading her entire story,

local people were initially disappointed in him.

with his handsome face mimicking honesty,

he soon explained that he wasn't

really interested in her writing.

too many references, he said,

to her dad and unresolved issues that were

beyond him.

he liked nature without the scars.

he liked his warm beer.

he liked his handsome face.

he most of all liked his own writing.

about heaven or hell

sitting on a hard bench

buster brown shoes on my feet

unwilling to smile for the photographer

or anyone else i meet

wearing a silly shirt and bowtie

inside a hot studio room

i'm asked to behave nicely

but i feel an approaching doom

not a mushroom cloud exactly

just a sense i don't belong

i haven't yet accepted

the notion that i could be wrong

the world was still a small place

not even a marker on my hand

there were philosophical discussions

which i couldn't understand:

a basement party without a band?

an Easter chicken that couldn't fly?

looking in the bathroom mirror

and seeing a forehead bull's-eye

with the ever-present blonde hair

atop a child's smile with a wry grin

but already a questioning stare:

what is out there?

no, i don't want your damn tomato soup

or to belong to any mindless group

don't talk to me about slavery

or about the bomb to end all life

i'm out back in the blacksmith shop

tempering my own knife

it's just that i'm in a time zone

where i'm happiest being alone

where music sounds like the expanding universe

i'm old now 

writing and reading verse

wearing sandals with no shirt or bowtie

and if i appear to cry

it's only when i glimpse a nightmare becoming true

and don't know what to do

to save you

as we sink inside an inkwell

without premonitions

about heaven or hell.

remembering Picasso

how can a life be better

if there's no change in your pocket

or in your intention

not to mention

a desire to improve

as the trench keeps getting deeper

the enemy is approaching with a bucket full

of malice

while inside your palace

a temporary safe haven

that ultimately doesn't challenge 

or provoke

when you awoke

your saw the same face as before

the same smug sensations

the same desires

the emotional fires

tamped

down

the crowd milling around 

is the status quo

you really know

most everything is in peril

the hole is being filled with toxic dust

sex is good but ultimately unfulfilling

chilling

my beautiful Annabel Lee

as the sea meets the shore

plead

beg and implore

the level of anxiety

is getting higher

and the piano man

plays it again

his name is Sam,

of course,

the Paris lights remain romantic

eulogizing the sailing ship Titanic

filling it with regret and historical ice

don't think twice!

it's not Casablanca...

the Orcs are coming

into your dreams

full of schemes

with hatred and steely indifference

and the flower sellers along the shores of the Rhine

when the church bells chime

watch your barge from a distance

a bicycle built for two

is looking for you

you're on a park bench, resting

with a giant balloon in your hand,

remembering Picasso.

so this is a song

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

as we first walked together

under a giant harvest moon

and you gave me a bright smile

before we had walked another mile

and a laugh when i spoke

what i hoped was a joke

and you were serious about things

peeling thru layers of thought

and it was readily apparent

you didn't care what i bought

but what i could bring

in a voice that could sing

and so here's to what you said

and how you kept the score

you always seemed satisfied

never wanting more

than i could give or we could share

your love wasn't simply in a place

but seemed everywhere

and the moon remained beautiful all night long

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

in a plaza in Dallas

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible.

the Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas.

so darling, don't ask

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

shuffling on a back street

dropping hints

while picking up my feet

there's a trail of tears

and they're mostly mine

so darling, don't ask:

i know i'll be fine

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled

and let me tell you it was a hell of a ride

all the way to madness with a double shot of whiskey by my side

speed limits were posted and the best beer was ice cold

but his rampage was just beginning and he wouldn't be controlled

there was no knock on the door when he led himself inside

and on that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday 

children came in from play

just before they died:

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled.

pretending to be Voltaire

at least

i have this feeling

and it's not in my underwear!

the important paper was eaten by my dog

when she was pretending to be Voltaire.

running into a golden French sunset

looking for a dime,

out of sorts but within the limits of her time,

she was advocating for free speech

while trying not to preach.

she kept writing about separation;

i stayed busy with preparation

in my old fashioned way,

listening to critics but wanting to have my own say.

the weight i tried to lift seemed hard.

i asked the dealer for another card

like i knew what i was doing,

but i failed.

my dog tried to save me but she was jailed

for criticizing the king

and his entire royal court,

including his Queen

and his favorite consort.

they all happened to be Catholic but it didn't matter:

the church and state were the same,

and neither felt any shame

for jailing a dog and burying her favorite bone

which everyone knew

she liked to chew.

the successful attempt to free my dog

was made one night in dense fog

when the two guards were asleep at their post:

i crept past them both like an earthly ghost.

finally, we were united again and out the prison door,

to look for the Pantheon cemetery in Paris,

somewhere in the Latin Quarter, we heard.

and when we arrived,

we learned someone else had the final word.

at least

i have this feeling

and it's not in my underwear!

the important paper was eaten by my dog

when she was pretending to be Voltaire.

inside Gorky Park

150 calories

are not sufficient for a day of war

and a single stein of beer

has me asking for more

i'm calling London on my phone

hoping someone British is home

"cause Moscow went dark

the lights simply went out 

inside Gorky Park

a wild bear hands out abuse

chasing its' tail

cooking the goose

the ghost of Beria is secretly loose

and no one is answering 

8 days a week

i'm afraid to take a look

but have a quick peek!

it's about what I expected:

a tangle of lies

ordinary working comrades

within a deception of spies

everything coming up roses

so nothing to criticize 

the extreme lows and infrequent highs

no rocking the boat

watching it capsize

150 calories

are not sufficient for a day of war

and a single stein of beer

has me asking for more

i'm calling London on my phone

hoping someone British is home

"cause Moscow went dark

the lights simply went out 

inside Gorky Park.

V. Putin is one very sick puppy

i'm on a sunny deck

wondering how my dog will recover

from being bitten on her tongue by an angry groundhog

which she cornered in the woods

on our Mother's Day walk.

it was a young hog, probably having a first encounter

with a dog, but amazingly adept at defending itself.

my dog, Osa, bled quite a lot. 

even after i managed to separate the gladiators,

she was reluctant to break off the fight.

but i've thoroughly washed her in warm, soapy water,

removing most of the bright blood that had covered her muzzle and

front legs.

but now drinking my second full glass of Port wine is making me

mellow, and i might offer some to her,

as she watches the gold fish in my small pond.

she needs to become more philosophical about her life,

is my conjecture.

the wine, you ask?

yes, it's a quite good Portuguese wine, from the vineyards

in the Douro Valley.

i've opened the bottle and there's no one else to share

it with;

right now i'm alone in my growing older years.

it's okay; i'm fine with this

state of affairs.

see, there's time for cooking and reading, although i've been neglecting

the house cleaning part lately.

mostly it's the Ukraine disaster that's keeping me awake at night,

so maybe another bottle of wine will help me sleep.

i'll consider that thought, while lingering under this early summer afternoon sun.

nearby, i have three large baskets of beautiful flowers hanging from tall poles,

and lots of red and violet dahlias, and a fantastic yellow yarrow,

which is a perennial and it happily survived the cold winter months.

i have an expansive view over a river and easily see the far hills,

but i am disturbed by crazy psychopathic people, and it's

obvious to me that V. Putin is one very sick puppy,

and hopefully his tongue is bleeding, too.

he might need a soapy shower

and a very long nap,

while my dog simply needs a short nap.

he is the major protagonist responsible for the Ukraine disaster.

i hope he has difficulty sleeping at night.

may he never be offered a glass of good Port wine.

cursing Stalin

the Twentieth

or was it the Twenty-second Party Congress

changed course

almost in mid-stream

like in a Goya dream

and it finally occurred to many

life could still offer plenty,

beyond cursing Stalin,

who ate his own people 

without a fork,

enjoying his soup with heaps of steaming pork

while shivering mothers' froze

innocent of any crime

but getting ten years' time

imprisonment

in a punishment cell

(a deep dark basement hell)

or off to a labor camp

to die today or tomorrow

simply heartbreaking pain and sorrow

where nothing is right

daylight becomes night

almost dead

dreaming of being plump, rested, and well fed.

Catherine the Great

a rumble of Cossacks rising,

sweeping the ancient prison floor

with howls of laughter,

could be heard by

Catherine the Great,

who didn't smile at their joke.

she knew death

and what it was,

and hoped to teach them a lesson.

her ambition was to be a highway woman,

paving a cruel road for these travelers.

smashing illusions with glee,

she knew perfectly well there was nothing

to hope for outside of the party,

or inside the party,

when she set the rules.

on the Black Sea beaches there were no tennis players

lobbing wishes into the air,

and no leather-goods factories spinning yarns

for the proletarian to wear.

and on an island in the White Sea,

there was no one else alive.

listening to Diana Ross

Brazilian fish stew

so who knew

crossing the bridge could be so hard

a glass shard

cutting the grass

and shooting stars

dodging speeding taxis and unlicensed cars

up town 

blinding white

white walls

making all the important calls

arranging an interview

so who knew

pop art

pop tart

straight or narrow

hiding in the attic after 5 o'clock

walking the neon block

swimming in Central Park 

only when it's completely dark

wearing designer glasses

attending high society classes

sipping tea

with the ladies in their finest finery

playing the fool

in a massive public pool

black as more than simply a color

more than any other

a tough go

head to toe

so who knew

standing solo,

dressing in perfect Polo

wearing a white wig

eating a Spanish olive and a tasty fig

listening to Diana Ross

in a rain-lashed lightening storm

feeling wet and wild

elevated like a giddy God-child

on the easy side of the bridge.

waiting in line

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

and when the sun starts to fade

there's nothing good that i made

but you're telling me to try my hand

at something that i don't understand?

how can anyone run on the track

when they have marks on their back?

how can she touch me?

she knows that i'm not free

dreaming on a passing cloud

but i'm talking much too loud

the words aren't making sense

i'm striking out in self-defense

no open arms or fancy charms

i'm selling you the farm

as i pass this way and that

not a bum and not an aristocrat

so i'll see all the stuff you advertise

wondering how to win the first prize

stooping low and reaching for new highs

and it has to have an end

but maybe only when i overspend

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

what the Indian said

the American Indian stole my heart

she carried it to her sacred land

buried it deeply at wounded knee

she never asked me what i wanted to be

if i were to grow in size

foolishly fooling around while acting wise

crying on the open prairie 

over top of all the unmarked graves

the noise of galloping wild horses

war cries of the charging braves

smoke curling low on the land

drumming up the mountain top

amplified music piercing my soul

but there's not enough money to pay my toll

tribal lands with ghost riders of the lost

carrying their burden whatever the cost

laments wailing at the dying of a rose

in whatever direction the heated air blows,

i simply sit reading by candlelight

looking out my western-facing window;

and when it was finally time for bed

I still hadn't learned the lesson of what the Indian said.

cracked glass on the kitchen table

naked children crying on the dirt road

smoke curling around their falling tears

no joke

to make them laugh

the barbed wire strung like nervous energy

Martin Luther dead on the cement landing at the Lorraine Motel

blood stains

candy canes

armored tank tracks plowing a farmer's field,

looking for a target

looking for you

holding a white bag staring at the driver

drum beats like leather batons smacking a palm

war slogans repeating like staccato bolts of madness

Putin wearing his war criminal mask,

dancing on the graves of elderly people,

following the footprints of bastardly old Joe.

a friend said he was from Bedford-Stuyvesant,

New York City,

holding an automatic rifle at birth.

full metal jacket

wrapped against the cold steel

without gloves

black wrist bands screaming revolution

lovers looking up at the night sky

Orion

James Webb space telescope designed to make sense

of the mysterious

Age of Aquarius

the stage in the summer of '69

in Harlem's Mount Morris Park

and all for black not negro

proudly raised fists!    

a Javelin launched and a dead helicopter with crew members

dismembered

cell phone calls to mom answered

she is heard to say "Dear son!"

skin peeling from the heat

refugees listening to Led Zeppelin,

singing their immigrant songs,

waiting for decent food and a safer place to sleep

underground

bunkers and sandbags

Vietnam

Ukraine

how many more?

a police radio

confusing static

Mussolini

Nicolae Ceausescu

cracked glass on the kitchen table

bomb debris

the Pope, apologizing frequently

without wearing handcuffs

on the Vatican square,

knows there's not enough stones

to cast out the devil.

the ruins of Mariupol

from the mountains near Hiroshima

where gentle faces now bloom,

memories of a silent night

slip from a silent room

on the softest of slippers, 

as innocent as snow,

into purified air 

while the Japanese winds blow

to the far ruins of Mariupol

where innocent citizens died!

when a tyrant said he was peaceful

but mothers knew that he lied;

the children are hungry;

the old folks cried:

their shadows have fallen

and remain by their side.

with a note from mother

after all,

there were voices

from far down the hall

listening for a coded call

out on the rural road

where winter wheat were already mowed

but the mud is deep

and the escape routes steep,

sudden death taking a last breath;

Russian noses in senseless poses

looking for a safe place to sip their cold beer 

wondering why the beautiful women won't come near

and they can't remember their names:

the wild animals are all looking the same;

some with crowns and some with short hair,

coming undone from god knows where,

roaming the countryside with a gun in hand,

causing mayhem but why for the life of me i simply can't understand,

while hiding in my deep hole with a note from mother.

children, stay on the bus

the threatening red horizon 

of another early dawn,

with no birds singing

in winter weary trees,

and house doors swinging noisily,

opening

to frigid air,

was prophetic from where i stood.

everything seemed strange,

with loud thunder claps exploding,

but no rain.

in the maternity room,

pregnant women cried in pain,

waiting for a birth that might never arrive.

the trains hadn't been on time for several days.

someone on the station platform imagined an end to the day 

which had begun

with a strong smell of danger in the air.

on the only straight road leading west out of town,

an old woman struggled to carry her life's memories inside a small, torn bag.

there were hollowed-eyed people digging

communal burial trenches,

under the threat of their own sudden death.

a farmer's field remained unplowed,

and soldier's boots filled a property line ditch.

mother, a voice calls, where are your sons?

an answer arrives:

father, is your gun clean and ready to fire?

yes! children, stay on the bus heading to paradise.

with love to Russia

from Ukraine,

with love to Russia:

"Momma, your son will not be

coming home!"

the dictator with his pet baboon

while i'm reading by lamp light

about our futuristic tools

a dictator is having his lunch

but he's angry at those he rules

for mixing fresh lettuce with day old bread

and now he wants the kitchen staff dead.

they know the way out the back door

but it's blocked by an alligator

who tells them to come back later

when all should be well.

they grow impatient because they recognize the smell

of their own fear:

nothing is as it seems to appear.

so out a side window they jump

hoping to ditch the dreary dump

before their lives completely diminish and erode,

using a moral compass to find the higher road,

leaving the dictator alone with his pet baboon,

hungry and howling at the waning moon.

he's still angry at those he rules

but momentarily content 

as he strokes his family jewels.

sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

i know well:

you're in a prison cell

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf

trying to think for yourself

without falling from the shelf

but it's a trap where you breathe

and you're forbidden to leave

i know well

your life is hell:

unable to speak your mind

unable to acknowledge whatever you find

when adding 2 plus two

three open-toed sandals and a blue suede shoe

it's five but someone has been telling you

and you've been told what to think

as you're sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf.

June 1st, 1962

On June 1st, 1962,

The Communist Party press

in Novocherkassk

reported that the price of butter and meat

would rise by 25%

and workers' wages would decrease by 30%.

On June 2nd, seven thousand workers from the

Electric Locomotive Works stormed to the police station

and the Communist Party headquarters

in an effort to protest.

Soviet Army General Matvey Shaposhnikov, 

put in charge of the armed detachments 

stationed nearby, 

refused orders to shoot at the workers,

but many soldiers simply couldn't resist the impulse.

the dead were loaded into trucks and disappeared.

later, 

Shaposhnikov wrote:

"The Party has turned into a car which is steered by a reckless,

drunken driver who is always breaking traffic rules.

It's high time to take away the driver's license and prevent

a catastrophe...

Today it is extremely important that the working people

and the intellectuals should see clearly the essence of the political

regime under which we live.  

They must realize that we are under the rule of the worst form of autocracy

which rests on an enormous bureaucracy and an armed force...

It is necessary that people learn to think.

Our blind faith is turning us into mere living machines.

Our people have been deprived of all political

and international rights."

The KGB were not amused.

He was quickly stripped of his army rank

and his membership in the Communist Party.

Subsequently, he lived in modest retirement until his death in 1994,

always convinced he made the right decision.

In 1920, Stalin said

In 1920,

as a young revolutionary,

Stalin said,

"May the god of history help me."

perhaps he knows that the god did not

help him,

but still demands to be thought of highly.

And on the world stage we have one of his successors

making demands,

thinking highly of himself.

what a waste to appeal to the god of history:

his fate is sealed.