Philip Levine

 

Clouds Above the Sea

by Philip Levine

 

My father and mother, two tiny figures,
side by side, facing the clouds that move
in from the Atlantic. August, '33.
The whole weight of the rain to come, the weight
of all that has fallen on their houses
gathers for a last onslaught, and yet they
hold, side by side, in the eye of memory.
What was she wearing, you ask, what did he
say to make the riding clouds hold their breath?
Our late August afternoons were chilly
in America, so I shall drape her throat
in a silken scarf above a black dress.

I could give her a rope of genuine pearls
as a gift for bearing my father's sons,
and let each pearl glow with a child's fire.
I could turn her toward you now with a smile
so that we might joy in her constancy,
I could bury the past in dust rising,
dense rain falling, and the absence of sky
so that you could turn this page and smile.
My father and mother, two tiny figures,
side by side, facing the clouds that move
in from the Atlantic. They are silent
under the whole weight of the rain to come.

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Heaven

by Philip Levine

 

If you were twenty-seven

and had done time for beating

our ex-wife and had

no dreams you remembered

in the morning, you might

lie on your bed and listen

to a mad canary sing

and think it all right to be

there every Saturday

ignoring your neighbors, the streets,

the signs that said join,

and the need to be helping.

You might build, as he did,

a network of golden ladders

so that the bird could roam

on all levels of the room;

you might paint the ceiling blue,

the floor green, and shade

the place you called the sun

so that things came softly to order

when the light came on.

He and the bird lived

in the fine weather of heaven;

they never aged, they

never tired or wanted

all through that war,

but when it was over

and the nation had been saved,

he knew they'd be hunted.

He knew, as you would too,

that he'd be laid off

for not being braver

and it would do no good

to show how he had taken

clothespins and cardboard

and made each step safe.

It would do no good

to have been one of the few

that climbed higher and higher

even in time of war,

for now there would be the poor

asking for their share,

and hurt men in uniforms,

and no one to believe

that heaven was really here.

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Late Moon

by Philip Levine

 

2 a.m.

December, and still no mon

rising from the river.

 

My mother

home from the beer garden

stands before the open closet

 

her hands still burning.

She smooths the fur collar,

the scarf, opens the gloves

 

crumpled like letters.

Nothing is lost

she says to the darkness, nothing.

 

The moon finally above the town,

The breathless stacks,

the coal clumps,

 

the quiet cars

whitened at last.

Her small round hand whitens,

 

the hand a stranger held

and released

while the Polish music wheezed.

 

I'm drunk, she says,

and knows she's not. In her chair

undoing brassiere and garters

 

she sighs

and waits for the need

to move.

 

The moon descends

in a spasm of silver

tearing the screen door,

 

the eyes of fire

drown in the still river,

and she's herself.

 

The little jewels

on cheek and chin

darken and go out,

 

and in darkness

nothing falls

staining her lap.

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The Helmet

by Philip Levine

 

All the way

on the road to Gary

he could see

where the sky shone

just out of reach

and smell the rich

smell of work

as strong as money,

but when he got there

the night was over.

 

People were going

to work and back,

the sidewalks were lakes

no one walked on,

the diners were saying

time to eat

so he stopped

and talked to a woman

who'd been up late

making helmets.

 

There are white hands

the color of steel,

they have put their lives

into steel,

and if hands could lay down

their lives these hands

would be helmets.

He and the woman

did not lie down

 

not because

she would praise

the steel helmet

boarding a train

for no war,

not because

he would find

the unjewelled crown

in a surplus store

where hands were sold,

 

They did not lie down

face to face

because of the waste

of being so close

and they were too tired

of being each other

to try to be lovers

and because they had

to sit up straight

so they could eat.

 

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---

Milkweed

by Philip Levine

Remember how unimportant

they seemed, growing loosely

in the open fields we crossed

on the way to school. We

would carve wooden swords

and slash at the luscious trunks

until the white milk started

and then flowed. Then we'd

go on to the long day

after day of the History of History

or the tables of numbers and order

as the clock slowly paid

out the moments. The windows

went dark first with rain

and then snow, and then the days,

then the years ran together and not

one mattered more than

another, and not one mattered.

 

Two days ago I walked

the empty woods, bent over,

crunching through oak leaves,

asking myself questions

without answers. From somewhere

a froth of seeds drifted by touched

with gold in the last light

of a lost day, going with

the wind as they always did.

 

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---

Something Has Fallen

by Philip Levine

 

Something has fallen wordlessly

and holds still on the black driveway.

 

You find it, like a jewel,

among the empty bottles and cans

 

where the dogs toppled the gargbage.

You pick it up, not sure

 

if it is stone or wood

or some new plastic made

 

to replace them both.

When you raise your sunglasses

 

to see exactly what you have

you see it is only a shadow

 

that has darkended your fingers,

a black ink or oil,

 

and your hand suddenly smells

of classrooms when the rain

 

pounded the windows and you

shuddered thinking of the cold

 

and the walk back to an empty house.

You smell all of your childhood,

 

the damp bed you struggled from

to dress in half-light and go out

 

into a world that never tired.

Later, your hand thickened and flat,

 

slid out of a rubber glove,

as you stood, your mask raised

 

to light a ciggarette and rest

while the acid tanks that were

 

yours to clean went on bathing

the arteries of broken sinks.

 

Remember, you were afraid

of the great hissing jugs.

 

There were stories of burnings,

of flesh shredded to lace.

 

On other nights men spoke

of rats as big as dogs.

 

Women spoke of men

who trapped them in corners.

 

Alsways there was grease that hid

the faces of worn faucets, grease

 

that had to be eaten one

finger-print at a time,

 

there was oil, paint, blood,

your own blood sliding across

 

your nose and running over

your lips with that bright, certain

 

taste that was neither earth

or air, and there was air,

 

the darkest element of all,

falling all night

 

into the bruised river

you slept beside, falling

 

into the glass of water

you filled two times for breakfast

 

and the eyes you turned upward

to see what time it was.

 

Air that stained everything

with its millions of small deaths,

 

they turned all five fingers

to grease or black ink or ashes.

 

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