THE CRITIC WRITES POEMS: BARRY SCHWABSKY

THREE POEMS BY BARRY SCHWABSKY

A Partial List of Omissions

For Mel Chin

I

Here between Spain and Technetium we should find, for instance, the genus Spalax, those blind mole rats whose eyes are completely covered by a layer of skin; their eyes are eyes in God’s memory alone. Here too one should learn about undesirable electronic messages and pork-based mystery meats of whose name I have no need to remind you. In Spaoh, in the state of Sarwak, I would have you know, a salted pufferfish known as Ikan Masin Buntal is the local delicacy. And wouldn’t it be nice to be shown how to prepare spätzle, whether savory or sweet? Speed of light, speed of sound, speed metal—where are they when we need them? Spin doctors, spin-offs, and spinning jennies belong here too, along with the stab-in-the-back-myth or Dolchstoßlegende according to which the German army would have won the Great War had it not been betrayed by the country’s craven civilians, and statology, that pagan worship of the state proclaimed by Giovanni Gentile in the name of Mussolini and decried by Pope Pius XI—all these layered together between a book’s covers like a submarine sandwich, which likewise remains to be described, as does the residence of the medieval kings of Hungary, the city of Székesfehérvár, now occupied by Ford and IBM, among others. Teabagging, once mentioned in Sex in the City, is considered nonconsensual in the context of hazing rituals. In Tebnine, east of Tyre, the inhabitants often dress fashionably and hang out in various cafes of an evening.

II

Other volumes may ignore, or so I imagine, the Abenaki, among whom there are no tribes recognized as such by the Bureau of Indian Affairs; perhaps the district of Atocha in Madrid is mentioned but not its railway station, which we are forever leaving. And what of the river Bzyb, in whose upper reaches grows the colorful bellflower Campanula mirabilis, whose profuse growth of one hundred flowers per plant has earned it the title of “Queen of Abkhazian flora?” Or of Denys Corbet, the “last poet” of Guernésiais? Likewise I’ll wager you’d seek in vain for Tad Dameron, evening gowns, Gebirgsjäger, Louis Hjelmslev, or kalimbas. Not that I’ve looked. But imagined omissions are not necessarily imaginary ones. Muar, the hub of the Indonesian furniture industry, boasts four Pizza Huts, but in none of them can you purchase ptasie mleczko, a chocolate-covered meringue or milk soufflé candy whose Polish name signifies “unobtainable delicacy.” Still, none of these can be found missing from an Encyclopedia volume covering Spain through Technetium, and likewise only elsewhere would we feel the absence of ubiquinol, Watts, or the Supreme Court’s decision in Yates v. United States, which J. Edgar Hoover declared “the greatest victory the Communist Party in America ever received,” let alone any hint that the word “zydeco” might derive from the delicious phrase Les haricots ne sont pas salés.

First published in Mel Chin: The Funk & Wag from A to Z (Houston: The Menil Collection, 2014)

The Selected Cosmos

Tangled breath. They said

it wasn’t finished yet. I also

heard myself say that

and didn’t know what

to think. Good feelings yesterday

don’t help me today. In the meantime

I’m an ordinary mortal

and have never known

more pleasant trial. Magic: not

what I’d call a downfall

though (yes) a threat

to house and home. More the birth

of surprise, a swamp

of divergent views because, after all,

can the mind ever be fully

occupied? Thoughts are instant

and without rash consequence

—preferably. We went in search

of places words go

to make out. Of frenzied sun.

Unholy racket. The sky

makes even less sense now

but as a map of ways to lose

your way this fresh

evening air may force the door

of departure. How open

your mouth could be. Two mugs

exchange halos on a late bus

downtown. In truth, dissenting

orations make for fine

funerals. That’s all the air

in my nostrils for now. Hardly two

breaths to my name but living

cautiously like grass that bends

before each wind. Mouths

of religion, minds of disbelief.

We wanted more lovable

gods, a blind sky tossed

over distracted misdemeanors.

Or Godzilla, a way of making

radiation visible. But who will tell him

this is poetry? It’s always

sort of, isn’t it? Listen

to its resistance. The door

shuts the house. Swans glide

like shadows of death. The park fills

with Sunday people. Quiet

your throat. This,

the candid hour.

First published in Bloodflames Revisited, curated by Phong Bui (New York: Paul Kasmin Gallery, 2014).

Christmas on Earth, Noon on the Moon

Grainy secrets for a newer sea

that star took place so far away

we watched it myopic from the belvedere

a solitary eye cuts light into words

from which some intimate plasma spreads

pale yellow in sudden cracks, paying no mind

says yes to all changes to past tense

its stories sensibly filed under dramaturgy

sometimes hard to make out what color they are

sticky vowels dribble into them

from a clockwork heliostat, an antique

they loiter damaged around the loved one’s thighs

nibbling at some sugar maple gloom

sweet knowledge saved up or drowned

in the stifled promise of an airless year.

First published in Noon on the Moon: Poetics Series #4, ed. by Fiona Bryson and

Keren Cytter (Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2015)

*****

Barry Schwabsky is art critic for The Nation. His most recent book of poetry is Trembling Hand Equilibrium (Black Square Editions, 2015). His new publication is Heretics of Language (Black Square Editions, 2018).