by Vincent Katz
11/3/17
Finally, it feels like autumn.
11/4/17
I’m the guy who starts the day.
11/7/17
Laughter outside, in the cold. Bright sunlight, crisp shadows, reflections. Two women in bright-colored garb, possibly to a standard required by religion or custom. A woman bikes up the avenue with her little dog in her bike basket. I like this cold light.
11/17/17
It all has a meaning. But I’m trying not to get too obsessed by the meaning.
I was thinking about ego, and how little that has availed one. And how easy it is, really, not to be run by ego if one wishes. I realized that my early life had been a flight from meaninglessness. I was terrified of people for whom the universe seemed a shut, fully understandable, and harshly limited condition. And I went toward those who felt the opposite, who felt unburdened.
It’s 11:18 on 11/18. For such a long time. Oh, now it’s ended.
11/18/17
A tug pushes a barge slowly into the sunlight. A building is being demolished, and many more are being built. Earlier the light looked British, but now it’s back to winter New York.
11/22/17
It’s a beautiful day. Look at the light out there.
11/27/17
2
THE CLIFF
The figures exhaling
Verdure was companion
Was complaining
To one was sitting
In front of building
The stench of hatred
Milled and uttered
Schoolchildren hand
In hand attempting
To begin life again
Everything else
Does not go by
Seamlessly, pond
And playground,
Intimation, sexiness
FOUR NOTES
i.
Abacus of wonder,
Delighted hand,
Freighted desire,
Time softening.
ii.
Light squares,
Shadow crosses,
Shadow screens,
Evanescence.
iii.
Softening square,
Light energy,
Still push into,
Water surface.
iv.
Voices from across,
And far, tension
Nothing, in flow,
Nature commands.
FAMILY
She chose her family,
Relinquished inconsistency.
Seems to have abandoned
Abandon, but saved harmony.
A garden existence.
Rigor in place of grace.
Grace instead of servitude,
She was allowed to be.
SMOKE
You smell smoke.
But don’t see it.
A still plane
Extending distance.
Quiet, almost
Silent. Light
Shifts to right.
Chair shifts.
There is day’s
Calm, to edge.
Today’s battles
Allayed. Birds
Still at song.
Plectrum rests
In weakening
Light.
SITTING
Cricket carpet,
Pecker knock.
Manna float,
Bird taunt.
Cicada chirr,
Tall silence.
FOUR WOMEN
i.
Four, that I could remember,
Here, in this place
I am again. Winter?
Summer. And the music.
ii.
The same music from before.
But lilted, shifted a little,
To where others could bend,
Pretend they listened.
iii.
Softly, those windows.
They protect, and defending,
Bleed to shock witness,
Offending needed wit.
iv.
Their ability to be soft,
That was something magic,
And they grew among others,
That is sure, continued.
SIX FIGURES, FIRE
Six figures, boat
Approaches city
Beach, marina
Causeway enclosed
Earlier figures
Boated now sublime
Material, machine
Highway flux
Lakeshore, drives
Continuous shadowed
Building backs
Windows scale
YELLOW TOWEL
Her body sat on it
A whole reflection
Ward consistency
Elevate magnetic
Spresidual
Her body sat on it
Spry integument
Shatter stiff farm
A whim at ease
ENCOUNTER
for Oliver
Yesterday, as we walked from the town,
And the light faded from the sky,
I thought, How striking
The dark shapes of buoys and barks
In front of the still bay, and land opposite
And I thought, Poetry cannot suffice
For this, only painting could evince
This light, and evincing, might
Reach an equivalent sense of calm
Or overview, photography could not
Then my son said, Don’t under-
Estimate the power of the word,
And I thought, Perhaps? This morn,
Again I see the sea, land opposite,
Boats and air and clouds, and wonder
CALLIGRAPHY AT THE BEACH
Tonight, the same view,
But different, the light
Darker, different water
Has flowed, boats come,
Gone, shapes insistent,
Many more people now,
Hour of promenade,
Music, darkness, walking
Not much flirting, just
A way of life involving
Water, boats out there,
Food offering, perfume
LOOKING AT THE SEA
I have today and tomorrow,
I hear amplified voices,
The sun shines, the arbor
Shades, and people talk.
Actors write, writers act,
It can be the same or not,
And criticism can be praise,
But love can only be love.
Mysticism is obfuscation,
She explains to anyone,
The sea is salty, you taste
Your mouth and hurt feet.
Now it is the sunset they
Have come to see. Islands
Lying on the horizon.
We have today and tomorrow.
ARABESQUE
The table still holds breakfast,
Conversation no problem, coffee
Still hot, table is the place
Family’s constructed, regardless
One needn’t arrive at a point
Simply, light blue sky, fronds
Waving and the public space
People construe edges of
BEGINNING OF THE PICNIC
Let’s see if I can write some poetry now
It doesn’t look like it, sitting on the veranda
Above a quiet street, a Tuesday at
Year’s beginning, warm, sunlight on leaves
Rainfall earlier cleared out but clouds
Returned, yet all is lush and breezes
Keep air moving in and out, below
Two men walk past, conversing
A garage door slides open, a car backs out,
Birds cackle nearby, dogs farther off
Resound, the car returns, the door slides,
The car slips in, afternoon lingers
FIVE NOTES
Rain pours down on brightly colored homes
Solar panels chimneys with attached ladders
Now rain has stopped sky still heavily clouded
Birds chirp outside inside voices from other rooms
And now it is silent, dark outside but the shades
Are drawn and nothing can be seen except what is within
Sky full of heavy clouds breast full of expectation
Nothing in the air but conversation and a bird
Rain pours and pours, all day now, and our day
Is an extra one, stasis of leaves and buildings
CONVERSATION BY THE SEA
What do you feel makes life okay?
You are constantly feeling older.
The way people speak is changing.
You no longer know what they want.
What do you mean by that word
Respect? I mean knowing my life
Has been lived for a purpose.
Or purposes. I wake up and think,
All is gone. But then the clarity
Of morning reveals it is not.
Something is here more valuable
Than diamonds, than fame.
What is that something? Do you see
Yourself in other places? I am
Trying not to imagine other places,
But rather to inhabit the place
I actually inhabit. If I am able
To transfer comfort to others, able
To let those younger take the reins,
Then, perhaps, I can live respected.
MORNING
for Paul
In this light I can be the city again
In this sacred precinct at city’s heart
I am known and unknown
My parents brought me here
The light on that flat prow betides
Warmer days, people flooding
As now, this coldest day, they flow
People as shields present themselves
What are those strange, antiquated figures
Look down on us, confused?
Has their ability shifted?
Café tables in freezing light
EVENING, CLOUDS, FIRE
It’s too cold and there is not enough light
WOMAN IN GREEN
I can feel another poem
And not enough reason
Just in the faces granite
Bases of cold interaction
My dead buddy’d object:
Go for ordinary times
In rhythms, rhymes
But he was alone indoors
What do you make of it all?
Some short, some tall
Some here, some gone
Music across the shore
MOON AND FIRE
I don’t want to finish this book
Maybe, if I don’t, his life
Won’t end, thinking magically
To avert the ending
What is the work and what
The life, where may the twain
Meet, where divide?
People are asking that again
3
LIGHTS
Lights across, winter
Getting ready for something
Evening, sky still light in west
Darkening in east while
Reddish coils gather, spread,
In south, now west vermilion
Streaks across river
Here water too marina
Modern building brighter
As sky gathers fullness
Sky changing rhythms
Flags, planes, and birds
HOTEL EMPIRE
The letters in neon burn
Into night’s walking century
People with thoughts, desire
Walking dogs or jogging
Heading home via sidewalk
Costumes in window, self
In head transposed idea
Of look, of movie image
This my city, these perfumes
These plazas, these architectures
These fountains, these babies
These dogs, this going home
ALONE
They need crowds around them
I like to walk
And see others, in twos, groups, or single
All face the river at end of day
Boats and lights, skates,
Bikes go flying past
Two people understanding
Or people not understanding
City’s changing, building up
Music’s changing, people too
They don’t talk or think the same
But there’s still desire and glee
THE MAN WHO LEFT
in memory of my friend Morgan
He made six posts to my Facebook in the last month
I didn’t respond because I don’t respond to Facebook
But I saw his posts: two marked the passing of artists, Z’EV and Donald Hall
The most recent one, from about three weeks ago, recounted hearing Hall read
In Wisconsin “in the earliest 70s” and his (Morgan’s) writing a poem about him (Hall)
“about his taking a stall next to mine in the bathroom and just letting his drawers fall to the floor and the noises he made”
And lunch and snippets of poems in a drawer
Morgan didn’t graduate high school, but after spending four years, as he put it,
“on the road or off the road (as in off-road),” he was accepted at University
of Chicago, where we met as freshmen in the fall of 1978
I can’t remember what drew me to his garret at the top floor of Vincent House
Maybe a mutual friend told me to seek him out, maybe we had spoken in the dining hall,
He was lying on his bed and had a healthy dark-brown goatee matching his long, dark hair
He sat up when he saw me and smiled, a smile that all who knew him will easily recall
I can’t quite believe I am writing these words about Morgan
We were always friends in the present tense, even when continents apart
He may have been reading a book of poetry, maybe Apollinaire, whom he often quoted
He asked me who I liked, and I mentioned Ted Berrigan
“I love Ted Berrigan!” he replied, laughing, and on that note, our friendship was born
Morgan said that we should go see D. J. R. Bruckner, a classicist and Rhodes Scholar who had known Tolkien and went on to become a literary critic for The New York Times
We were ostensibly going to see him for his signature as faculty advisor for the poetry group we wanted to start, but the real reason was to be in his pr
esence and engage in the age-old practice of literary chitchat
Later, I was able to bring Ted and his partner in crime, Ron Padgett, to U of C to read
Morgan was there, never shy, he always liked to meet his heroes and went up to
Ted and asked him to sign a book (possibly Red Wagon, published by The Yellow Press in 1976)
Ted wrote, to the young man he’d just met, “To Morgan, who taught me everything I know”
Morgan was majoring in psychology, and one of his psych buddies, Joe Grossman, was also a V House resident
They bonded in wildness and pushed each other to try every possible extreme
Morgan started to get into psychedelics and got Joe to join him on trips
Joe started dressing differently, customizing T-shirts, wearing dark makeup under his eyes
Morgan looked pretty much the same as usual, he always had a grin, devilish but friendly, whether high or not
But Morgan ended up in the emergency room a couple of times
He’d just go too far out and maybe Joe wasn’t with him
The first time, he was kicked out of the UC housing system
The second time, he was either expelled or asked to take a leave of absence
When John and Yoko released Double Fantasy on November 17, 1980, there was a long article and interview in the Times
Morgan mailed me the article
I was so happy to get it and read it and so shocked by what was soon to occur
I next saw Morgan in my senior year
He’d migrated to University of Wisconsin at Madison, where he was studying film
I’d moved to an apartment near the lakeshore with two guys from my band and another friend
Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky had reached out and we organized a reading for them at the law school
Before the reading, Allen walked through the audience, giving out our address