ONWARD CREELEY

ONWARD CREELEY


I learned
of your passing
six months late
(and a euro short)
living
as I am
up in these
mountains
in this village
where Lorca played
before
they killed him.


I didn't
like it
when I got
the mailer daemon
on the last
email I sent you;
I thought
something was wrong
and found out
the next week
(I was trying
to send
you
a poem –
The Boat –
that's about
right).



You read
my poem
about rabbits
and longed for
the pigeons
in your past.


I just heard
the flutter
of sparrows' wings –
it may actually
be
a flutter,
whoosh
might be
more correct,
a rumble
in the air:
with eight
or more,
a concerto
of rumbling air.


Robert,
Poetic Brother,
I've got pigeons
at 12 o'clock,
pigeons at ten o'clock,
pigeons at four o'clock
(I'm not talking time
here;
I'm talking
12 O'clock High –
bogies at 12 o'clock).
At four o'clock
they are drinking from
the spring's fountain.
Today, Diecinueve de
Septiembre 2005,
they are drinking
at the fountain
early.
At 1:30 pm
instead of sunset.
The seasons
are changing
today
the seasons
are changing
today.


I think it
was sent
with my second email to you:
a nice photo attachment
of the then nicest bar
in the world –
the Closerie des Lilas
in Paris.
The barman
was mixing
a sidecar –
I knew it was
a sidecar because
it was
for me –
a beautiful blonde
walked outside:
you could see her
on the terrace
where Brett,
Jake and Bill
had drunk
in Hemingway's best
dream.
I don't know
if you had
made out
the blonde,
as I had,
late,
but you had
made out
the barman
and the bar,
and the perfect wooden
barstools
and the bottles
of Remy Martin XO
and Courvoisier Napoleon
and five different varieties
of Cuban rum.


I received a
two-word email
from you
in reply.
You said,
in succinct Creeley
fashion,
Let's Go.
I wish we
could have,
Amigo,
to our own dream
of Brett,
Lady Ashley,
a young girl
with heavy French calves
but perfect skin,
a face of
white of white:
I saw her
my last time
in Paris –
my first night
of the all-night
music in June.


I can see
her
in front of me now
as if she were here
in front of me now,
standing
in front of me
now,
a girl of about twenty,
(as nice
as finding fresh
music,
as nice
as finding fresh
Mozart),
the most beautiful white
face
you have ever seen,
a smile
on the Boulevard St. Michel,
beyond the trailer
selling beer and lemonade,
beyond the street-corner
musicians,
she is in front of me now,
standing,
with the face of
white orchid
whiteness,
a fresh orchid
on the night
of the all-night
music,
standing
in front of me now,
standing
in front of me
now,
white orchid
whiteness
in front of me
now,
white orchid
whiteness
white orchid
whiteness
white orchid
whiteness.
Let's Go.

THE BOAT

THE BOAT
(FOR ROBERT CREELEY)



The boat –
was it a boat?
red and white lights
out in the night.
It must have been
a boat
on that route,
no road,
highway or pavement
could be there,
beyond
where these mountains
meet the sea,
right?
A boat in the night.

PASEO EN LA NOCHE

PASEO EN LA NOCHE
(POR JAMES MARTIN HEIDELBERG , SR.
FELIZ CUMPLEANOS 10-07-04 [POEM WELL RECEIVED BY SPANISH AUDIENCES.])



Paseo en la Noche
a sendero
con flores y estrellas.


Paseo en la Noche
a lugar de pajaros
y amor.


Paseo en la Noche
a lugar de acordarse
de mi padre.


Paseo en la Noche
a sendero
con flores y estrellas.

BACK TO EUROPA

BACK TO EUROPA

(CORRECTED VERSION; AT WWW.PAULHEIDELBERG.COM
IS VERSION WITH WEBMASTER ERRORS.)




Back to Europa
after a Christ's life:
July Fourth weekend
1971
to 2004 –
I probably flew
over Morrison
while he was dying in
Paris –
Athens to New York City,
nonstop.


The clouds are
rolling in,
crawling up
the mountain,
breaking the
heat wave?
There has been
a heat wave
and it's 64 degrees F
at 10 am,
July 3, 2004 –
not bad,
if you can get it.


The internet café
in this village of Bubion
took a week's vacation
without telling anyone,
except for me,
after I inquired
during the first day
of stoppage,
knocking on the
ancient
wooden door
that must be
at least
200 years old.
At the café
resides the town's
neatest dog,
Nolo,
a friendly
perro
who followed me home
by scent
the first time
I met him.


Finches, sparrows
and other bug chasers
circle and dart
in the blue, blue sky:
I still haven't
seen an eagle or a hawk,
but the little birds
wake me
in the mornings.


My writing table
overlooks my patio
which overlooks
4,000 feet of mountains;
perhaps the best time
is at night,
two lights only
from two houses
on the mountain to the right,
no lights from no houses
on the mountain to the left,
but there is the smooth flow
of taillights
and headlights
on the Bubion to Pampaneira
mountain road –
reminding me of
mountain traffic on Crete,
twisting, twisting, twisting –
I will stay right
where I am,
thank you,
except for walks
to Capileira,
it's 140 meters higher,
and cooler,
anyway.


I may desire
this heat
in the winter.
The steps to this
casita blanca
may be hard to
negotiate with snow –
they are difficult enough
now,
eclipsing the
Bubion to Capileira
trek
two days ago.


The clouds
are bringing
the smell
of roses and other
flowers,
or is that a
woman's perfume?


At 10:50 am
the clouds have
arrived en masse,
my head is
in the clouds,
mi cabeza esta
en las nubes.


Two mujeres
and one hombre –
they walked
three roads,
uphill.
Perhaps they were children
during the Civil War;
they left to
escape Death,
and now,
Viejos,
return to their childhoods
amidst wild flores.
We speak apolitically,
“muy bonita flores,”
I say.”
“Si,”
the oldest one says,
bunches of flowers in one hand.
The mountains here
are alive
in the day and night;
it is life
as many of us
left it
decades ago.
It is life
screaming
let me be seen,
screaming
cante jondo,
let me be seen.


Later,
the stars at night
look like lights
on the mountains,
but they are not lights
on the mountains,
they are stars
in the skies,
they look like lights,
but they are not,
they are
estrellas
en la noche.


From these mountains,
and the melting snows,
flows
the cleanest and
freshest and coldest
water,
and it is
everywhere,
everywhere:
at fountains
in villages and the country
where you can refresh
yourself on the hottest afternoon;
the tap water
is the best
since Salzburg,
and may be better.
I left the path
from Bubion to Pampaneira
in this Poqueira ravine,
pushing through blackberry bushes,
bloodying my knee on thorns,
to reach a
waterfall
beneath shade trees:
I had seen
the water in Bubion
rushing as fast
as I had ever seen.
Here, downstream,
it was a torrent –
the noise had
attracted me
to the spot.


Sitting on a rock
near the waterfall,
I watched and listened,
fascinated,
the roar
of the whitewater
was all that
could be heard.
The water also
brought coolness,
as it does in these mountains,
and I stayed there
for twenty minutes or longer.
I left carefully –
a wrong step
on the rocky slopes
surrounding the torrent
would have sent me into it.


The sparrows
continue
to talk and hop
and then I read
Kazantzakis speaking of
sparrows breaking
your heart.


It is still cool.
it began with a heat wave –
96 in the shade.
Now it is
cool
afternoons and evenings
and mornings –
your toes cold
on the tile floor.


Despues cuatro semanas,
I see my hawks, or eagles,
high overhead,
above my patio,
circling and hunting.
The next day
I see the pair again,
flying lower so I can
see
their white colors,
maybe they are the
Spanish Imperial Eagles
I have read about.


Radio Nacional Espana
Classical:
may be the best
classical station
I have heard
in my life
(and that includes you, KDIF,
back in San Francisco
in the old days
before
insufferable radio commercials
that station must now play,
if it still exists,
and you,
Radio France).
RNE broadcast
live
from the Bayreuth Festival
a week
of Wagner,
including The Ring,
in eight hour stretches
with intermissions.
RAI Italy and others
could only handle a
dos y media ora
piece.
The announcer
calls the audience,
“amigos.”
Si, nosotros
estamos
Amigos en Arte,
Amigos en Arte.


The coolness
went and came again,
August Fourth:
10:30 am – 66 degrees F.
August Fourth:
1:55 pm – 74 degrees F.
The light bursts into the eyes
each day here
from about
four pm to eight pm;
this light is intense.
This intense light
could kill.


I drank from the
grandparents' coffee cup
as I awoke today;
their nail-spike
stands on my mantle,
reminding me of
nails
I saw fashioned
in Oberwesel, Germany
at a Medieval festival
in 1986.
The nails are probably
from the same time:
the time of the ancient,
heavy dark doors
set into the
white plastered houses
throughout this village of
Bubion.


I am staying away from
Poqueira kid.
I wasn't here a week
when I saw a trailer
of too silent
brown and white
kid goats
going to market.
I will pass on the goat,
thank you.
Here
they pour extra virgin
olive oil on bread
as if the oil
were honey –
beautiful golden colored
olive oil
from Cordoba
where the Spanish heat
continues on this
sixth day of August –
far below these
Sierra Nevada mountains.


Last night I listened
to Thelonious
on the Bubion-bought
Philips micro stereo:
that early 1940s
Monk fits here:
the acoustics of this house,
and whatever else?


Soon I will return to the
Casa Lucia bodega
in Capileira,
where I found five-year old
Alpujarras oloroso vino
aging in huge barrels.
Next time
I will try
the Malaga Dulce –
they say Shakespeare
loved this wine.


Later,
I am sitting
beneath
the corn
and trees
with grasses bending
in a cool breeze,
listening to a
Ravel Quartet
on RNE.


They started
the fireworks
in Pampaneira
for Saint's Day
(in Pamplona
the annual July festival
is in honor of San Firmin) –
I saw the plumes
of smoke
rising
after hearing
what sounded like
cannon fire.


Those lines
on the distant mountains
are firebreaks
I learned,
not ancient roads –
extraterrestrial
or terrestrial.


A quarter hour later,
mas or meno,
I am still
watching
the grasses bend
near the plateau
where I have seen
wild boar and mountain goat
droppings.
I have to come here
some morning at three am
and see
what I see.


I am writing lines
on the trees'
shadows
on paper.
Otherwordly, it is.
Shadows on
lined paper
before coughing
punctuates Ravel.


A couple just
walked by,
rough looking
local country folks,
not tourists –
I give thanks.
I wrote 20 years
ago
we are all
tourists.
That assessment
is becoming
alarmingly true.


I just looked
down 100 feet
to three kid goats
and two adults,
grazing and resting.
The “baby goats”
as one menu
read,
look, and move, like
dogs or cats.
A regular
family outing
this is:
Beethoven would love them
and this bucolic scene.
Yes, I will try
to stay away
from kid goat.


The next day:
the ravine rattles
with bomb-like
fireworks –
these are not sky-pretty
delights:
these are thunderous
explosions.
They could be
the cannons of
King Philip IV
who reigned
when Spain
ruled Napoli,
Sicilia and Milano.


So, thanks to Nikos,
I am back in Europa again.
Thanks to Nikos,
I am alive.
Nikos would love
these mountains.
I watch the sun set
behind the same mountain
every night,
the palomas blancas
then flying
from the church
to my roof.


I do owe my life
to Kazantzakis,
Helen.
He was a friend,
indeed.
I went to Crete,
at my request,
because of your husband;
otherwise, I learned
after my asking,
it would have been
Vietnam,
where I would
have probably found
no bueno suerte.


I visited Nikos'
grave in Iraklion often
for two years:
“I hope for nothing,
I fear nothing,
I am free,”
is how the marker reads –
no mention of name
or date of birth or death.
These mountains
are like the mountains
that frame
his rocky burial ground.
Yassu, Nikos,
and,
Efkaristo.
When I feed
the sparrows,
I will thank you,
when I see
the Alpujarras Dance
that appears Cretan,
I will thank you,
for the rest
of my life,
wherever I may be,
let me remember
to thank you –
Yassu, Nikos,
and,
Efkaristo Parapoli.

SACRAMENTO STREET

SACRAMENTO STREET


A flowered curtain
rests
in front of
the street-light.

It's midnight's
witness
to taxi-sounds
and smoldering
cigarettes.
In this quiet
we all
should be loved.
In this quiet
we all
should be friends.

You can count
the foot-steps
between the late-night
pavement
and the beginning
of the ocean,
between the vacant
street-corners
and the roughness
of the kiss
upon the stones,
between the cheap talk
of the alleys
and the lovers
beneath the sand.

COGNAC - PARIS 2001

COGNAC - PARIS, 2001


Out of that century,
and into this one;
swap milleniums,
as well.

Using this 21st Century implement
in this 11th Century setting,
benches by the river,
a quasi-mad monk's dream
after cognac and Pineau des Charente.

Now begin...



I


The noise of mufflerless motorscooters
ridden by premilitary men
circling, always circling,
the circle of life
as their father's circled
a quarter-century earlier,
in circles, circles,
the circle of life
the young men circle
for the benefit of the
mademoiselles
they pretend to ignore
circles, circles,
the circles of life,
the circles of life
and death,
and what came before
we were,
in circles, circles,
and what will come after
we were
in circles, circles
the circles of life
the circles of life
and death.


The band played the music
as if they were the marchers
in the final scene
of 8 1/2:
do they come from Italia,
or from nearby Espagne,
are they in town for the festival,
or do they live here year-round,
the marching jazz band
keeping perfect time
with drums, trumpets, trombones and tuba,
circling the town,
three songs to a stop,
circling, circling,
the circle of life
and death
and music
and art?


The circle of da Vinci,
kept alive from hand to mouth
his last 10 years
by Francois Premier,
the King on the Horse:
I visited his birthroom
in the castle by the overflowing Charente
five days ago:
light entered the darkened chambre
through tall windows that overlook
a courtyard circled by the
circles of circles
of art and music,
circles of art and music,
circles, circles
of art and music
circles of circles
of granite --
cut from the earth
a half-millenium ago.


The body may ache,
but we play as our sons,
our nose is still in the right places,
the aroma, the stench,
of the circles, the circles
of life, of birth and death,
the circles of circles
of circles of Spring and decay,
the circles of
what became
before we were,
the circles of
what will become
after we were.


I sat at the head of the table
as it were,
as it were
in the time of Francois Premier
in the banquet room
of the chateau of
Francois Premier
monstrous arches romanesque
overhead,
cool white stone
circling the king
and his guests
I became the king,
circled with sips of vin
blanc et rouge,
after cognac neat,
in tall glasses
awaiting soda and orange,
tastes of quail
cooked in vin rouge,
paper thing frommage
with a dollop of fruit
the noise and smoke
of the banquet
warming the chambre by
20 degrees farenheit,
body heat in circles
of circles of guests
circling in time
with the circles of time,
circles of then,
circles of now,
time in circles,
circles under heavy timbers
of stone,
arched for half a millenium,
straining up,
pushing, pushing
plunging upward,
time in circles
of circles,
circles of time,
circles of time,
circles of time
circles of time
in circles,
circles of time
in circles of
now and then.


The festival's final night:
in the banquet hall of the
Art Patron King
Francois Premier,
who emerged from
the moist and warmth
near the moist and warmth
of the Charente, humid and moist
in circles, circles of moist,
timeless warmth of humid
waters, circles of
warmth, circles of the moist waters,
circles with the warmth and the moist
circles with warmth, circles with
the warmth
circles with the warmth,
circles with the warmth
of birth.


Circles, circles,
enough of these circles,
and then post-festival,
circularly, in circles of circles
the magical circle appears
magically circling itself:
the mickeymouse merryground
of circles,
the circle supreme
the most miraculous circle,
constructed in the rain at midnight
by men in raincoats
without hats
in the final days
of the six month rain
circling the ville of 20,000
overflowing the Charente;
to this end comes the final
circle of circles
the circle supreme
the never-ending black hole
of all circles,
the most incomprehensible
circle of
circles of art
and life and time
and death and art,
the ultimate circle of circles
the circle most magical:
"FUN 'N' DREAM."



II


Two bats
flew from stone:
black from white
into the night.



III


Home again
for the tenth time
at the rue de Fleurus
et rue Madame,
about 500 meters or so
from vingt-sept,
and Stein's lair
where she held her Saturday night soirees;
the Parisian women are more beautiful
than I remembered --
they know "how to carry themselves,"
one guidebook proclaimed --
that's part of it, anyway,
Buster.


The City of Light
is so
full of Light
that I can never read
my laptop screen
at this desk:
so, close the curtains, close the curtains.
That was not the problem in Cognac
with the days of "pluie, pluie,
beaucoup pluie, beaucoup pluie."


Herta emails me
from Salzburg:
"God Bless You
for the ticket.
You do not want to know
how good the concert was."


I know how good it was:
The Berlin Philharmonic,
all Beethoven program, ending with
the Choral Fantasy for Piano, Chorus
and Orchestra.


But I could not make it;
and I may not have begun this,
my art, for Herr Mozart,
who called his sister Horseface,
and for Herr Beethoven,
who kept a smelly chamber pot
under his piano whilst composing.


Ah, the stench of art in progress, Rosita,
he proclaimed in this ville
of art.
They do treat artistes
et ecrivains as they should
be treated
in this city,
even if the overzealous
police make you wonder
at times
about artistic freedom;
what the hell do you want anyway
after passing huge black and white
photos of Apollinaire in the
subway?


In the States such shrines
are reserved
for garish ads, local political
messages
and soulless reflections of
our absence of history.


When I was 18,
wandering the backstreets
of Naples,
I saw two centuries-old statues,
15 feet tall or higher
being used in utilitarian fashion:
between them was tied a clothesline,
from which hung
bras, T-shirts and panties.


I just looked out the window;
as I leaned on the black wrought-iron balcony
looking towards the Luxembourg Gardens,
I saw a beautiful blonde Parisienne
wearing a black leather jacket
and tight black jeans
carrying a two year old
or so
bebe in one arm --
the bebe was wearing a pink hat
and black leather shoes.
In the other arm
the woman carried
a bouquet of dark red roses.
The woman crossed the
rue de Fleurus,
stopped just before the sidewalk
and kissed the bebe on the mouth
before stepping onto the sidewalk
and walking towards the
Luxembourg Gardens,
walking under the red Tabac sign
before turning left,
out of sight.


I just looked out the window again.
"Hemingway's" horse-chestnut trees
are full with green leaves
and just beginning to show their white flowers.
A woman with jet black hair
walks up the rue de Fleurus,
walking away from the Gardens,
clutching a newspaper,
turns left onto the rue Madame,
past the Hotel de L'Avinir,
with its same four signs
above second story windows
"HA, HA, HA, HA."


That's easy for you to say,
fortunate and privileged
one --
fortunate and privileged
to be in belle Paris
once again.



IV


Here again in Eglise St. Sulpice,
and I just paid for this privilege --
vingt-cinq francs
for friends in purgatory:
I may have more
than a few
of them,
and certainly
friends-in-purgatory
to be.


Christ on the cross
is laying in sculpture
on the floor
near the church entrance,
surrounded by six candles;
it is Good Friday:
Christ died for all our sins
and Lenny Bruce died for all
you foul-mouthed ones who curse
so casually
to earn
the almighty Buck,
French Franc
or Deutschmark.


I have lit candles
in this church
to those
before they died,
and
after they died;
I do not want to go into that --
let's just say
this is my church.
I have read
Faulkner, Fitzgerald and Hemingway
all attended mass here.
I am surprised they each
attended mass anywhere.


The bells are certainly tolling
for thee,
Ernesto,
they just struck 12 noon
on Good Friday, ami;
I will drink to you
again
tonight
at the Closerie des Lilas
as I have done in the past
in this city of yours and city of all
artistes et ecrivains.



V


This is how this one
ends:
Sitting on a chair
in a guard shack
in the Luxembourg Gardens
on Easter Sunday.
This may look peculiar
-- the ecrivain and the laptop --
but I say
how much more peculiar
than joggers running hatless
in the rain?


"Beaucoup pluie,
en Paris
Beaucoup pluie,"
the Parisienne
said to me minutes ago,
her husband covering
their heads
with an umbrella
as they walked down
the rue de Fleurus
into the gardens
for their Easter stroll
in the rain.


I am stubborn.
I wanted to end this work
in the Luxembourg Gardens,
and I will end it
in the Luxembourg Gardens
in this little shack:
the sign, illustrated
with a drawing
of a pedestrian
in a high wind, says:
"Avis
Risque de Vent Violent
attention
chutes de Branches."

This may seem like a joke,
but when was it that the
hurricane-strength winds
struck Paris,
toppling trees
in these gardens --
two years ago?

It is raining harder now.
Two gendarmes
walked passed
sans harrassment:
I must be safe.
A young girl
on a bicycle screams
after her brother
rams her with his;
the mother responds
with another scream.
I remember this event
in my life
but it certainly doesn't
seem like
40-odd years ago.


Last night I watched
from my hotel room
as an old couple
walked down the rue de Fleurus,
step by step,
so tentatively,
they must have been
in their nineties.
This is a museum
and they are an exhibit,
I thought to myself,
they are the timeless march
of time
and only seconds ago,
it would seem,
they were each
the bebe
in the pink hat
being carried by the
mother
I saw days ago.
They are all of us,
walking down the
rue de Fleurus,
her black-gloved hand
very elegantly around his arm,
out for a walk as if they
were teenagers,
they march for us all,
children talk and scream
in the background
"Papa, Papa,
Papa, Papa,"
crows cry in the gardens
and they walk for us all,
walking, walking
the never ending walk,
the ceaseless walk
of generations,
the promenade of life.




FINI
APRIL 15, 2001 PARIS

NOTE: Written "on location" with laptop computer