Aged

After so many years in the dark place
ruled by stars
the only thing I could think to say was,
“Just look at yourself! Gone all to pieces,”
which I immediately regretted.

“Me?” you snapped. “Me?!”
and still misunderstanding the cold of such talk,
I cracked!
“Yes you…look at yourself! All skin and bones
and repulsive attitude.”

And captured by the magnetism of ourselves,
we said to each other,
“From which broken place have we returned?”
And we answered,
“From the place where we walk on knees,
defenseless buffoons,
and stare into the crescent moon wistfully thinking,
‘Weren’t we lovely
before the aged one
forced us to accompany him
to the place
where the pieces have all come apart?’”
And looking into each other’s eye
we said,
“Please don’t.
Soon night will arrive,
and all the promises we made
will be laid on that thunderhead
and dispersed back into the landscape
where we believed there were continents
upon which we had prayed to live.”

yellow

            “…If only you pay attention to it you will see
             that certain stars are lemon-yellow…
                                    -I sent my grief away. I cannot care forever.
                                                            -Vincent Van Gogh

              -Dream Song 36; The high ones, die, die. They die.
                                                            -from 77 Dream Songs by John Berryman

              And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof 
              With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
                                                            -My Grandmother’s Love Letters
                                                            -from White Buildings by Hart Crane

all of us who can see
have been moved at least once
by some expression
of their power in the air
in our hearts

but the perpetual bondage
in which Hart Crane and John Berryman
must have been locked
with their color blindness
or whatever they chose to name it
or to deny it its divinity
did not see yellow
I do not believe
especially on their big days
tumbling through the acquiescent sky—

Berryman over the bridge railing
between St. Paul and Minneapolis
wintered onto the Mississippi
feet pointing upwards
at certain stars
seeming to be moving farther away—

and years earlier
Crane climbing over
the gunwale of the Orizaba in spring
into the Gulf of Mexico
at noon
300 miles from Cuba
his befuddled feet
pointing upside down
at vanishing stars of lemon-yellow
perhaps like Van Gogh
whatever visual impairment

they may or may not have had
is it possible that Crane was blinded
gazing into yellow scotch over ice
lit by the tropic’s midday burn—
or that Berryman could not see
the yellow streaks firing from the beard
the tilting head
the flailing arms
Mr. Bones complaining
about the color of his favorite yellow shirt…
The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who’s there?
—Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side.
I smell your grief.

Chronicle

            “The image of all the cars
              leaving pastel-colored people
              at the same time
              has never really left me…”
                               –Rupert Friend

 -Friend’s comment…(on the)…conformity and blandness of suburban life…

beyond the woods
twilight burns-
komorebi lighting the pages
with pale shadows
–
offshore
small boats
make me drowsy
but dozing
would rock my ears shut
and close my eyes
I mustn’t sleep
–
tide presses steadily against the town
the bay half emptied of dusk
half filled with moonlight
–
sun slips behind the island
red and perfect stillness-
drifting toward shore
oars dipped in passional moonlight
–
the ones you have loved
who are gone forever
leave a blue aura
in a hazy room-
the stain of a cry
–
you frighten yourself on purpose
go up in smoke
leave a small pile of ashes
the children track in
–
the stone is silent
until the sea surrounds it
at the bottom
of the sparkling ocean
where the moon is a reachable pearl
–
each shell
glazed the color of bone
opens silently
sacrificing its one flesh
–
what I write in the diary
keeps the pages from crumbling

John L. Stanizzi is the author of numerous poetry collections, including Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Hallelujah Time!, Sundowning, Viper Brain, and SEE. His work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Cortland Review, American Life in Poetry, Rattle, The New York Quarterly, and many others, and has been widely translated into Italian. His nonfiction has also been published in Stone Coast Review, Adelaide, and Literature and Belief.

A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar and New England Poet of the Year, John is the Flash Fiction Editor for Abstract Magazine TV and a recipient of a 2021 Artist Fellowship Award in Creative Nonfiction from the Connecticut Office of the Arts. He taught literature and directed theater at Manchester Community College and Bacon Academy in Connecticut. He lives in Coventry. Learn more here.