A couple of old strange poems.
I think most poets, when they retain
any affection for their early work,
probably like the poems best that they understand least,
that they haven't, in some way, hopefully outgrown.
These are two odd poems, very short ones.
First is entitled "Fox."
Nijinsky is mentioned it, and Nijinsky
was a Russian ballet dancer who was-- purported, could
seem to be able to hold himself, momentarily suspend himself,
in the air in his leaps.
He died.
He went mad before he died.
One of the aspects of his madness-- this
isn't mentioned in the poem.
It's just gossip.
It was-- he imagined that there was cut glass
all over the floor so that he couldn't walk,
which is strange, poetic form of madness for a dancer.
"Fox."
Fox, eyes red, stands on the rocks,
puts his long head down to the lake, drinks cold oil.
Overhead, the jets wheel and go to sea.
Fox is thoughtful, an indifferent ear.
If he listens, he hears Wing Commander Joe
shift in the dark electronics.
Nijinsky, the wind whispers on the wings.
Where are you now, the radar sings.
See, it doesn't mean anything that's why it's--
[LAUGHS] retained an affection for it.
World War II.
Now the soldiers grow shorter, marching
into their mother's wombs.
Korea sleeps.
The thresher turns on its side.
Many sailors have come home unrecognizably older.
In the Arctic, Nansen still eats soup.
Under his fire, the ice clears to glass.
He trusts himself.