SELECTED POETRY

by
Rodge Glass

HIGH AND MIGHTY OVER NYC


The helicopter takes off, banks high, swoops low,
we all hold tight to seat and side,
stomachs spinning as the pilot combats wind and water
shaking our little machine.
Left at liberty’s statue, right round Empire State,
Over the ferry, the pitches, the warships,
to see what is not there –
the yawning hole below
where business used to live.

All vantage points face here now.
Effigies are erected, statements made, fights started,
without permission, in the name of that space.
And meanwhile, down there are printed lies:
Here stood! says the plaque, Here stood!
What we all stand for.
But if we are going to pray for the wronged dead,
let us make an honest prayer.

The helicopter dives once more, coming to the tour’s end –
our insides go with it, and gurgle, and splash.
Hopeless beings with beating hearts
dived desperately from the place that isn’t there,
without a chance.
Ugly excess was met by ugly excess.
Which was, in time, returned with more.
The city still bubbles, sings and spits,
We still worship the rich and damn the poor,
And the helicopter lands safely.

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TORONTO SERIES: October 2005

Five poems written on the plane on the way back from a holiday in Toronto with friends

1) ANGELS ON HORSEBACK

We split up for a few hours alone
you took your camera, went your way round
I took mine and walked mine.
I read the paper, had a drink in the sunshine, in silence.
We met back up.

You’d been stopped by an old woman in Chinatown
saying she was trying to raise some money
and would you like a blow job for ten dollars.
No thanks, you told her.
Well I hope you get one soon, she said,
and you said, I will.
I imagine you smiled.

Later we ate in Swan Restaurant, drinking good wine
and you told your story to new friends.
I bet you looked right at her, serious – though we’re all laughing now.
I bet you did it the right way, polite.
You’re not afraid.

Listening, I was jealous it hadn’t been me
so I could have said no, and smiled kindly,
and shown, in some small way
that though I wasn’t going to do anything about it –
I didn’t want her to have to offer blow jobs to men she was prepared to call Sir
for the price of a good glass of wine.

The meal was good.
Conversation was warm, honest.
My only contribution was to point out that
the oysters wrapped in bacon
were the same price as a blow job in Chinatown.

It was my biggest laugh all night.

2) THE FIRE

I’ve been reading that:
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
But I didn’t know I was on fire
until the flames engulfed me.
Even if I’d known,
I would have run.

Fires are too hot, unpredictable,
they draw too much attention.
Better small, regular, inner ones
than the usual kind.

3) GOOD HOSTS

On the night of day 4 we went drinking
like the nights of days 1, 2 and 3.
Everything was good, natural, normal.
Then we argued.

My mouth couldn’t be relied upon
and I was sure, for a while, that yours couldn’t be either.
We were told it wasn’t the time or the place,
and it wasn’t
but I couldn’t stop.
I needed to say too much, too much.

Because I couldn’t scoop my insides out onto the bar,
be sure they would make sense
I shouted
instead of crying.
You said true things, harshly.
It was cold for everyone outside when the bar shut, but I shivered more than you.
The jolts wouldn’t stop.

When we got back to the house
I didn’t have to scoop.
It all fell out, without permission, uncensored –
and no-one was more surprised than me
to find I was unsure, unhappy, unknowing,
and no more manly than when we met.
Through tears, I told you both I hadn’t cried in years;
I didn’t know what was happening to me;
and I didn’t.

Friends who have worked harder, struggled more than me, still do –
enjoy themselves more than I know how
and have to delay going to bed to sleep off the drink
to tell me I’m okay;
not to take myself too seriously;
and that it’s alright to cry.

Four days walking, drinking, eating, laughing,
with good friends,
makes me sad.
Every challenge is pressure,
nobody puts on me but me.
They tell me to love me more;
to stop what I’m doing to me .

But I know no more how to change
Than when I first promised it.

4) THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING

In your present I wrote Thank You For Everything
and you joked the message
could have been to anyone,
was lazy.

But today you were quiet when I needed,
talked when I needed,
knew my sadness,
and did not complain.

We took streetcars through the city,
shopped for things we didn’t need
drank coffee and coffee and coffee
though already wide awake
walked, walked, walked –
and did not mention what I was thinking.

At the end of the day, I wanted to
And at the beginning, I wanted to
But you understood what was best.

5) TWO FANS

I rested in a café, alone
as I am happiest,
and took out two books –
one to read, one I don’t know why.
I am a show off.

Waiter comes over, picks up spare, says –
I love this guy. This book new?
Yeah. You like him?
Sure. I look out for his stuff everywhere. Hope to see him read one day.
Amazing he’s still going.
Yeah, I say. Eleven years in heaven, and still putting out books on earth.
Impressive.
I laugh, pleased with myself.

Waiter stops.
Takes in information.
He dead?
Yeah. His wife puts the books out now – collects them from old notes he left around.
No way.
You didn’t know he was dead? It says on all the books.
Never read the back pages….tells you too much, right?
Oh well.
Waiter takes order, goes, comes back with order, goes again.
Half way through, checks I’m enjoying my meal.
I put the spare book away, and read the one I’m reading.

After the meal, leaving compulsory tip, I think about leaving the book instead.
But talk myself into believing
he’s not interested now.
I need it more.

I’m not rich.
I can’t afford to go giving books away.
I leave a bigger tip than normal and go to sit in another bar.
I still have an hour spare.

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© Rodge Glass
Reproduced with permission

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