Failure of Speaking

Foolishly I start to weep
—the sound of the nocturnes

downstairs, vigorous melancholy,
the piano’s tender agitations

impressed upon the flesh, the body
of feeling—of loss—this house

and its solitary occupant
one spirit of listening melody:

forgotten associations, recalling love
—oh how I love you

And, in an identical house, the pain
of the piano interrupted

by the telephone, the caught breath
and dismay of silence:

what power subjects me,
why can I not speak

the passionate, simple words, or raise
my eyes to meet an answer in your gaze

or reach to the hand you rest upon your knee
—how I do love thee


He could not easily in public utter
whole sentences, his staff watched

and willed words into being
to catch his darting eye

above the podium, enough to stutter
phrases that do not entirely lie.

Rash, inarticulate, ruthless king,
fluent, compliant client, master

now of that strutting martial walk
into the Rose Garden, whose ardent talk,
the catch in the voice, the stifled sigh,
those crafted hesitations, bring
a boyish charm to ethical disaster.

It could have been sex or drugs or drink
or, equally, abstention from them,

but he confronted the difficulties
of any mortal man, found the spiritual use

of the mirror in the bathroom:
shock of the flecked and stricken face

as the basin emptied, the first
salutary greeting from his saviour,

but, refreshed by this cooling water,
he demanded a quick return

from his venture, accompanied now by aides
and heavy security, even the press corps,

into the inner life, no way, this, for a hero
to handle the pursuit of monsters

when the lonely path through the forest
is absolutely de rigueur—oh my love,


forgive my easy proneness to tears,
the startled emotion in the forest

from buried scenes of desire,
or call it love, the relentless

Chopin surges with it, pauses
with recollection of loss, glances

and glimmers in the mind, your face
in the piano’s nervous hesitations

half visible, mirror of my desire,
not yet for flesh (what did Plato know)

but for the holy silence that still
envelops you, and now departs

from me, false sightings
in the station concourse crowd

ah, slender black figure of light,
mourning is my karma, inwardness—love,

the (secret) will for another’s happiness.

Only, I wish—hope—against my own resolve
that moral necessity could dissolve,

submit, then, broken-sandaled, to the role
of mute erastes, possessed—of neither flesh nor soul:
—but, her image, surely, in my heart, shows

the goddess, the glory her face and eyes disclose?
No—it shows you in the aspect of desire

as our bare nature, formed in need,
in our hunger for what we lack—not greed

to have—but to be in love and beauty’s fire.


Ah, that light-footed gaiety of flesh
and supple spirit as she goes
all eager to her lover, my careful pose
of careless distance slips as we pass
uneasily on the stairs, reproach

unperceived, swiftly took its chance,
makes its point and leaves
its poison in a moment’s glance.


I am summoned forward, to present myself
at the tribunal, where a sad judge

leads us through the evidence, I myself
am juror and defendant, my case

and yours reversed, I must feel
the fire of your old desire, endure

the frown of wary withdrawal
unresponsive eromenos,

unfeeling hand caught by yours,
that committed but rejected gesture

and my sentence is: to offer now
in grief, the glad, generous welcome

as we visit and parade the infant
in your study, the quiet courtesies

of afternoon tea, scent of lavender
as we move to the patio, smiling,

as he repeats some ancient anecdote
carefully maintains the flow of conversation
to hold back the flood of his desolation.

Forgive me, that I never said farewell.