Swan of Tuonela

 

Swan of Tuonela

 

1.

 

Lake of the dead, Finnish underworld. What to say? Ex cathedra, walking Runerberginkatu, late April, me & Tim.

 

We were walking, me & Tim. 

He, translating Faulkner into Finnish.

I, translating Saarikoski into Norte Americano–making Marxism into sock puppets. 

 

We were, in short, both crazy. & I had Tuonela

On the brain–flat lake, silent swan gliding among souls.

 

Helsinki, almost spring, Reagan on the shortwave…

Little gingerbread houses with their lights on at dusk…

 

+/- East/West propaganda divided by 19th century communalism

For we were still naive in those days, there was still a Berlin wall in those days,

Derrida’s Grammatology; Egyptian grammar in those days…

 

We were walking, me & Tim, taking Pablo to a toy shop–little boy six years old 

Fresh from school, Nordic afternoon, he just wanting a kite.

 

Sometimes I don’t know how to tell it. 

The boy wanted a kite. His father & I, some kind of victory

Complete with Trotsky at the parade

“in summer with the furniture outdoors”…

 

 

2.

 

The two of us on the street 

Smoking cigarettes, laughing, Pablo by now among the spinning tops.

“I see,” I said just there, for Tim was speaking about the arts of desire,

Too many for enumeration, one has to nod–

“What we call reality is an agreement 

 people have arrived at 

 

to make life more livable.” (Louise Nevelson)

“I see,” (reflex, nodding, punctuated with a Marlboro.) 

 

 

Appeared there between us a man

Face white as bone–skin–

His veins standing out.

(Later I would say

The oldest man I ever saw.)

 

“Why do you say you see?” 

Then said it again, eyes troubled

Shaking his finger,

“You don’t see, you understand!” 

“You understand!”

 

& we looked to each other

But he was gone,

mid-block, big city

Vanished–

We looking up & down…