HERE ON THE BALCONY
[From Berlin, in spite of Cynthia Ozick]
He stands on the balcony
in a far away place,
raises his arm before him
in a rigid salute
to an absent crowd.
We are historical, he thinks,
but we don't live in history.
Yes, there are records of this,
but we are not in the records.
Ah such complexity!
He thinks this is the defining act,
the actualization of a central image:
that of a man standing
on the edge of an abyss
pissing into a hard wind.
Not a mistake, not an idle gesture,
but the assertion of presence.
There is unceasing arbitration
at work here, he senses that,
for he is always going out,
always being more
than his circumstance,
more than the sum.
He knows it is
absolutely correct
to be here.
In fact, it is a necessary act.
It seems that when others
return to the scene of the crime
they are there essentially
to lament their losses,
then the criminal is the victor.
But what is the alternative?
To cower in one's righteous place,
in one's corner of self-pity?
A freeing instance here
shouts: I am alive!
By character and intuition,
by inclination too,
he always goes towards,
not from and not away,
always goes towards it.
Here in this he has no choice.
He knows that as in the old fable,
the hero must confront a series
of fearsome obstacles,
the last and greatest of which
is coming home.
DANCING IN THE DARK
The problem
with this poem
is that
it needs
light
to be read.
light:
daylight
candle-light
electric light.
sun light.
One can dance
in the dark
one can sing
in the dark
one makes
love
in the dark
but this poem
cannot be read
in darkness
that is perhaps
its greatest
weakness.
ELSEWHERE
I was told not to go there
that it was the wrong time of year
that the weather would get to me
but if I really insisted on going
then I should take precautions
especially against insect bites
because these are often mortal
they said it was irresponsible
to even contemplate going there
but I replied that one always suffers
from not suffering enough
FINAL ESCAPE
How will it happen
the final exitus
will it be violent
will it hurt
or will it be quiet
full of silence
Will the sordid images
that have haunted us
be suddenly erased
or will they be replayed
endlessly replayed
in virtual reality
Will we fall
or will we rise
or simply pass through
as one goes through
an open door
to enter a room
Perhaps it will be
an escape
another escape
from the little box
where it all started
among empty skins
But this time it will be
the final escape
from the great cunt
of existence
and this time
without any gurgling
Will the stolen sugar be
as sweet as the first time
and what of the moon
tiptoeing on the roof
will she smile upon us
or remain indifferent
Will there be words
left to describe what
is taking place
words and silences
or will there be only
cries and whispers
ROAD
And if I told my story to myself ?
It is true that along the rocky story
I often stumbled, and when I fell
I would get up saying to myself
that no one had seen me, and I
would continue saying to myself,
it was an accident, and I set out
again, hobbling along, saying,
it's okay, the fall was not a fall,
the rocks were not rocks, and even
if some bystanders laughed at me,
others encouraged me, saying that
I had a beautiful story in me, and
that I had to tell it, even if to myself.
PICKING UP PEBBLES
To write
to write one's life
is to take a road that leads nowhere
and yet parallels the totality of one's existence
To write one's life
is to evoke a silhouette
that of the writer rushing through his past
One cannot tell where he is going
as he detours diverges deviates
but that is why we want to follow him
Along the way like a lost traveler
he picks up pebbles from the ground
and stuffs them in his pockets
As he gropes backward he loses himself
but we are willing to be disoriented with him
willing to be lulled by his vain repetitions
Stranded in time with him
we lose ourselves in space with him
and yet everything holds in place underneath
as if pulled by a magnet
All that was absent
forgotten from his life
is now suddenly present again
Copyright © 1996 Raymond Federman