Poetry Feature


The Hudson
Three by Vicki Hudspith

~ . ~ . ~

This River
It was only here by this river
In the quickness of spring
Where trains lug
And ice floats sluggish
In the warm consensus of afternoon
Summer wagged its tongue

It was by this river
Moving with confidence
I was told to rest and not to worry
That the pine boughs would reach upward

So near yet I never ventured as much as a toe
But worried at its haste, unpredictable currents
And whether the tides would meet me

It was only here
That I thought it would be possible
Not to be wrong
And move with speed beyond winter's stillness
Knowing what the river leaves behind

So it was here I was strong enough
To desire the water wheel, its music
The equations
Of fountains that keep us young
Water yearns toward

It was here that I slept
And knew I would wake safely
In the arms of fortune tellers and palm readers
Who would hold me in the panic of afternoon

It was here
By this river
Of melting snow

~ . ~

Picnics Of the Heart
Who could say
In which moment
It was moving
Walking on moonlight
The pilings of vanished platforms
Resigned Hudson River stubble
A million or so optimistic immigrants
Saw them when they were new
Forgotten are the canoes of Indian summer
Firefly love
This convenient river
Most direct and without boulders
How we fear its credo of whirlpools
Yet boys barely twelve
Once jumped in it for free
Sweltering
Early century afternoons
Their glee
Could I love you again
Under the trample of my heart's conspiracy?
The political intrigue of shoes and underwear
The micro-organism called hope
Swung by the armpits, the category of myth
To eat the lead weight of not ever seeing you
Again
And carry your shadow in my pocket
Thinking I would see you
But you are gone
And it's not going to be you
Across the room
Or ahead of me on the afternoon sidewalk
I could call out
The mind is so powerful
I could almost bring you back
Though considering
How crushing it was to know you
The worst scoundrel
I would like to think I knew the breezes once too
Before I was brought into the game
Of where to put everything
I am reduced to the life of kings
Because the moon is the twinkle of the night sky
Yet you knew
Only small surprises have resonance
Like a bouncer in front of a cheap club
My secret corners
You can have the gossip of lions
More invigorating
Than the diaries of teenaged girls
And posturing boys
Who on the very next day are only men
Living out the routine of providing
Picnics of the heart
We cloak ourselves in the feast of our disguises
When life is mostly mean
And our lives the mythology of gangsters
Sluts, businessmen, adoring wives and mothers
May we close our eyes and believe
The propaganda of the heart and its ravenous need
In the hours of our pounding panic attacks
In the unknown hours
When we don't have a clue
I only know your back
And the long way around it
To where I'll meet you
Someday

~ . ~
The Docking Of Afternoon
As if to move the stream
As if to be the thinning of currents
Whirlpools and tides love strife
Like the ridges of a cat's tongue
Glide smoothly over the pools
Of who you loved
Fatiguing the wooden piers
While geese go into military action
Arresting the air with gossip
Mimicry and I-told-you-so's
Humidity, this impulsive ingredient
Steams from day-old gum on the ground
Hallucinations of Double Bubble
The moorings of memory replay themselves
Blowing sweet bubbles
To a thousand volunteers waving
Desperate to be called upon
Linked with the military maneuvers of West Point cadets
But the river continues its counterbalance
As it did against the French
As it did against countless canoes
A lack of sun means only that it will make its move undetected
Like heart murmurs of those you left
To paddle the fishy depths of the Hudson River's main artery
Where few would dare without a combustion engine
Twirling between tide and current
Passing trees in the exhausted hours
As if they could call to you from their stubborn positions
Or extend one branch to pull you home
And so you drift
As love will
Amazed by how afternoon passes for hours
When it is merely a chunk of day
That eclipses
As you have eclipsed
While I wait, a patient annotation, to turn the page
From this placid shore
Jet skis and pleasure boats go flying by
Filled with the ragged exhaustion of weekends
Where once I dreamed of being bigger than the tides
Hold in my empty hand
All the answers
Like geese returning single file
Defying that v-formation thing
As eager to return
As I am to absorb the happiness of plankton
And the spongy underfoot dreams of snails
In the impending arrival of a schooner filled with unknown
Visitors to my afternoon room
The sun is almost with us
Weary both from winter and the chaos of spring
Outboard engine fumes lift the breeze
While the deck fills with the silent dread of non-swimmers
Through the docking of afternoon
~ . ~ . ~

(Vicki Hudspith is the author of White and Nervous (Bench Press Editions, 1982) and Limousine Dreams, published with drawings by the painter James DeWoody (1986). She is President of the Board of Directors of The Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church in New York's East Village. She has directed plays by John Ashbery and James Schuyler with sets by Jane Freilicher and Alex Katz respectively, for Eye and Ear Theater. With Madeleine Keller she co-edited KNOCK-KNOCK A Funny Anthology by Serious Writers featuring work from 100 writers and ten visual artists. Her work has appeared in the Crown Publishers anthology, Out Of This World, edited by Anne Waldman, with foreword by Allen Ginsberg, as well as numerous small press magazines. In 1976-1978 she edited The Poetry Project Newsletter, conducting a nationwide interview series with writers and artists. She has written criticism for Exquisite Corpse, Cover and The Poetry Project Newsletter. She plays the electric bass guitar with other poets and painters in a group called The Culture Vultures. Her latest manuscript is called, Urban Voodoo.)