Poem – Chest of Gold (1979)

A chest of gold. A hairy chest filled with gold

on the beach. Ireland has the Catholics

Germany has the Jews America has the Negro

and Darling, I have you.      Flash on

Blazing Star. Those dreams are not of

excellence.      Boys in tubs.  Light and

shade.   Late in life.   He kissed me

like a mouse nibbling cheese without

setting off the trap.   To be discovered

by circumstance.       C.P.W.  I’ve been

lording over a hot slave all night.

The history of the high heel.       Shoptalk

on Olympus.   “The happy bird sings.

The unhappy bird dies,” Maria Callas.

With all my heart I still love the

man I killed.

Story – Massachusetts Avenue (2003)

June 26th Bridge Hampton

Walking along the beach road at sunset with the, to me, heart-breaking foliage—beach plums, bayberry, ineffably pink dog roses that fall apart if you try to pick them, etc.. We were four grownups and a 6 year old, I turned to Jaqueline:

“If I were Kai’s age I’d dash right into that underbrush. I wasn’t allergic to poison ivy and so could make myself alone in any woods.”

Indeed, when I was little I had no friends outside the woods, where I was thoroughly at home. I knew where the bird’s-foot violets were and when; walk on a ways where, always with an abrupt halt, the heart-stopping Lady Slipper in its shaft of light on the oak leafed floor. And wild strawberries on the Fourth of July in Maine—where I saw a black-masked warbler beneath tall, yellow, moccasin-orchids. Yes, always wild strawberries.

I was fortunate that some of the best woods were in my family, as it were. Crossing Main St. to Aunt Laurette’s and through her yard with its elm tree where the pristine sack of a Baltimore Oriole’s nest over hung her morning-room window out the rhubarb sided track, past the shed where Claribelle the goat was tethered, then around the back of the old Ashley estate (paved with lilies of the Valley in season) and into the Saw Mill’s woods.

The Saw Mill’s woods began abruptly with a leather green pavement of Winter green, then I was in the woods. The path immediately darkened with an audible hush. Nature took over and, if you were looking and listening, put on quite a show. The birds stepped up a few rungs in quality, their songs distinct and quotable.

The first event as you entered was an eroded cliff on the right glamourosly scaled to a not-yet-grown person, the oak on its crest overhanging the yellow earth where its roots threw themselves out. The sun and the ground had a routine worked out whereby a beam piercing the leaves would spotlight a wild flower on its own shelf on the cliff face—one plant per sun-beam. The flat-faced heavenly Bird’s foot violet with its little orange cone in the very center—one plant and the only one I ever saw. And Turks-head Lilies. Tall, thin, hodding and orange or sometimes, yellow.

Don’t think I was fully accepted. As much as I wanted the birds to make me ball gowns and mice surround me for a chat, I would sometimes be dive-bombed by birds and chided relentlessly from branch to branch by one squirrel in particular. And I would always fall for the wounded bird trick where the bird with a broken wind would flop around, just out of reach, until I couldn’t remember where the pantomime had started, and then knowing I’d been led far enough away she’d fly off and leave me ignorant of where on the ground her nest lay and I was deeper in the forest.

Then the woods opened up. To the left was the Saw Mill river (the headwater of the Acushnet River eponymous to the real whaler Melville shipped out on that was the model for the Pequod of “Moby Dick”). To the right a sloping glade and directly in front and abandoned 18th century cranberry log and beyond that the grey-black horizontal of a pine forest that formed the self-declared boundary of my woods.

Throughout the years I spent in the Saw Mill Woods I never saw a single person. My sense of privacy and safety were complete. There were no surprises greater than a toad underfoot or a quail’s clumsy thrashing into, but never quite making it into, the sky.

There were no unpleasant surprises, so that when I tell you that, here, I would sometimes turn right and sit on the moss and daisy upholstered fieldlet, and stare at the Pines across the bog or eat the wild strawberries growing within arms reach. My sense of solitary belonging was complete.

Around my eleventh birthday, that year, later in the summer, when the pines had taken their dominion over the trees, on a white and muggy day I lay on the daisy covered ground. I was only wearing a bathing suit, as usual–no shirt or shoes. I was golden brown from the sun and the baby hair on my arms and legs was golden. My head covered in whitish bland hair raw cut but with a platinum cowlick over my left eyebrow dark like its mate over double fringed??? black eyelashes surrounding eyes the color of a wild blueberry cut in half.

It was early in the white day, the sun at my left hand. I lay back, my hands tucked under my head. My knees bent up my heels against the back of my thighs–let’s put a juicy blade of grass in my mouth–strawberries were finished.

I looked up at the white sky. Suddenly the sun was declining on my right hand. The whiteness had possessed me. I got up. My shorts were, I could see, quite far away. Eight or nine hours of my life had disappeared. Many year later trying to recapture what happened in that split second that took all day. I remembered the light descending and collecting around me. Whether that’s a real memory or something else–I haven’t a clue.

 

II

 

I was sixteen and living in Boston, working as an artist’s model, don’t laugh, it supported me. I lived on Beacon Hill but had friends at Coffee Corner near Mass and Huntington Avenues. I’d walked down Newberry Street and was on the Mass Ave overpass near Jane Garnell’s at Fenway studios where I passed a very beautiful young man carrying his schoolbooks walking in the opposite direction toward the bridge to Cambridge. Something he’d heavily over-marked in the cover of one of his schoolbooks–the outside one, caught my eye. I swivelled on my heels, ran a bit, caught up with him and said, “Where you an ecstatic child?”

We stood there facing each other: the traffic and the pulse of a city dying away and he told me that, Yes, he’d been an ecstatic child. I don’t remember where I was exactly going or where, ostensibly, he was off to but previous plans were set aside. “Come with me,” he said. I guess he was eighteen or nineteen.

We went to his room. Boston at that time was honey combed with rooms. There were beautiful teenagers in rooms everywhere. The rent got paid, the educations were completed, and the sea was guilty.

We sat across from each other at a small table. This was a business meeting not a date and was not prolonged unnecessarily. I don’t remember saying good-bye–there was no further rendezvouz contemplated or suggested, I never asked or found out his name, and what he told me ran something like this.

At the age of twelve God began raping him. It was horrible. God would violate him forcefully would ravish him violently and repeatedly. To be singled out like that is hopeless for a child–there is truly no one to turn to. I was the only person he’d ever told. We were both crying.

Realizing the futility of his situation and combining ingenuity with intrepidity at eleven o’clock mass during the benediction this beautiful twelve year old boy walked up to the altar sail as the priest’s back was turned to the congregation, kneeling and with bowed heads, my ecstatic friend hanged on the marble altar rail and in a loud voice in the hushed church demanded now screaming that God keep his evil hands off of him and leave him alone. I suppose, come now to think of it, he humiliated god enough so that as a result the ecstatics ceased. You can all write for yourselves here the movie of what went on in the church and at home after this–if he told me, I don’t remember. But if my memory of childhood has any insight at all, I’d say, not much. The righteousness in this little boy’s anger and the tone of his voice must surely have warned everyone who heard that this was an event outside their experience and to act as if it didn’t happen: In fact collective ‘oublie’ probably set in.

I suppose we said good by. I know I left his room because I am not there now. But we had had the same experience, somehow. He had had his suffering and I had had a hole in time. Recognizing him re-affirmed the event for me. The words had first jumped out of my mouth when he passed by a symbol scratched in graphite unconsciously onto the cover of a school–book had leapt out at me and told me that what I had experienced was ecstasy in a deeply incised double-cross.

 

 

Rene Ricard,

Summer 2003

Poem – After a Nap, Rip Van Winkle Finds a Basket of Erotes (2005)

After a Nap, Rip Van Winkle Finds a Basket of Erotes

                          Rene Ricard

The first question of course is: “After fifteen years

Do I need these little loves.”   Of course not.

Nor, are they desireable. The attrition announces

Itself when old Rip can’t remember how the subject

Gets placed in the conversation. “How do I introduce

These charming if pesky Erotes to whomever

They would most profit me to know.”

Love, Love, Love

What a Beautiful thing during the Beauty

Years. But poor ole Rip is Sixty with a

Raging hard-on. How cute is that?

He tries to ignore it. The Erotes, however,

Are continually manipulating his already

“Febrile” member. Ignoring ‘it’ during the Day

Only leads to “In bed the tears run into your Ears.”

Rip feels sure, however

That he will take a chance, some-

How his hoary beard and old but long

And thick Dutch cock, will appeal

To a young, lonely, insecure

Cocksucker.

 

June                                       2005