Sample Poems from Wolff's Poetry Book:
HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE NIGHT
Ghost
of a Gecko
I
could not bring you roses because
the
wind stole their scent. I could not
bring
you seashells, there were mollusks
and
hermits still in them.
I
could not bring you a bouquet of stars;
though
I leapt from my roof, they were
still
too far. I could not show you the sand
palace
I built, the tide came eagerly in.
I
could not bring you a gecko, to eat
the
mosquitoes that attack your skin.
The
gecko was trapped beneath my blanket
and
my knee accidentally crushed him.
I
was so sad, I built a little ship out
of
drift-wood, gave him a funeral on
last
night’s ocean. I had no sail,
my
love, so I had to use this poem.
The
wind carried it away,
along
with the scent of your roses,
across
the sleeping mollusks in your
seashells,
past your demolished sand
palace,
where the ghost of the gecko
dances,
between walls the sea
swept
away.
And
now, I have only this story,
which
I’m certain you’ll never believe,
how
I ended up here, love, with nothing
but
a few grains of sand on my feet.
Poetry
When
I reach the podium
all
I want to be is this poem.
I
don’t want to be a man standing here
reading
this. Not even a brilliant man.
Not
even a genius. I just want to be
these
words in your ears. I want to
be
sound, plunging down your auditory canal
into
the damp expanse of your mind,
over
the reef of your brain where the sea turtles
and
angelfish are flapping their happy fins,
stirring
sand to the surface. I want to be
that
sand and that sea and the words that
make
it happen. Because every heart
becomes
an ocean, the moment it
starts
to listen.
The
Last Lover
Death
gets one night with
every
woman, luring her
into
his foggy bedroom with
the
most final of embraces,
kissing
her body back into
the
blackness between stars.
By
then he’s dark with longing.
He
has waited all her life, even if
Katie’s
a mere sixteen and died
behind
the wheel of a Mustang.
With
deaths like hers, you wonder
if
Death was playing fair; did
he
throw that raccoon in the road
or
hand her that extra beer?
And
what about Amy, who drowned in the lake?
Did
Death see her, skinnydipping, and
yank
her ankles into the deep?
Death
has always been greedy, but
who
can stop him, what can they say?
Where
do you think we got the
phrase
drop dead gorgeous anyway?
Still,
I wonder if he’s tender,
as
I am with you tonight,
closing
the burgundy curtains
against
Death’s omniscient eyes?
Why
do you think I hide you in
the
movies, the theater? Because
Death
sees through the eyes of insects
and
few insects gather there.
Why
do you think, when we’re walking
through
the park on a sunny day,
I
tremble at the sight of butterflies
circling
your face?
Chinese
Zodiac
You
sit down to order a simple plate
of
chicken chow mein and discover
you’re
a monkey or a tiger or a snake.
As
you munch fried noodles your
paper
placemat gives it to you straight:
you
are talented and affectionate, marry a sheep.
The
goldfish in the tank across the
room
swim in and out of a huge,
submerged
pagoda while you try
to
remember the birthdays
of
every woman you ever loved.
Maybe
none were sheep;
that’s
why things didn’t work out.
Pouring
yourself a tiny cup of tea,
barely
a mouthful, a giant’s tear,
you
examine the menagerie on your placemat,
twelve
animals, each illustrated in red.
Why
is a cock compatible with
a
snake? And why should a dragon avoid
a
dog? Perhaps true wisdom lurks beyond
the
brink of comprehension.
Which
is why you lean back into the
vinyl
booth and lose interest in the whole idea.
Sure,
life is a zoo, people are animals,
rats
and dogs are everywhere, but
for
now your hunger takes over as
the
waiter scoops steaming rice onto your plate.
You
eat like a tiger, aggressive and courageous,
wondering
if the solitary woman across the room
might
be showing signs of timidity, elegance. If so,
she
could be a sheep, you just might make it.
You’ll
marry in the spring and she’ll
give
birth to three strong children, Tom,
the
tiger, Alex, the rabbit, and Annabell,
the
pint-sized dragon.
Poetry
At
the end of a day when a dozen among us
died
of typhus, refusing to eat anything, even
sunlight,
even snow, he lines us up as
if
he’s going to read another list of numbers
of
who will go to the gas chambers and who,
back
to breaking stone. But this time,
he
isn’t reading numbers or regulations
or
pointing at the umber ceiling beam
and
threatening to hang the next man who
speaks.
No, this time, he’s pacing on the
urine-soaked
straw of our bunk-room,
hesitantly
reading a love poem. Gretchen,
he
reads, taught me a lesson. Her breasts
were
like hills, they gave me thrills.
I
bite my lip to keep from laughing, drawing
blood
which I swallow hard. When his
poem
is finished, I think of my own,
written
in the scars on my arms, the black
flap
of crows in the sky, dedicated to my
missing,
I pray she’s still living, wife.
Then
I pull one heavy hand off of each
toothpick
thigh, and force them to bang
together
using all my withering might.
I
clap as hard as I can. I nod. I smile.
Two
men at the back who do not clap
will
soon swing from the beam over
my
head. That, in itself, is a poem. If
I
had a pen, I would write it on
the
paper-thin tatters of my pants:
the
leaves in the work yard are dead
but
still they dance.
Creation
of the Cats
It
happens in tiny sweat-shops
in
every loop of this ball of yarn
we
call our world, young girls, no older
than
five or six, slipping away after dinner,
explaining
that they must prepare
a
tea-party for their dolls.
Then,
sitting down in secret,
with
needles as long as their fingers,
these
little artistans begin
sewing
soft fur to whiskers
and
attaching, as if by magic,
the
precious paws.
You
can sometimes hear them through closed doors
whispering
kittens into existence.
Or
whistling the full range of bird songs
so
the kittens will know how to hunt them
when
they’re born.
And
if you hear a fluttering sound, don’t be alarmed.
She’s
just making sure the purr drive is properly installed.
In
a little while, she’ll pop in two amber eyes
and
twist the ears upright. She’ll
purse her lips
as
if for a kiss
and breathe the beast to life.
All Poems Copyright, Wolff Bowden 2006-2008
POEMS FROM HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE NIGHT