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New and Selected Poems: 1956-1996
New and Selected Poems: 1956-1996
New and Selected Poems: 1956-1996
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New and Selected Poems: 1956-1996

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With an astonishing command of nature imagery, from sparrows to mastodons, Philip Appleman can deftly weave into a single poem an intricate pattern of ideas drawn from evolution, humanism, anthropology, religious skepticism, and everyday experience. Appealing to reason as well as to emotion and imagination, he writes poems of lyrical intensity and remarkable narrative depth. He creates characters—Eve or Darwin or a failed priest—with such wit, compassion, and subtle humor that they live on the page and surprise us with new insights into joy and sorrow, life and death. Set on the beach at Malibu, in the port of Trieste, or in a Manhattan subway, his poems evoke genuine feeling with out sentimentality and transform the personal into the universal.

Drawn from six previous books of poetry written over four decades, and with fourteen new poems, this collection shows the power and complexity of Appleman’s wide-ranging talent.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 1, 1996
ISBN9781610752763
New and Selected Poems: 1956-1996

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    New and Selected Poems - Philip Appleman

    Kites on a Windy Day

    I. THE OUTSIDE

    TO THE RIVER

    (Benares)

    For one burning moment

    we were snarled together

    under the winding-sheet: you,

    the boy with blistering eyes,

    the brown water-carrier,

    the milky lady who walked like a rani and sniffed,

    and all of us.

    The sun was boring through the sheet,

    through our eyelids. Strapped cold to the litter,

    we hunched on hired shoulders downhill

    toward the river, where,

    in the whitest white we ever wore,

    skinny legs fretting the husky logs,

    we would flame to a fine gray ash.

    To the equanimity of peacocks

    our passing made no tremor;

    under the nim and tamarind

    burnt eyes died in dusty faces,

    monkeys cried abstract abuse,

    temples turned their walls on us,

    camels wet the earth,

    and only children stared, that games and sun

    could come to this.

    All of us

    suddenly

    shrieked through the sheet:

    My voice is the language of God!

    My skin is the color of heaven!

    My knowledge makes towers and temples!

    My pity, My passion, My deeds!

    No one heard.

    And

    even now, as the litter twists along,

    one of us is still there,

    swaying to the smug chanting of the mourners,

    moving toward fire on the holy river,

    one of us.

    ON THE VIA VENETO

    (Rome)

    Rolling hips and rippling breasts

    summon the hooves and tails of things.

    From hothouse forests of silk and fur,

    from thickets of mauve and orange hair,

    girls inflame the afternoon,

    posturing and leering, till—

    Hairy men burst from cypress and pine,

    storming the ancient walls, and down

    to the billowing bars and boulevards!

    Up from the fountains, the rush and swish of scaly men,

    the sudden blare of sea-horns wreathed!

    And in the streets

    a tangle of limbs and torsos! Aiee!

    Howls and horns!

    Screams!

    Delight!

    Sun had seen it all before,

    bored, departed.

    Then hairy men shuddered, scaly men shivered,

    rattled and slithered to fountain and pine.

    Before the hips began again

    to undulate on boulevards,

    before another masquerade

    of silks and furs and orange hair,

    a moment lingered

    full of the clatter of cloven hooves,

    full of the slip and scour of scales,

    and pipes, and wan, triumphant shells

    winding in the dusk.

    SNOW ON THE BOSPORUS

    (Santa Sophia, Istanbul)

    I stand across the future, looking back

    on all the crooked past. Half blind with snow

    I cannot see the shores of Asia, but

    phantom ships call strangely through the whirl,

    ferries float their hordes from somewhere east

    and Hittites and Assyrians swarm ashore

    to freeze dominion over all the earth—

    and melt along the angry turns of time;

    Darius comes, and Xerxes, chain the sea

    and lash its insolence—and drown among

    gray eddies of the past;

    Alexander blunders into

    convoluted space; devout

    and murderous Crusaders, conquerors

    in the name of Allah—all are swept away

    in the rush of dim and icy stars.

    I stand across the future, looking back

    on all my crooked ways, half blind with love

    of rectitude and order, chart and graph.

    From continent to continent I had hoped

    for one triumphant crossing in a line;

    but living leaves a wake, and as I stare

    at all that vagrant foam, I think again

    of Constantine and Kemal, gods and men:

    plotting our maps for other futures, we

    already know their true-north is askew.

    The children of our children will look up

    and measure their own stars; for ours will serve

    our own time only, dimmer every night

    in the gray and swirling blur around our heads,

    while Holy Wisdom crieth in the streets.

    DOLPHINS

    (Manzanillo)

    A controversy roiling by the ocean

    Imperils friendships with its cold commotion:

    When dolphins frisk, is it some sudden swish

    Of joy—or are they only after fish?

    Most of us are practical; this trammels

    Belief in bliss among the other mammals.

    But certain dreamy fellows will insist

    Gulls hanging in the wind are being kissed,

    That breezes nibble at the ears of waves

    And whisper rhymes to crabs in craggy caves.

    I’ve seen the rack and scud that spoils a buss

    And makes the swish of joy sound ominous;

    I know a nibble may become a crunch

    And rhymes are poor alternatives to lunch.

    But in the noon of sunburned summertime,

    When swish and kiss and nibble turn to rhyme,

    The dolphins vault into our atmosphere;

    And, noting that there are no fishes here,

    I lean to those who favor joy, and wish

    Delight would dance in my too solid flesh.

    II . PROMISES

    CRYSTAL ANNIVERSARY

    Deep in a glassy ball, the future looks

    Impacted, overdue, a thing that ticks

    And dings with promise, but will not happen; we,

    Meanwhile, tick-and-dinging through the glow

    Of one more married morning, mind the clock

    Of age, fading slowly into black-

    On-white biographies. The crimson bird

    You welcomed sunrise with, and somehow scared,

    Has skirred off, blazing, to a hazy past. Still,

    It’s all there, deep in the glassy ball,

    The past as future: you and that morning

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