DAVID BRISTOL
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In Memory of Mr. Vanderbilt
When I bought my first yacht
I knew I was leaving something behind.
I learned
I would go into hock for pleasure.
Now,
I stand by idle,
facing the heat,
and my own indulgence.
This indulgence is paid gladly.
It allows a glimpse of the future.
I am a happy old man.
[329]
Proposition for Henry
"At a time when Berryman was working on the novel 'Recovery,'
on a life of Shakespeare, and a life of Christ, as well as continuing with
other poems . . . ."
-- John Haffenden, "Introduction," to John Berryman, Henry's Fate &
Other Poems, 1967-1972 (1977)
He believed his time spent unwisely,
could do something with the day
undriven by rage among books,
real work would earn no need to forget,
not a drink.
And he would be entitled to retire, not escape,
into her cave.
Working tables, a waiter
comes home on tired feet to count the change,
an easy estimation of the day.
A dreamer's coins are in the air, unmeasurable,
while he stakes a claim.
Christ and Shakespeare and no drinking too,
too trying.
What to do?
Hum to stay sane, a tune true to him only
in tones too close, he needs them removed,
it would more than tire.
Be a good son and pay bills,
make himself up true to his image
before brushing teeth
and then sleep well to be refreshed,
punctually.
He wanted to be dragged to Maine
into a sea so cold his calves would numb,
and his study isn't.
[330]
The time would be his to kill
with one hand while another hand
holds his wife's or daughter's
holding him steady to take pleasure
so simple and stupid, his toes in the sand.
It would be water from a spring
that he could easy drink.
To be satisfied with the pace is the key
to all that may pass--work and love,
the inescapably grim swallowing us like grapes,
pleased or not, then washed away.
Hard to indulge in wasted days,
hours in sleep, weeks on vacation.
But waste he needed,
spend on the frills,
to see himself in the mirror
freshened, tidy and expansive.
Sharing Rice Krispies with his girl,
the milk too enjoyed,
while wearing short pants in the morning sun.
Anxious to keep all nagging from his stomach
and work away,
that he might know himself
in a climate not of his own creation.
The meaning of a life,
even as inspired as Christ or Shakespeare,
could shrink in an afternoon's passing.
On a beach, he too seen is less
in these efforts reflected
and so richer still
unburdened on the sand.
The cure that he wants is
in the palm's smooth skin
pressed out against a fleshy thumb.
Remember one had feeling good against another,
a memento through the day
he'll keep.
Something will come.
[331]
Stay dry,
avoid confusing the hopes of his high ambition,
record the lives of the Bard
and the Son of God.
His dream on the beach
napping beneath an umbrella
while his child plays, wife reads.
Sleeping well and today insensitive to them.
Relax with the distraction of a home desired,
constant but unthreatening.
He wouldn't be perfect,
just not drink
and be satisfied enough
to be free from escape.
Daughter, wife, job and vanity,
the mere presence would nag he fears.
But not now disrupting his stride
heading off,
the cause moves outside himself.
Dedicated and lost,
polite and natural to drink to a cause
if it's not you.
All he wants is to show
that he has a mind.
Much anger he wanted to lose,
to drown.
Let it sit rocking on a porch
while he plays with his kid
in the driveway under the gaze of all,
her large ball slowly bouncing
to refresh his sense of wonder.
The lack of trust in his simple hands
left idle fingers, free to drink
and him to follow.
Now, there is his girl
part him
and her mother.
Getting together and making a universe
is a distraction
[332]
and everything, dancing before him
unintentional from deep within,
is unmuzzled, rich.
No work to seek
would equal rewards in domestic tasks.
What is the standard
for accidental renewal?
Never too rich to doubt the urge to wake,
move, blundering around until
in his hand is a child's soft curl.
Miss this and throw in the towel--
lessons of the Bible and the plays, lost.
Now, he finally eased off himself, and still
he wanted to be fetching something,
hands for grabbing, unused, made him feel a fop.
Wanted to carry it off in his teeth,
a rose or a carcass part,
and witness ambiguity pulled together,
claimed as his.
Could that be on the mirror of the page
with Papa and the other brothers haunting?
To be what he is--
he who records on paper
the notions of the soul he wanted to be--
is what he makes on the table that day
and always unsure.
A day off and become nobody
or a hack coasting.
Work and work,
squeeze it out, try a little scholarship,
then satisfied, relaxed and impulse imagined,
"I drink, a proud toast,
free and sleepy."
Off the wagon into losing habits and fuckt again.
Rage drained into books,
vain monuments to pain and accident.
He could take his girl to buy saddle shoes,
brown and white, her feet in them solid.
Make a little joke in the store,
trust the salesman
[333]
and the untrained eye of the Papa.
So, boxed and free,
he would not make himself the story.
[334]
To Flower
Too hot and without sun, June begins.
He hates the office,
he doubts he will ever laugh, so sleepy.
The sweat running onto his glasses
drives him crazy.
He wanted to kick a dog.
What to do with anger
when the good children have ruined the tulips?
A week at the beach is unappealing.
If he could flee, he'd have a hobby.
No vacation genes
and he can't get a transfusion.
Now, on his knees
he pries weeds out of a modest plot,
turning over the soil and sweating.
Fighting the natural course of things is a pleasure.
[335]
Balance
Yet, another poem about the checkbook
possessed him--
a life of recording desire and obligation
expressed in dollars,
noted with a pencil point.
Locate the hope in this counting?
By the window or by the wall--
know for certain, you too can be a CPA--
unsure, keep counting.
What's the equation for joy,
the relief of sorrow,
to be happy looking inward
and unhungry?
We're told a mind should grow beyond the checkbook
without concern for the gas bill.
And we're told to be of this world.
[336]
Columbia Station
I give hours of thought to kicking the
poetry habit. It's a drag sitting in
unfriendly bars listening to songs of the
plunging arrow. With artists I want to talk
business, and with bankers I expose the
heart of a frightened puritan. This
confusion is alarming, and the politics--
so heavy. I have to ask who I am. I must
order beer too, and leave a tip. But
still, like a moth at a garden party, I am
here singeing my wings on candles I imagine
to be the sun.
[337]
Judgment at Lums
I thought I was surrounded by penguins,
and that was interesting. But the issues
are deeper than that. Less interesting
than penguins, but more compelling, the
question: Is it enough to be an attorney?
I wake up thinking today I will fly the coop,
buy 16% junk bonds, replace a BB gun, invest
in land, today daddy will win the lottery.
This dwarfs me. I forget the cool posture
which I gather watching the arms of the fat
lady in the booth. They are penguins and seals,
and that's cute but without a future.
[338]
I Put My Two Fingers, Pound And Whitman,
Into A Wall Socket
I will confess to anything that works
long suffering,
easy profit,
exploitation of any and all souls.
At the root is desire
for a harmony which
no simple purity can offer.
Besides confession is good for the soul.
So here it is
my bucket of heartfelt passion
like an urn twisting slowly
on a lazy-susan,
and all I ask
is a dollar
for shoveling snow.
[339]
The Weeper
I want a maid and a bookkeeper
business agent
and someone to take out the garbage
before I become a rock n' roll star.
Oh, mother
forgive this limited mythology of myself
which turns like a jealous aid-de-camp
on all my intentions;
put me down for an hysterical nap.
Daddy, do these odd jobs,
end my petty flops
I suffer so in your cloud,
empty your pockets and
give me your calendar.
[340]
David Bristol was born in 1948, grew up in Verona, New Jersey, and lives
with his wife in Arlington, Virginia. Bristol graduated from New York University
and obtained his law degree from George Washington University. Bristol
has published three collections of poetry, The Monk Who Made His Momma
Happy (Bunny and the Crocodile Press, 1977), Paradise & Cash
(Washington Writers Publishing House, 1980), and Toad and Other Poems
(Bunny and the Crocodile Press, 2002). Bristol is a senior attorney with
the Office of Thrift Supervision.
"In Memory of Mr. Vanderbilt," first appeared in Bristol's collection
of poetry entitled, Paradise & Cash (Washington Writers' Publishing
House, 1980); "Proposition for Henry," "To Flower," and "Balance" are from
Bristol's most recent collection, Toad and Other Poems (The Bunny
and the Crocodile Press, 2002). "To Flower" first appeared in Hayotzer.
"Columbia Station," "Judgment at Lums," "I Put My Two Fingers, Pound and
Whitman, Into a Wall Socket" and "The Weeper" are from Bristol's first
published collection of poetry, The Monk Who Made His Momma Happy
(The Bunny and Crocodile Press, 1977).
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