AT AYA SOFIA [January 2002]     Today it’s snowing, snowing In Istanbul, Stamboul, Constantinople, New Rome, Byzantium. The city has mislaid its Jews And most of its Greeks. The bones of its Armenians Are long scattered. Somewhere far to the north Potemkin’s ghost Dreams of imperial conquest. There is a noise outside Like someone impatient riding a horse, Thundering at the bronze Of the royal door That should be closed And is open. Upon the dome A huge weight Of fallen snow.         BLUEBEARD'S WIFE   When Bluebeard died His first and last wife Inherited his castle.   Now she could go Into all the rooms That were once forbidden.   Some were stuffed With female corpses.   Those she already Half-knew about.   In her time she had bagged and labelled So many dried-out bodies.   What really surprised her Were the endless Untidy Cellars and attics Inhabited by the living - Whining poor relations, Dependent children.   She had no need of those.   She tore up Bluebeard's will.   A rich widow now, She's busy husband-hunting.         BRIEF ELEGY In memoriam P.R.   The truth is We couldn't have been More different.   Years back, I remember saying When you complained of being broke: 'So write some trash, Just to make money.'   And your angry cry: 'But that would be work!'   To be a poet, All day, Every day, Was what you aimed for, Even when we were both Supposedly Producing ads For the same agency.   You dreamed, Noted, Accumulated, But didn't work.   The rest of us Could do the job for you.   As for your own stuff, It had to be Heavyweight or nothing.   It's really no wonder We were long out of touch.   You wouldn't have liked This airy-fairy Lament for you now, Spinning my yo-yo, Bouncing the ball.         GONE MISSING   What happened to them all, Those poets I used to drink in pubs with? Quarrel with? Even sit on committees with?   I hear their faint cries. They are  imprisoned Between the covers Of prize-winning biographies.   My television screen flickers With shadowy figures Who look a bit like them.   'But the voices are wrong,' I say to myself, 'And so are the gestures.'   Then suddenly I'm seized By a great wind That whirls me away Towards a future That has no place for them.   QUIZ   What do you most like? - My own company.   What do you most dislike? - My own company.   What do you want on your desert island? -         In the middle of a lake, a desert island.         SLEEP   Unlike some other Clamant claimants In this line of business I don't dream That often.   Sleep welcomes me To a great nothingness. Next morning I leave it reluctantly.   Why do I find This void so delicious?   I think only death Can give me an answer, And then, surely, Only in some last Eternal split second Before I find myself Wonderfully asleep.

HOW STRANGE...   How strange it looks from Outside, the act that Changes the features. Those grimaces might so Easily be the Shadows of torture, And indeed the instant Just before is like The pains of hell. Then There’s the little death Which is better than Life. Then there’s living.       IN THE BLACKMAILER'S HOUSE   In the blackmailer's house One thing Leads to another.   She eats you in small bites.   'Since you did that for me Yesterday, Now you must do this for me Today.   You are my chick, My child, My only.   I'm all alone now.'   What she wants, What she can't say she wants. Is marriage, marriage.       JACKSON POLLOCK IN TEHRAN   Your macho cowboy swagger Once seduced a Jewish heiress.   She was indignant later, When, unable to get it up for her, You pissed in her fireplace.   Dribbling on canvas Became your substitute For the kind of sex You could only find Passed out cold On the urine-soaked pavements Of New York's Bowery.   Now, in a museum storeroom, In a country where they don't Even have a name For what probably ailed you, I see the monstrous demi-gods Grappling and - is it? - coupling Just under the surface Of one of your mysteriously Potent liquefactions.       LAST VISIT TO MY AUNT   Before World War I You were ‘The dancing Miss Lucie-Smith.’   You survived an earthquake, Had a touch of the tar-brush And a husband sucked down In a quicksand.   You lived for more than a hundred years.   When I last saw you You had lost your wits: ‘So nice of you to come. Do come again. Who did you say you were?’   ‘I think she’d quite like to die,’ Her son told me, ‘But she’s forgotten how.’       PREACHING TO THE CONVERTED   Let me tell you what you want to hear: War is bad, Politicians are liars, Nobody cares about global warming.   Etc.   Yes, you can clap now. You can even rise to your feet And cheer.   What you don’t want news of Is this: How we daily, Compulsively Sin one against another.   The human heart Is corrupt Even in its most private recesses.   In other words, Sorry: What you don’t want to hear Is this poem.   TO HELENE: FROM GENOA   I wanted to write you a letter.   In the old days We were never here together In this city of art.   There’s so much I’d like to discuss – From the aggressive pigeons To that altarpiece by Rubens You might possibly know a drawing for, Guarded by una stregha In some dusty gabinetto di disegni.   But you’ve left no forwarding address.   Where you’ve gone, They almost certainly don’t laugh At jokes involving catalogues raisonnés And the latest amour Of the ‘Perino del Vagina’