Al Young

IN FLIGHT

More, far more, than skin deep, beauty runs
gamuts, man. It can make up for lots of faults,
for plenty of blemishes, yet beauty can't pass
for what it is not. Equipped, it lasts and stays.
The view of Greenland from a rear window
on a trip to Frankfurt, connecting to Cairo,
beautifies the night of baby cries
and misbegotten restlessness. Yes,
scientists may have found their water
on the moon. But imagining lunar ice
underground seems no match for Greenlandturning-
Iceland in front of our island eyes.
"The white man," a womanly elder declares,
"is fixing to leave here and move to the moon.
Fixing to leave all these Negroes and Mexicans and
Chinese and A-rabs and things down here on Earth,
now that he's messed it up with all this pollution
and poison." Easy to see, her words are hard
to prove. Mineral rights. Eminent domainthe
catch-words crash upon the ear.
But beauty, my friend, upon which a visible glow
warms and brightens, the curvature of Earth,
the skin of space around the body-that is
a range; distances immeasurably blue-and-green blooded.
The religion of beauty and the science of knowing
drift like ice floes into one another along curves
so stunning that the skin that houses our pulsing
and exquisitely timed bloodworks still
wonders if who made the lamb made good.

A POEM FOR LATE-BLOOMING EARLY RISERS
for Jackie

Late at night, or early morning never is the point;
each is a field we reach and wander, separate or whole.
The thrill of being present in this dream we walk awake
may never die. Who wants it to? Not I, not you,

party to this slow, unfolding story we take turns telling
in keyed eighth notes, quarter notes, half notes; in holes
between connections, too, and in thoughts we do not have
to send or have come in. Telegraphy, telepathy

what do they share uncommonly? Late-blooming early
risers need not respond. Mayall your sleepy wakefulness
and mine tug us snugly home inside ourselves each night
when moons go slack, space out, or pale. Night speaks,

and morning answers afternoon. Day by day the hours sing
their hushes and hurrahs to one another along a chain
of sounded light so brilliant that sometimes we each can feel
and count the beats a heart makes when its loving turn comes up.

SELF PORTRAIT HOLDING ON

Sitting in the kitchen
of a strange room
surrounded by fixtures
a window on my left
window on my right
the slow pouring of light
into the room
into my head
filled with old wine
the whole outdoors is ticking
inside I feel as black as distant trees
in the dead of night
there's nowhere to go
nothing to do

(MY BABY LOVE)
THE WESTERN MOVIES

The funk-encrusted ghosts of Calamity Jane,
Wild Bill Hickock and New York City-born Billy
the Kid have reared up and crisscrossed the continent
in fluttering wisps of nerve.

Pictures we get
from their hoofbeat soundtracks prove that fiction
can run, it can outlast fashion. The sheer despair
of all those dead heroes could be riding
on subway trains of glory, trains of thought;
not all of it got washed up in legend.

Don't go falling in love with legends. Myths, OK,
but legends-be careful. The Great Train Robbery,
Buck and the Preacher,Butch and Sundance,
reigns of terror, a reigned-in quick-draw artist,
and a heavy rain of credits
have more in common than we once believed.

FIVE
in memory of pianist Bill Evans
(1929-1980)
1/

In quiet, well-grazed groves,
up trees no player need reach,
some young squirrels,
scampering on breadfruit alone,
feel and even know they are forsaken
the way it ought to be for feeders.

2/

Out in the low fields at night
no one knew which way to turn
for canteloupe
but watermelon, hey, don't you know?
All those seeds, all that red,
all that sugar going, "Juice, Juice, Juice!"
Oooo, the wet ripe rhapsody of fruit.

3/

Did somebody's child just rediscover moonlight?
Where would any of us be without that stuff?
What player hasn't hit that lick
a hundred times at least? What light
hasn't shone through keyboards under glass,
the sea an octave away? Smother me
under your pillowing spell.
Roll me in the dirty boogie-woogie of your light.

4/

O go for it! You can't fake these ultra-rhythms,
or can you? The way, the road, the distance
to Bali is the same as to Cairo. Karo Syrup
yourself allover like June. Bust out, break
free.Can the beat be everything? Maybe not,
but this is where we either jump back or
kick down the gate. Fax that back to Heaven.

5/

Hello, rain, so it's you again,
this time deluging Duluth. So where
do we go from here? What kind of thunder
areyou putting us under this time?
Maple leaf don't stand a chance. And, birch,
forget it. There is in your attitude
and lean a summer just begun yet all but gone.
In telling squalls you make your soft, moist points.
Squashed by stars and hills and green air,
paned and spaced or squeezed between clouds,
we'removing now; call off your waltz.
Count off your classy blues and count us in.
The station's sounding smaller as we go.
The clouds we've shaped. The smile, the wave
the lake makes feels hipper too. Some gig!
Sweet sleep, slide slowly, gently, cleanly
through this bubbling blood of ours.

©2000-2006 by Al Young