Dana Gioia - 99 Poems

I am the truth that must not be spoken,

The midnight vow that cannot be broken.

I am the bell that tolls out the hours.

I am the fire that warms and devours.

I am the hunger that you have denied,

The ache of desire piercing your side.

I am the sin you have never confessed,

The forbidden hand caressing your breast.

You’ve heard me inside you speak in your dreams,

Sigh in the ocean, whisper in streams.

I am the future you crave and you fear.

You know what I bring. Now I am here.

( From Nosferatu)

I sailed a ship

In the storm-wracked sea,

And all were drowned

Except for me.

I swam all night

Through death-cold waves

Till my shipmates called

From their sunken graves,

A lucky life for you, lad, a lucky life for you!

I fought through wars

In a barren land

Till none were left

Of my rugged band.

On a field of dead

Only I stood free.

Then a blind crow laughed

From a blasted tree,

A lucky life for you, lad, a lucky life for you!

I scaled a mountain

Of cold sharp stone.

The others fell,

And I climbed alone.

When I reached the top,

The winds were wild,

But a skull at my feet

Looked up and smiled,

A lucky life for you, lad, a lucky life for you!

( From Nosferatu)

Come into the garden, Fred,

For the neighborhood tabby is gone.

Come into the garden, Fred.

I have nothing but my flea collar on,

And the scent of catnip has gone to my head.

I’ll wait by the screen door till dawn.

The fireflies court in the sweetgum tree.

The nightjar calls from the pine,

And she seems to say in her rhapsody,

“Oh, mustard-brown Fred, be mine!”

The full moon lights my whiskers afire,

And the fur goes erect on my spine.

I hear the frogs in the muddy lake

Croaking from shore to shore.

They’ve one swift season to soothe their ache.

In autumn they sing no more.

So ignore me now, and you’ll hear my meow

As I scratch all night at the door.

Classical music’s

Gotta go.

All the surveys

Tell us so.

Brahms is boring.

Bach is dreary.

Morning drive time

Should be cheery.

Grieg is stale.

Mozart moldy.

Give us this day

Our golden oldie.

Tchaikovsky’s pathetic.

Schubert’s a nerd.

And once is too much

For Beethoven’s Third.

The past is over.

Let’s clean house.

Out with Verdi.

Good-bye Strauss.

Curtains for opera.

Unstring that cello.

Make the music

Soft and mellow.

Whether you’re driving

Or trying to score,

Lean back, relax,

While our ratings soar.

Mile after mile

Commute with a smile.

So bye-bye Beethoven,

And don’t touch that dial!

( From Tony Caruso’s Final Broadcast)

Pity the beautiful,

the dolls, and the dishes,

the babes with big daddies

granting their wishes.

Pity the pretty boys,

the hunks, and Apollos,

the golden lads whom

success always follows.

The hotties, the knock-outs,

the tens out of ten,

the drop-dead gorgeous,

the great leading men.

Pity the faded,

the bloated, the blowsy,

the paunchy Adonis

whose luck’s gone lousy.

Pity the gods,

no longer divine.

Pity the night

the stars lose their shine.

This is my past where no one knows me.

These are my friends whom I can’t name—

Here in a field where no one chose me,

The faces older, the voices the same.

Why does this stranger rise to greet me?

What is the joke that makes him smile,

As he calls the children together to meet me

Bringing them forward in single file?

I nod pretending to recognize them,

Not knowing exactly what I should say.

Why does my presence seem to surprise them?

Who is the woman who turns away?

Is this my home or an illusion?

The bread on the table smells achingly real.

Must I at last solve my confusion,

Or is confusion all I can feel?

The heart of the matter, the ghost of a chance,

A tremor, a fever, an ache in the chest.

The moth and the candle beginning their dance,

A cool white sheet on which nothing will rest.

Come sit beside me. I’ve waited alone.

What you need to confess I already know.

The scent of your shame is a heavy cologne

That lingers for hours after you go.

The dregs of the bottle, the end of the line,

The laggard, the loser, the last one to know.

The unfinished book, the dead-end sign,

And last summer’s garden buried in snow.

I shall meet you again in cold San Francisco

On the hillside street overlooking the bay.

We shall go to the house where we buried the years,

Where the door is locked, and we haven’t a key.

We’ll pause on the steps as the fog burns away,

And the chill waves shimmer in the sun’s dim glow,

And we’ll gaze down the hill at the bustling piers

Where the gulls shout their hymns to being alive,

And the high-masted boats that we never sailed

Stand poised to explore the innocent blue.

I shall speak your name like a foreign word,

Uncertain what it means, and you—

What will you say in that salt-heavy air

On that bright afternoon that will never arrive?

The gods of ancient Egypt

Have walked into the room.

While Isis and Osiris

Were sealed inside their tomb,

These sleek divinities escaped

To build their sect anew

And cultivate the worship

Of Christian, Hindu, Jew.

In mystic meditation

The gods their vigil keep.

(Only the foolish heathen

Mistake their bliss for sleep.)

No worldly care can interrupt

Their transcendental state

Of pure incorporality

Beside the heating grate.

Aegyptiacae feles ,

Have mercy on your flock.

Don’t shred our brand new sofa

Or smash the Dresden clock.

Award us your epiphanies

Ablaze in morning light

And sit beside us purring

To guard us through the night.

It’s a farm town in the August heat

With a couple of bars along Main Street.

A jukebox moans from an open door

Where a bored waiter sweeps the floor.

A bus pulls up by Imperial Fruit.

A guy gets off in a new prison suit.

He’s not bad looking. Medium height.

Full of ambition. Not too bright.

He’s a low life. He’s one of the lost

Who’s burnt every bridge he’s ever crossed.

Just out of the slammer, a ticking bomb ,

The Wrath of God and Kingdom Come.

It’s the long odds on a roll of the dice

For big stakes you can’t bet twice.

The cards get dealt. The wheel spins.

At the end of the night the house always wins.

He sees her alone at the end of the bar,

Smoking and hot like a fallen star.