In Bradley Pauls poems, the reader hears someone odd, unlikely,
and, to a large extent, unknowable, speaking in reasoned tones about
unreasonable things. The dramas are neither picturesque stories nor
familiar tales about self revelation. They dont work within the
by-now familiar patterns of poetry. In locating the speaker in words,
rather than placing him (or her) in stories, Paul compels the reader
to contemplate whether words lead one to knowing someone else or to
recognizing further mysteries. Perhaps, as Pauls poems suggest,
it (and we) are always somewhere in between; and perhaps languages
purpose isnt to tell but to entrance, delight, and undermine.
This page is sponsored by Utah State University Press and the May Swenson
Poetry Award Series.
Seventh of Twelve
Truthfully, the Minotaur usually slept.
The centaurs had a still
and were getting to be quite savvy.
They had to live here too
so they kept things toned down,
it was only while the Poet was here,
they said, "keep up appearances,
Poets talk!" And unless he saw
some real wages-of-sin spectacle,
some truly woolly-bully penitence,
we were liable to get real supervision.
"Hell likely look a long time.
Poets like to let things sink in.
If he asks you anything
make like youre real sorry."
Also they brought in a bunch of Italians.
And indeed he looked, but was nervous
and missed a lot.
He had to ask twenty
before one would say a thing;
others taunted him
just out of earshot: "Ive
got three soupbones here
and guess which dog is getting them!"
He fiddled with a human eye
that had been placed there for effect
but didnt seem to register what it was.
Ribs stuck out of the ground
and on these he scraped his shoes.
They said he was plainspoken and democratic
but plain people dont speak as he did
nor do they wear such shoes.
He took some notes, he poked at the walls,
and his friend threw a fit for a ride until
Nessus carried them off. He would have
anyway. Then they turned the lights back up.
Saltines were passed around
to help with the nausea.
Many crawled out of the blood.
But a few lingered near the massive radiator
for it was still quite hot,
and they guessed at how this heat would be described.
Homage to Edvard Kocbek
Mud blisters the ditchmans face and
in the ditchmans syke lies the quacksalver
who stutters with his tonics through a dream.
A Russian wastrel basks there
in the dreams rotting and earnest hay.
His name is Pasha which means Little Paul.
In sleep he dines the debutante whittling
spoons outside the Croatian cabaret.
A drunkard sucks the grass at night,
the tenor pipes down by 4 a.m.
The preacher seals the tenors fife with beeswax.
The miser accounts for the preachers lesions.
On a panel of the beehive
has appeared the horoscope,
the farm boss reads it with a martens blink.
The hayracks had been green in May,
that is, theyd been racked with hay.
The hay is home to vermin.
The vermin fall like cabbage from the dream.
The dumb cabbage snickers downriver
past the moping cuckold.
Hed been suckered at the cala farm
and lilies fan flat around him
and the bank is somewhat pristine:
Like all slapdash hell
did the silver nitrate blacken with light.
With dented cups in the soupline
do the bums wad my sleep and ken.
I have mirrors on my shoes.
Light gets trapped around me.
Its like Im happy, music
slides kicking onto the deck
like the dolphins dumped
from the misers woven net. A lunar vista
is stenciled on the dropcloth behind it.
In crater-light and flags did I try to speak:
the heart therefore lies stupid in its water.
Why I Left Nepal
There are some lakes in Nepal that hate me.
I think, "Nepal, how you do terrify me to the quick."
I lie down, as one might, in a lake pink with evening.
Its as if the seasons might begin,
a very black bird growing blacker in the sky.
The size of a nickel, then the size of your hand,
darkening toward your eyes.
Friend, you are fat unlike most people.
You lie down in the pink lake
and its as if the seasons had begun.
Crabs roll in all the water you displace.
I am mashed into pearl, parts of me,
and parts of me into tar.
The trees darken as if your brow were vexed.
You think, "Nepal, how it does frighten me to the quick."
There are tea leaves under your right thumbnail
and tea leaves under your left.
Goats move across your ribs.
A gang of shoats nips at your reeds.
They dig for the truffles they love.
"Obese," say the arboreal saints,
agreeing among the eucalyptus,
"as the daylight that fills Nepal."
Noah Remembers the Coast of Senegal
Came the list finally, though without
its rotting apple or its vinyl sheath
of miniature ivory elephants
nor the wood on which they leaned
nor the sand they remembered to traipse --
they could get nothing done at this pace!
If fish were brought up they were brought up
with kelp and garbage and sand.
Some still breathed in the brutal nets,
some were blue and some green
like the ferns left behind in the heat;
some were dark like the ants on the fern
or the darker ants moving down the fern
away from the blackening trees.
Description of the Salt Cellar
Copper alloy with garnet clenched to.
The salt green-collared.
Casual like a small country.
With a matching inkwell that brays.
How do you regard error?
With a burros face.
Did the salt taste of the cellar?
Metal was on my tongue.
I sat down to eat:
the tomatoes were red.
I meant with stubborn color
to write your name.
Salt that lopes
like ink from a copper well.
lives in Baltimore. He has poems recently or forthcoming in American
Poetry Review, Iowa Review, Dnevnik,and
Originally published in the Summer
2000 issue of Boston Review