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Little Kisses
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About This Book
Called "the master of the poetic one-liner" by the New York Times, acclaimed poet and critic Lloyd Schwartz takes his characteristic tragicomic view of life to some unexpected and disturbing places in this, his fourth book of poetry. Here are poignant and comic poems about personal lossâthe mysterious disappearance of his oldest friend, his mother's failing memory, a precious gold ring gone missingâalong with uneasy love poems and poems about family, identity, travel, and art with all of its potentially recuperative power. Humane, deeply moving, and curiously hopeful, these poems are distinguished by their unsentimental but heartbreaking tenderness, pitch-perfect ear for dialogue, formal surprises, and exuberant sense of humor.
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City of Dreams
1. Masquerade
Should I tell you about my dream? Itâs a dream
about you . . .
your familiar disarray an overstuffed
Victorian elegance: antiques, bric-a-brac, dark horse-
hair sofa with swirling hand-carved arm-restsâplush
but uncomfortable;
youâre offering me a drink, and
showing me the score to your latest piece,
called Masquerade.
Itâs charmingâbubbling with flutes, piccolos, clarinets.
Fresh. Yet complex: sweet tunes you give a sly
rhythmic tilt; harmonies you save from the saccharine
with a razor-edge of dissonance.
I didnât know you
wrote musicâcould write music. And though I can
barely follow a score, Iâm actually
reading yoursâlistening to it in my head as I read.
I pick up one of the doodads from the marble coffee table
cluttered with precious objects: a piece of polished mahogany
carved into the shape of an arm.
The hand end
has shapely, arched fingers, with long hooked nails
like a birdâs claws;
perfect for cleaning under oneâs nails?
(Isnât everything here meant to be useful?)
You say: âLeonard Bernstein gave me that. He was so
helpful to me with Masquerade. Donna sang the premiere.â
Then Donna appearsâher loose corn-silk hair; her white body
wrapped in a swirling silk peignoir, fluid greens and
tangerines, almost transparent.
I didnât know you
âd been living with herâwith anyone. And to tell the truth,
I was still half in love with her myself.
She offers to refill my glass, and pours more of the chilled
Zinfandel. Sheâs charming, bubbly, fresh
from her recent triumph at the opera.
She seems pleased
to be pouring the wine. To be pouring my wine.
You beam. When did I last see you so productive?
So happy?
What am I doing here? Itâs been a hundred years
since I visited you, since we saw each other
lastâ
since my pocket was picked, my wallet stolen,
in the crowd at your fatherâs funeral.
Noâ
that was a different dream . . .
What do I want? Some help? Approval? Iâve always needed
something from you (and youâve always been more
than generous).
I steel myself to ask, when (KNOCK!
KNOCK!) a sudden pounding on the door (Whoâs there?)
interrupts our masquerade.
2. The Book of Paintings
Of course, I canât remember the artistâs nameâIâd forgotten it
even before I woke up. But I certainly remember
the book of paintings.
I was visiting your houseâan odd house, not at all like
your real one: much bigger, with narrow
curving staircases and a grassy meadow out back. I was
staying over, and coming downstairs late
to a sitting room, where you and some new visitorsâ
an older man and a young girl with long
dark braids (his daughter?), a thin
blond woman with large gray eyes, a pale man
in a dark suit (who were they? when had they arrived?),
and your lover (whose name I couldnât remember)â
were having tea and drinks.
You were sliding a heavy book from a locked bookcaseâa thick,
squarish, clothbound book: the cloth itself
grayish blue and roughly textured. I heard you say
my name as you opened it. The pages were thick
and stiff; you turned them slowly.
I sat down in a large armchair. You crossed the room,
and handed the open book to me.
The paintings were mostly abstractionsâglobs
and dribbles of paint swirling up
out of a dark, grayish-blue background:
dribbles of yellow, delicate dribbles of black,
little splotches of orange.
Full of atmosphere, I thought. Highly charged.
Suddenly, as I turned the pages, I began to make out
faces in the thick swirls of paint;
then all I could see were facesâthe same face!â
all painted the same grayish blue, more gray
than blue. Each face had the texture of paint,
not skin (the reproductions were
so real, I could almost touch the pigment).
In each face, the eyes and mouth were wide open,
like holes in a mask, through which the darker background
showed through.
I turned each page slowly, often turning back
to a previous page. Each â...
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Acknowledgments
- Little Kisses
- My Other Grandmother
- Lost Causes
- The Conductor
- Goldring
- City of Dreams
- Dreams (Gatsbyâs Beguine)
- Crossword
- Six Words
- Is Light Enough?
- New Name
- La Valse
- Howl
- Affonso Romano de SantâAnna: Music for My Ashes
- Viktor Neborak: Fish
- Affonso Romano de SantâAnna: Tehran Spring
- If You Lived Here Youâd Be Home Now
- Small Airport in Brazil
- In Flight
- Cut-Up
- To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like a Death
- Two Plays
- Jerry Garcia in a Somerville Parking Lot
- Notes