writing where I am

Les Neiges d'Antan

Gerald Stern

Where art thou now, thou Ruth whose husband in the snow

creased thy head with a tire iron, thou who wore

ridiculous hats when they were the rage and loved

exotic cultures and dances such as the Haitian

Fling and the Portuguese Locomotive, my wife

hated because of her snooty attitude

or that her hair was swept up and her nose was aquiline

and her two boys raised hell with our green apples

the Sunday they came to visit, she in whose Mercury

we parked for over a year, once every night

in front of her mother's house in one of the slightly

genteel streets that led into the park

the other side downhill really from the merry-go-round,

or where is Nancy or who is Nancy Ezra Pound

located in between his racial diatribes

and dry lyrics three times at least in the Cantos,

but tell me where that snow is now and tell me—

as in where is Tangerine and where is Flora—

how old Ruth is and where does she live and does she

still dance the Locomotive and does she bundle.

--

Antan
after Gerald Stern

Where art thou now, thou lady at the HomeMade Bakery
who every morning dishes up one fresh scone,
not too many sultanas, top shining with baked
egg glaze, into paper, twists it, and gives it me

for thirty p., payable now? This morning your
face did not appear, hairnetted and becapped, aproned
in blue, striped shirt, black orthopaedic
shoes—are these the scones of yesteryear? Baker

in the back room scowling as he punched them out,
one after another jumping from the cutter.
And do you still stand dishing out Viennese swirls and egg
custard tarts to those who stand and wait about,

mouths sagging in that very English way, a dog tied up
noticing his master queuing for teacakes—yes, that’s all, cheers, duck.

(c. Eireann Lorsung 2009)