PRATIK LA SPECIAL : MARIANO ZARO POEM, "Diagnosis of Men as They Undress"

 

MARIANO ZARO

 

Diagnosis of Men as They Undress

 

Some men undress and cover their chests—

arms folded like the front legs of a praying mantis.

The waistband of their underwear is flaccid but the socks

are tight and print deep grooves on their shins and ankles.

Fully naked they tilt their hips backward.

They bite their nails, they have sex with their eyes closed.

They infuse you with shy, post-orgasm sweat

that smells like malaise. They build roads, bridges.

It’s customary for them to give you an expensive ring—

platinum, perhaps canary diamonds.

But the ring is always too big or too small.

You have to take it to the jewelry store to be resized.

The jeweler is clumsy, dents the metal;

and that’s all you can see now when you put it on.

 

Some men undress and tilt their hips forward.

They also walk around with their arms slightly open,

as if their armpits were irritated, had a rash.

Many of them trim their pubic hair or shave it completely.

They like mirrors, towels, soap, body lotion, talcum powder.

When having sex, they become enthusiastic, acrobatic.

They show great willingness to please.

You almost want to give them a Good job! sticker,

an A+ on the report card, when they are finished.

One day they will hold your hand (guide your hand,

to be precise) and will tell you Put your finger here, please.

Don’t be prudish, do it—one, two fingers.

They will bury their faces in a pillow.

They will cry. They will be forever grateful.

 

Some men undress and when they remove their shirt

and leave it on a chair, for example,

the shirt becomes a fountain, then a lake.

They cannot see the lake or the fountain, just the shirt.

This gives them away, that’s how you recognize them.

You can swim in the lake if you want, or cup your hands

and wash your face, drink if you are thirsty.

Sometimes they walk in the rain, alone, without hurry.

Talking with them for a while you cannot tell

if they are naked or fully clothed. Dogs lick their hands.

When they die, earth takes them in like lost children;

and you understand that they are going back home.

They don’t leave much behind—a few coins, a pocket knife,

a white handkerchief with no initials—clean, neatly folded.

 

 

Mariano Zaro is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Decoding Sparrows (What Books, Los Angeles) and Padre Tierra (Olifante, Zaragoza, Spain). He has translated into Spanish American poets Philomene Long, Tony Barnstone and Sholeh Wolpé. Zaro hosts a series of video-interviews with prominent poets as part of the literary project Poetry LA.  

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PRATIK LA SPECIAL ISSUE: Hélène Cardona's poem, "A House Like a Ship"

 

Hélène Cardona

A House Like a Ship

 

I live in a house like a ship

at times on land, at times on ocean.

I will myself into existence

surrender, invite grace in.

I heed the call of the siren.

On the phantom ship

I don’t know if I’m wave

or cloud, undine or seagull.

Lashed by winds, I cling tight to the mast.

Few return from the journey.

I now wear the memory of nothingness

a piece of white sail wrapped like second skin.

 

Hélène Cardona’s seven award-winning books include Life in Suspension and Dreaming My Animal Selves, and the translations Birnam Wood (José Manuel Cardona), Beyond Elsewhere (Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac), Ce que nous portons (Dorianne Laux), and Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings. Her work has been translated into 16 languages. The recipient of numerous honors, she holds an MA (American Literature, Sorbonne), received fellowships (Goethe-Institut, Andalucía International University) and taught at Hamilton College and LMU.

 

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PRATIK SPRING 2021 HIGHLIGHT: IRISH POET DANIEL WADE TRIBUTE TO BAUDELAIRE

 

DANIEL WADE

 

Ici C’est Paris

(Baudelaire at 200)

 

Far from the slack-jawed lookout of gargoyles

    and the belfries’ hourly clang, far

       from the bistro’s sulphurously-lit

 

terrace and the Seine, briefly mirror-clear

    against a livid laudanum sky, far

       from boulanjeries and airbrushed views

 

of Île Saint-Louis from an AirBnB pied-à-terre

    where neon slithers over drenched asphalt,

       far from the demi-monde burning in autumn’s

 

low fervour, you are reminded this is still your city

    of daedal arcades, you who were lulled

       by the golden melting point

 

of a hashish smog, laureate of amber dusk

    and of the traffic jam’s low-gear chansonnier

       serenading the cathedral’s smoking husk.

 

Far from the firemen who broke through her

    wrought-iron portals as Le Gardes Français

       might, smoke whirling a grey monolith  

 

skyward, and the flèche in its oaken acuity

      like a smouldering pillar stoked by God,

        collapsing with grimmest of ceremony

 

far from vault bricks plummeting and leaden

    ribs fractured, you are reminded of hailstones

        that rattle like coffee beans in a mason jar

 

off zinc rooftops, the horses you can no longer

    hear trotting apocalyptically off the cobbles

       and the copper, sea-green statue

 

of the aporetic disciple helicoptered off

    for repairs, fodder for tourists’ Insta feeds, 

       here is your city’s riot-prone heart,

 

now ablaze with neon, her ossuaries cached

    with aeons of tibias and femurs, shivering

       archive for the dead. Odd to think that,

 

as long as the light from our headlamps crawls

    over graffiti, civilisation is still near,

       even far below the familiar rumbles

 

of the métro. Far from the laser light’s blinding,

    ultra-violet sweep, from neon-painted faces

       and smoke-bombed walls and sweaty

 

light, far from the PAs thudding loudly as war, 

    far from the DJ spinning a remixed web

       from the turntable, from the damp floor

 

of the city’s graffitied bowels, you can crawl

    on your stomach through cubelike tunnels,

       and, rattling in concert, all these ivory skulls.

 

You might turn a corner, only for death to offer

    you a cigarette, perhaps even greet the skeletal

       reaper as a friend, its notched scythe threshing

 

the soul-crop at characteristic random. Yet we

    have the privilege of paralysis, the luxury

       of lawlessness, ‘’til we see for ourselves    

              

that rosy dusk tingeing the arrondissement

    like an Impressionist’s fleeting blur,

       and wave at the cruise boats paddling

 

under the Pont Neuf bridge, and remember

    this is your city still, Charles, unrecognisable

       as it might be, C’est La Ville Lumière.

 

Once the flavour of beaujolais wine dissolves

    with each oenophilic swallow, might we regain

       the city in your name, O patron saint of ivory

 

skulls that keep the catacombs fully stocked,

    our hands placed on scorched balustrades?

       The morning fog hovers thin as a veil

 

that perhaps once sheathed the shapely limbs

    of Herodias’ daughter, though not enough

        to see clearly. Bloody paint splatters

colonial statues, a colonnade’s bone-white trusses

    glisten as graffiti smears them like oil and fear

         hovers in doorways and parking meters

 

and masks hang below chins. Do you smell

    the courage on my breath? It’s lingered for hours,

         drowned out by sweat and craft lager,

 

smoke slurred by the wind, petrol fumes snarled

    and heavy aftershave. We are the generation

         that gave up on intimacy by all accounts,

   

calmly eating lunch under patio heaters as glass shards

    season the pavement, but I’m not here for volunteer

         cleanup crews rinsing down a graffiti-splattered

 

plinth from where the statue of a long-dead trafficker

    of human cargo was toppled, nor for the boarded-up

         windows of La Roche Posay, Le Coq Sportif

          

and Gucci, each entrance and exit manned by flics.

    Though I have opal scales for eyes these days,

         ears immune to the brush of your whisper, 

 

there are your verses, black-eyed, cravated flaneur,

    slum socialite, to whose verses my reddened eyes

         keep returning, that intrigue, mystify, lure 

 

and even, after two centuries, inspire awe again.

 

Winner the Hennessy New Irish Writing for April 2015 in The Irish Times, Daniel Wade and his poetry and short fiction have featured in over two dozen publications since 2012. A prolific performer, Daniel has featured at many festivals including Electric Picnic, Body and Soul, and the 2019 International Literature Festival (ILFD). His debut collection, Rapids  has just come out.

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