On your 79th Birthday - C.K. The Borg

On your 79th Birthday - C.K. The Borg

to the memory of C.K. Williams (Nov. 4, 1936-Sept. 20, 2015)

If I were to build you
as a borg,
I would keep the long,
basketball body,
the arrogant entrance,
the eyes that could register
today and anger
the past and irony

and embed
the long, floaty
lines
that kept people
marveling and confused

for when the Borg
began to rebel enough
to shape words
into poetry

Shell Game

Shell Game Sh. and B. in the Green Kangaroo or whatever that hippyish restaurant on CommAv across from the Department was called - divulged with many a sad downcast look and a paused sip of espresso that you'd made a pass at P. What they didn't say: you and Sh. On a couch. Every week. In your office.

First and Second Acts

First and Second Acts The famous poet A., who helped you, along with famous poet S. and not as famous poet G., who disliked you on principle, got drunk at the Ritz in town. (A. parked at the loading dock and said it was okay because they were going to get loaded.) Sh., B. and I drank instead at Grendel's Lair and took public transport. Sh. sexed you. B. adored you. I love-hated you. The play goes on.

Warning

Warning After Friday class, B. no longer had sex with her husband When I grew sad and looked grumpy, she said, "Have fun with it. Don't sweat. I go to all his readings." She and her husband divorced twenty years later.

In Praise Of

In Praise Of You told another prof I had more brains in my little finger than everyone you knew combined. I stretched my little finger back and forth when he told me. We watched brainlets unravel by the nerveload.

After You Got Angry

After You Got Angry My housemate heard a sound that groaned then sloughed off then gathered nasal steam then rose to an aching sob then stopped so short that she tiptoed into my room while I was trying to breathe again and woke me to tell me I had been screaming

The Poetry Man

The Poetry Man You crept into your office each day around eight, not because you embraced mornings, but because you couldn't work in the small Back Bay apartment. Your son was five, I think. He bored you. Your office held no books. I never saw you nap, but then again, I only bearded you in your den late afternoons. More of a lair. You nursed the desk. Several of us spotted the wine in the drawer.

Hoping

Hoping The Myth: That we met once more, laughed, apologized, laughed some more, and I showed you my CK poem, all shiny and wrapped in CK-type images and tropes. We laughed again. The Reality: I kept hoping.

At the Harvard Club

Poems Dedicated to CK Williams (1936-2015) At the Harvard Club At the Harvard Club, as you read, two well-monied Newton ladies examined you as if you were a prize Sheltie. One said, “His lines are so long.” The other said, “I don’t understand his poems, but he’s so handsome.” I wanted to say, “His lines look like him. Long, sleek, careful curly beard and self-referring. Think Virgil in hell.” The ladies went right up to you after you finished to get your autograph. I snuck out for air because I had trouble breathing you every time.