JOSE ITURBI AND OTHER GHOSTS

Part One.
The mountain has a hole in it
And the walls are flat with hollow stripes
At regular intervals where the drill
Cut through the rock for blasting it.
Fresh birch and popple move to fill the empty space
Along with colonies of sumac rough grasses.
They mow it every season to keep it clear
And where it's difficult or too steep
The sides are lined with gravel and crushed stone.

To improve the reception I pull up the antenna
And experience a brief sense of order and beauty
Listening to the rounded statements of antique music
The voices calling to one another in even sentences
Horns and strings alternating each telling their part.
Percussion marks the periods of the sprightly message.
There is more information about this period
In musical history at nau.edu.mush.

The old road connects population centers
As a forest trace a wagon path
Improved in time with logs dirt and stone
Tar and asphalt later on. Not enough room for it
The thruway heads for open space moving mountains
At high speed yellow stripes at the center.
Railroad tracks and side roads cross over
On concrete bridges of uniform design.

When the baroque concerto gets out of range 
The scanner finds a romantic piano
With strong fingers and loud crescendos for me.
The melody is repeated without variation for several bars
And the piece is marked by well defined chords
Rising in progressions I can easily predict.
The piece concludes in a strong bass line
With bright accents that suggest a program behind.

A Spanish Republican without a home
Comes to the U.S. as a movie celebrity.
When the rebellion was on his sense of purpose
In life and his music were clearer.
He is swallowed up in a huge art decco set
A victim of the political decadence he despised.
Enemies of the revolution get him a job as a piano player.
In formal attire at the keyboard by 52
His style is stale with severe technical flaws.
The interpretive voice is muddy and I don't get
The further comments about the Iberian composer.

In Albany there's a restaurant with a tropical garden in back.
Cars stream by and white pine along the fence
Contort themselves reaching for the sun
In every direction the branches swirling in bent curves.
I order pork omelette Singh beer hot pepper in fish sauce
And the guy asks if I've been to Thailand.

A couple with a hardon have a conversation about his car
The young girl speaking with an open face and red hair at him.
A threesome on lunch break from a State office building
Deal with Russian relations and Moscow gangsters.
The one with the beard speaks firmly like a college professor.
The lady is small and looks up at him.
The back of the third one is toward me and I can't see.
A big man sits at a little table over his meal.
His belt has dropped down under his belly.
On a shelf above a buddha shrine with artificial flowers
Has a Chinese lantern with an electric lamp inside.

Filled with food and drink I car nap in the sun
Waking an hour later in a sweat from the heat.
It takes a few minutes with the door
And windows open to get back to normal.
When I go in to take a leak the place is empty
And the boss and kitchen guy are having lunch.
I wash with liquid soap and wake up with cold water.
The garden has a low wall of cement block
With concrete caps and flagstone facing in front
And maple leaves are floating in the shallow pool inside.
I remember having a greater reserve of personal energy.

The paint is peeling off the trees
Starting at top where wind and water hit them
And the sap first lets go providing nutrition.
Oak is orange and birch is yellow.
A blanket of fallen leaves cover the mowed places.
Some are already bare sticks with nothing at all.
As far as I can see into it the understory is filled
With a friendly clutter some of it still green.
Where it's wet the tops of waterplants are white with seed
The stalks swaying together on a breeze.
Sumac holds its fruit right through Winter.

The last stretch sun makes long shadows on the surface ahead
And backlights the woods colors making them glow.
The program comes to us from the studios of RFE
The radio station of the University of Southern California.

Part Two.
There's a long delay at the 7th Avenue local
And people are eight deep on the platform.
When it finally arrives it changes to Express
And many of them get out. Next Stop Chambers!
An architectural student sketches a building front
In a day book with photos and clippings pasted in
With written entries and drawings in an intricate hand.
A guy in just a tank top and shorts
Has sharpcut sideburns and a pointed beard.
A blonde lady smiles and a black old guy
Hangs out by an open door that roars at him.
A full schedule of events plus the latest community postings
May be viewed at nysha.org.newyorkhistorymonth.

I take a cab to St. Marks for the Open.
The Sikh driver turbanned and dark
Speaks his lingo into the radio phone
And there is no barrier shield behind his seat.
Hacking commission rules have made it optional
And he has no need of this form of protection from harm.

The chairs are still on rolling racks and a few helpers
Set them out on the newly finished maple floor.
One of them heard the feature poet Wednesday night.
"He put his poetry up on slides--Cool!"
An art show is hanging on the freshly painted walls
Two or three entries each in a clearly defined style.

The girl is chocolate with long string hair
And a broad smile with baby eyes that sparkle at you
Over the nose and mouth that cover completely
The front of her face from side to side.
The curator of the event her voice is pleasant and young.
The ponytail guy next to me has been there 30 years
Celebrating his loneliness at age eighteen
And a wife who does it with the super in the living room.
His accent is Southern and his shirt
Opens to a hairy chest and a bolo.
A crooked man with a beer tummy reads his poems
From a three-ring binder with plastic sheets
And two girls in miniskirts black shiny boots
And skinny legs share the American Dream together.
"I've got to quit New York. It's too sexy!"

At the Japanese Restaurant on 23rd
The small girl with the bad complexion and lots of hair
Speaks Cantonese to the sushi chef.
She's from Malaysia. When I ask for something special
She calls over a big girl with a round face
And a good education from mainland China.

I call my wife from the hotel before turning in
And share with her the idea of the city
As a palette with an extraordinary range of colors
Some of them muddied by accident or proximity over time.
For breakfast at the bagel place accross the street
When I tell the guy that Ecuador is linda
I picture in my mind long avenues of tropical shade
Sugar cane bananas and small coffee trees on a high mountain.
Fast for the city he waits on two at a time
And he makes the coffee sweet. The other men
Are Spanish too each from a pais differente.
Above them a row of success bouquets are hung
High on the wall with little of the original color left
Their dry stalks bound with faded ribbon.

The elevator is full of ordinary tourists
Who pay attention to the opening doors
Shifting position as necessary and
Briefly making eye contact in a polite manner.
I'm surprised when the words they speak to one another
Though smoothly produced by regular facial expressions
Are unintelligible to me no matter how hard I listen.
Crossing the street to the park I step aside
For an energetic foursome totally absorbed
In the green Michelin for New York.
Their voices rise above them in a broken twitter.
The hero of a South American rebellion
Looks down at me from a rearing horse.

Horse drawn carriages line up along the street
Waiting for a fare the drivers in top hats
Cleaning their rigs and speaking together in jargon.
A white horse feeds oats from a canvas bag
Upon the ground and grey pigeons in a flock
Surround him flying in to eat their share
Each time he lifts his head to chew.
As he slowly lowers his head again
The brave ones stay on not jumping out
Into the air until the last possible instant.

I find an empty bench along the bridle path
Accross from a man in a sports cap and team jacket
With bold white lettering on it who is sitting up
Resting his head in his hands maybe asleep.
A horse stops at the water trough and a threesome
Climb out of the cabriolet to take some pictures with it.
There are flowers in the vase and the horse
With big hooves walks slowly like a steam engine.
The couple pose and the single guy takes the snap for them.
It's cloudy the girl is slight and it will be
Like this for them in the prints of it when they get home.

A couple stop nearby with a telephoto lens
And the subject stirs yawning and stretching thoroughly
Takes out a cigarette puts back his head
And folds his hands behind but doesn't light it.
He gets up to take a leak and asks the time politely.
A mature stand of sycamore dominates the site
Their yellow leaves covering the walk in patterns
And concentrations that vary with the distance
From individual specimens high overhead.
He spreads a layer of cardboard down
And rests his head on a folded arm for a pillow.
A fresh wind comes up and blows them around.

At 70th I spot a familiar roof line
But the Frick is closed for Election Day.
A well dressed outdoor type is reading the sign.
He makes no response to my remark
Pointing and explaining volubly to them
In a language when he rejoins his group.

I head for Columbus Circle and a Thai place from years ago.
Below the stylized carved mahogany figures
And floral decorations of intense green orange and blue
A ghost with long white hair in back and a trimmed beard
Sits at a side table in a Navy suit white shirt
And a colorful yellow and black print tie.
His skin has brown spots and his movements are deliberate
But he navigates the exotic dishes still
With a familiar sense of pleasure and control.

Jay 4/24/98