To Those Who Go First

 

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Victor Hugo, l’Année Terrible, "April 1871"

 

Whether they just are, or are made that way,
some are inclined at all times to say to Nature:
Dark gulf, void, or abyss — whatever
your vastness calls itself, answer me this —
for what do we exist? Believers
or atheists, it is all the same for us.
We pile on top of Prometheus
the labors of the Euclids and Keplers.

Our doubts, our thought-clouds funereal
rise up to the heavens full of darkness,
only to come back down as jabs of light,
the storm-wrath of the ever-jealous one
who sits on a cold slab of ignorance.

 

O brother-brows, on which ideas flame!
At the edge of the abyss, so many lean
from the foothills of the heavens
with telescopic gaze, so many
extended hands reach up to grasp.
Who can read their mysterious looks?
O, the starry pupils of Milton divining,
while from their outer reaches the real stars burn
into the unblinking lens of Galileo.

Dark Dantes, sun-burned from over-seeing,
new stars should come to be where you scaled up.
Dark horses athwart Infinity,
you are the spirits of black Zoroasters.

 

Dare to go up, dare to descend.
Everything is there for you to discover.
Your name will be remembered for what
new thing you found or brought forth:
For Jason the great journey
against all odds; for De Gama
the will of wanting the ever-westward.

 

When the seeker still hesitates,
one eye on night, one holding forth for dawn;
when he at first recoils as the hieroglyph
yields up its secret meaning, the shade of doubt
takes hold, but then the will to know,
that sharp and abrupt hippogriff, [1]
appears in that twilight moment.

 

On such a formidable steed,
with human genius at the reins,
he approaches the unapproachable,
torch-lit, alone, the lute his only weapon.
And when he leaves, his spirit emaciated,
the star of Love, the sun of Thought
shine through the yawning azure
where night’s dark webs spin shut;
and God gave him these two shy stars
to serve as spurs upon the giant’s feet.

 

Great hearts in which the Infinite
creates itself, carve out a space
around themselves from which all others
flee. A sacred curiosity
possesses them in night and mountain waste.

Each new discovery takes the breath away,
as if an abyss lay always beyond.

 

The risk of death? What does that matter?

One plunges in, one suffers the price.

A life lived pointlessly is already too long.

From the insensible the sublime is born.
Declaring it, he puts the abyss behind him.

Columbus with only vague import
struggles toward the sad wisdom of Empedocles.

 

What is beneath the sea? What, in the heavens?

Their secrets shall be revealed.
Each of god’s seekers goes his way
on wingbeats uplifted by infinity.
As green waters part for Fulton’s steam-boat
and in the depths for the silent submarine,
Mars comes into focus for Herschel’s eyes.
Magellan circumnavigates the proven globe.
Fourier, on mere hot air, balloons away.
The crow, ironic and frivolous, denies
the dreamers’ achievements. “The boats will sink.”
“The balloon is forever lost and cannot come down.”
“Blasphemers! Their souls are damned.”

 

Fools! They have found other worlds!

 

[1] Hippogriff. The hippogriff is a mythical animal, half eagle, half horse. It is featured in the epic poem Orlando Furioso.

Downtown and Back

 by Brett Rutherford

I had the foolish idea to sample
the hotel dining rooms downtown.
Back in the Gilded Age, I assure
my friend, they were the best
restaurants in most cities.

You see, “prix fixe,”
as we pass the windows
right on Fifth Avenue, and see
a merry gathering of diners inside.
“We can afford this! Why not indulge?”

We are ushered in
by a dubious waiter. I find,
as I did when we crashed in
upon the Christies pre-auction,
that a fixed smile, a gaze
unblinking, and good shoes
get you admission most anywhere.

The tables are close, so we
are pressed to place
our tightly-wrapped purchase
upon the table between us.

“You needn’t have brought
anything,” the blue-haired lady
beside me observes. “The chef
has ample portions for all of us.”

Assuming this a wry jest, I laugh.
“Oh no,” I assure her. “We’ve just
been antique shopping. A fine
Ming bowl, in blue and white.”

Soup comes. A dark broth
(a hint of lamb), some shreds
of watercress, cilantro. Spoons
rattle, and threads of greens
tangle amid perfect dentures.

“No one knows what is next,”
the dowager confides to me.
“There is no printed menu, you see.
We wait for the chef to delight us.”
“Ah!” I say. “Then we have chosen well.”

“So you are not an initiate?”
the dowager’s young companion
poses. “Our first time here,” I say.
“Ah, we have a nouveau faim!”

Eyes turn to regard us. A chill
then seizes me as I grab
my companion’s arm and whisper.
“If you value your life, smile on.
Try not to blink. Eat anything
that is put before you.”

Outside the window, a frail
old lady in a worn cloth coat
on catching sight of us, presses
her greasy face against the glass.

Her eyes go black. She drools
against the pane and points
toward me until a man
raises and wags an admonishing finger.
I smile harder, show all the teeth
I can. I must have triggered her.

“The poor dear,” another diner says.
“She must be starving. She
hasn’t anyone. Why not
send her out a little doggy bag?
If left alone, she might eat
her poor little fingers off.”

Instead of sympathy, there comes
hard laughter. Heads turn away
from the spinster, who shambles
off and out of sight and mind.
My baffled companion leans in
to ask whatever is the matter?
“We have made terrible mistake,”
I confess. “We are dining amid
a coterie of country-club cannibals.”

Wide-eyed, we smile and smile.
I look at my watch, and say, “Oh dear,
we have so little time before the train!”
“No, no,” the dowager says, a bony hand
upon my forearm. “I just know

“we’re having an eyeball salad next.
What with the hospital down the block
he has the freshest stock in town."
“In salad?” I answer. “So far
we have only had then in soup.”

“The texture,” her companion explains.
“It’s all about the texture. You’ll learn
as time goes on. You’re new to this,
and we must make allowance.”
“Alas,” I say, “we lingered so long
in shopping and I lost track

“of the hour. You see, we have
this blue-and-white bowl,
a perfect match for a charger
our grandmother left behind —”
“And,” interjects my friend,
“we are having his family for dinner.”

Deftly I summon the waiter;
my debit card is taken, returned.
I sign. We stand, we smile, all teeth.
“I hope to make your acquaintance
again, some other Saturday.”

“We’re always here!” “Bon
appetit!” I call back
as we reach the door and out
into the bustling hotel lobby.
Snippets of talk assault us
as we make the slow walk
to the revolving door:

“I do not know what the problem is
with migrants. Washed well,
they are quite delicious.” — “Babies?
Goodness, no. You mustn’t disturb
the food chain by doing that!” “One
must be discreet, you see, until
we have a solid Republican Congress.”

We made it to the train, the cab,
and home. The blue-and-white bowl
is graced with fruit. Friends are over,
and so far no one
     is eating anyone.

 

 

Auto Correct

 

by Brett Rutherford

 

Forsooth, forsythia!
O purple crocodiles
and yellow Daffyducks!

The young red Robber

awaits the day's eye.

It reigns! It reigns!

 

Tomorrow the yellow

dandy, lying in shade,

two lips pursed for a kiss.

asks where all the squirrels

slept, and what they dreamt.

 

Blossoms' bosoms burst,

mounting mountain laurels'

magnolia magnetic majesty,

hag-wig witch hazel

aburst from branch.

A whirl and a whoosh —

the flood! The flood!

The Pick-Up Man

by Brett Rutherford

 

The bum slid in to the midnight diner’s

most spacious booth. He needed the room

for his rope-tied suitcase, the fat tuba,

the trombone tied ‘round his waist,

the trumpet dangling from bright red belt.

 

“I shouldn’t serve you,” the waitress admonished.

(She needed a break to go

and chain-smoke in the alley).

“What with the epidemic and all,

and you with no mask at all, and dirty.

You look like Death warmed over.”

She sighed. “So whaddyaywant?”

 

The gaunt man asked for bacon and coffee,

and a couple of eggs, oh, any which way.

“You got the money to pay me, right?”

He waved a wad of ten-dollar bills; she thought

she saw a hundred in there among them.

“Okay, okay, just asking. We get all kinds in here.”

 

“I am an honest man,” he assured her.

“And I want to eat with metal utensils,

not that crummy plastic stuff.”

“Where did you find those instruments?”

She made small talk while she wrote his order,

imagining a band-camp bus wreck

he might have scavenged from.

“You’re off to pawn them, I suppose.”

 “Pawn them? Young lady, I play them.”

Up went his head and chin, his shoulders proud.

 

“The tuba, the trumpet, the trombone, too.

I am a pick-up man, famous on three continents.

I never miss a note. My specialty is Requiems.

Offstage only, on account of my appearance.

 

“I am the Flying Dutchman of brass players.

When the composer’s score say “Brass band,

offstage,” that’s me in the lead, back-stage,

or in some balcony or apse or belfry, even.

Sure, they scoot a couple of the orchestra

to join me, but I am the voice of voices.

 

“Nobody wants a walking skeleton like me

on stage with the dainty-lady harps and fiddles.

I get the call for the Verdi Requiem, the Berlioz

(I’ll even do the Messiah trumpet so long

as I stay in the back and away from the lights).

Best of the best, conductors know me.

My Tuba mirum when all hell breaks loose

in those requiems is legendary.

Uncredited I am, but that’s me piercing through

in the records of Toscanini, and Reiner,

the golden age of concerts and records.

 

“Yes, I am a pick-up man.

Offstage only, top dollar.

They know I’ll scare the be-Jesus

out of anyone the way I play.

 “Apocalypse coming,” they say, and shudder.

I take my money, mind my own business

until the next gig comes around.

When famous people die, they play

more Requiems than usual. Hell, I could have

retired on Kennedy alone.”

 

He eats in silence. The radio had died

the moment he had entered. They stand around,

adjusting the dial and the antenna. No matter:

it would start up again the moment he left.

It’s just a side effect that trails along

when the Last Trumpeter comes to dine.

Tomorrow he’d play with the Boston Symphony,

then off to New York, then a long bus to Seattle,

this way and that, city to city, year after year, until —

 

Until it would be just him alone. He’d play

the Tuba Mirum and no one would answer,

in a vast expanse of ruined cities, a world

empty and hammered flat by bombs.

He would play and play until his lips bled,

until with his last breath a requiem for one

and all, a requiem for one and all,

a requiem for one.

 

I, the Higgs Boson

Photo: CERN

 

by Brett Rutherford

Although I am nothing, really,
ten thousand aspiring
physicists have published papers
claiming some intimate knowledge
of my attributes.

If some of these papers
are pasted together
from other papers,
and my name dropped in
at random to secure fame
and instant promotion,
do not be surprised.
I join the ranks of ether,
orgone, and phlogiston.

My name is dropped
with finality, to explain
anything whatever
at a cocktail party.
String Theory?
How “yesterday!”

No matter how
you squint, or turn
the pages of formulas
that claim to prove me,
I am not there at all.

I soon expect
to become an ingredient
in food supplements,
and fill black stones
in costume jewelry.
Homeopathic labels
will list me as key
to infinite dilution.

Massless,
weightless,
colorless,
spinless,
of no particular
political party,
uninterested
in evolution or progress,
I am nonetheless
on everyone’s lips.

I may be the God particle,
but I do not attend Mass.

Without an altar
on any planet,
I am more famous
than Jesus
or the Beatles, already.

Get with it, morons!
On your knees, fools!
The Boson cometh!

 

Mourning Upon Mourning

by Brett Rutherford

Translated from Victor Hugo, l’Annee Terrible, “March 1871”

Back-to-back. Mourning after mourning.
     Ah! the ordeal redoubles.
So it goes. This pensive man can bear it;
this pensive man appears untroubled.
Certainly, it is good that some are made this way.
When robust pains attack savants,
soldiers and hardened fighters,
tribunes, or apostles,
who have devoted their lives to righteous things,
they remain standing no matter what.
You have seen it, Guernsey,[1] you have seen it, Caprera.[2]
Once a consciousness is fixed,
     then nothing will falter there.
For, whatever the wind that blows on their flame,
deep principles do not tremble in the soul,
for it is in the infinite that their calm fire shines.
For the sinister hurricane, fierce by night
can shake its shadows and dark webs up there,
without once causing the stars
to move or stray in their fixed folds.

---

[1] Guernsey. Island in the English Channel where Hugo spent most of his two decades’ exile.

[2] Caprera. Island where Giuseppe Garibaldi, leader of Italian unification, settled for the last decades of his life. He volunteered to help France in its war against Prussia.