Why So Many—Why So Few?

 

Deep within what is common
there hides a radical,

unfathomed equality
of all within all—

strangely assuming
aqua-like rings
and resonances,

so easily mistaken
for some great dissolvent,

the nearer one draws
to aequus,

that ancient root
of all that is fair
and even.

For could there ever exist
a perfect divine scale

upon which two different things
might nonetheless balance wholly,

their shared measure too
remaining absolute—

even though to many

such utter balance,
equality, fairness,
and justice

appear almost
like death itself?

And yet does not such égalité
so often pass unnoticed

beneath stern
and exacting laws—

even where this concerns identity,

the deepest law of all?

Elsewhere souls despair

that nothing which has been
or still is

refuses disappearance
within the losses
of others and themselves.

Thus so many insensible lovers,

blindly seeking
yet denying

that very presence
they obscurely crave,

before their arms and legs,

devenus bien trop légers
—and thereby more divine—

succumb once more

to earthly heaviness,

where gravity
rules them all.

Why Did Trump’s War on Iran Bring Back That Old Memory to Me?

 

It must have been in the fall of 2008
when I went to Boston to attend

one of those Northeastern political-science
conferences the East Coast Ivy circles

hold within their princely dominion.

Long had they mastered
the art of playing god—

though as subtler Machiavellians—

and never addressing directly,
or otherwise in ethical honesty,

the great and burning questions
of their own age.

Instead of truth, they preferred
the complexity of the trivial:

minute kinks and polished twists,

together with that well-rehearsed art
of playing one’s cards

without ever laying
anything essential

upon the public table.

It was there that I saw
a large poster

advertising the Mariinsky Theatre—

and a ballet close to my heart:

Swan Lake.

I had seen it many times before,

but now with Ulyana Lopatkina
dancing both Odette and Odile—

the white and black reflections
of the fatal feminine,

now with wings,
now shedding them.

So I did what I used to do
back in Moscow in those days—

simply walked to the entrance
and trusted I would find

someone again
holding out a spare ticket.

And so it happened.

I bought one
and entered

to see Lopatkina—

tall and taut,

the greatest living Swan
of that age.

Soon afterward
the man who had sold me the ticket

came in as well
and sat beside me

there in the orchestra,
first-class row.

Between acts we spoke.

Perhaps his companion
truly could not come,

or perhaps he too was lonely
and thought our lonelinesses

might briefly align.

And so he opened up.

It was just after the election—

the end of George W. Bush’s second term—

with its vast war
built and funded

upon so many lies

that they had nowhere left to go.

I think he was somewhat younger than I was,

and he truly believed
in the ardor of his heart

that the party of war,

having ostensibly lost the election,

would finally be indicted,

arrested,

and tried.