Back in Grand Rapids.
Here's another poem I saw for the first time in Iowa, though not in class---it's great to spend some serious time with people who are into poetry!
And this one's special: It's by John Ashbery, but---in spite of being by Ashbery---it's crystal clear what's going on and what the point is! Who'd have thunk of it :)
_________________________________
The
Instruction Manual
By
John Ashbery
As
I sit looking out of a window of the building
I
wish I did not have to write the instruction manual on the uses of a new metal.
I
look down into the street and see people, each walking with an inner
peace,
And
envy them—they are so far away from me!
Not
one of them has to worry about getting out this manual on schedule.
And,
as my way is, I begin to dream, resting my elbows on the desk and leaning out
of the window a little,
Of
dim Guadalajara! City of rose-colored flowers!
City
I wanted most to see, and most did not see, in Mexico!
But
I fancy I see, under the press of having to write the instruction manual,
Your
public square, city, with its elaborate little bandstand!
The
band is playing Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov.
Around
stand the flower girls, handing out rose- and lemon-colored flowers,
Each
attractive in her rose-and-blue striped dress (Oh! such shades of rose and
blue),
And
nearby is the little white booth where women in green serve you green and
yellow fruit.
The
couples are parading; everyone is in a holiday mood.
First,
leading the parade, is a dapper fellow
Clothed
in deep blue. On his head sits a white hat
And
he wears a mustache, which has been trimmed for the occasion.
His
dear one, his wife, is young and pretty; her shawl is rose, pink, and
white.
Her
slippers are patent leather, in the American fashion,
And
she carries a fan, for she is modest, and does not want the crowd to see her
face too often.
But
everybody is so busy with his wife or loved one
I
doubt they would notice the mustachioed man’s wife.
Here
come the boys! They are skipping and throwing little things on the sidewalk
Which
is made of gray tile. One of them, a little older, has a toothpick in his
teeth.
He
is silenter than the rest, and affects not to notice the pretty young girls in
white.
But
his friends notice them, and shout their jeers at the laughing girls.
Yet
soon all this will cease, with the deepening of their years,
And
love bring each to the parade grounds for another reason.
But
I have lost sight of the young fellow with the toothpick.
Wait—there
he is—on the other side of the bandstand,
Secluded
from his friends, in earnest talk with a young girl
Of
fourteen or fifteen. I try to hear what they are saying
But
it seems they are just mumbling something—shy words of love, probably.
She
is slightly taller than he, and looks quietly down into his sincere eyes.
She
is wearing white. The breeze ruffles her long fine black hair against her olive
cheek.
Obviously
she is in love. The boy, the young boy with the toothpick, he is in love too;
His
eyes show it. Turning from this couple,
I
see there is an intermission in the concert.
The
paraders are resting and sipping drinks through straws
(The
drinks are dispensed from a large glass crock by a lady in dark blue),
And
the musicians mingle among them, in their creamy white uniforms, and talk
About
the weather, perhaps, or how their kids are doing at school.
Let
us take this opportunity to tiptoe into one of the side streets.
Here
you may see one of those white houses with green trim
That
are so popular here. Look—I told you!
It
is cool and dim inside, but the patio is sunny.
An
old woman in gray sits there, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan.
She
welcomes us to her patio, and offers us a cooling drink.
“My
son is in Mexico City,” she says. “He would welcome you too
If
he were here. But his job is with a bank there.
Look,
here is a photograph of him.”
And
a dark-skinned lad with pearly teeth grins out at us from the worn leather
frame.
We
thank her for her hospitality, for it is getting late
And
we must catch a view of the city, before we leave, from a good high place.
That
church tower will do—the faded pink one, there against the fierce blue of the
sky. Slowly we enter.
The
caretaker, an old man dressed in brown and gray, asks us how long we have been
in the city, and how we like it here.
His
daughter is scrubbing the steps—she nods to us as we pass into the tower.
Soon
we have reached the top, and the whole network of the city extends before us.
There
is the rich quarter, with its houses of pink and white, and its crumbling,
leafy terraces.
There
is the poorer quarter, its homes a deep blue.
There
is the market, where men are selling hats and swatting flies
And
there is the public library, painted several shades of pale green and beige.
Look!
There is the square we just came from, with the promenaders.
There
are fewer of them, now that the heat of the day has increased,
But
the young boy and girl still lurk in the shadows of the bandstand.
And
there is the home of the little old lady—
She
is still sitting in the patio, fanning herself.
How
limited, but how complete withal, has been our experience of Guadalajara!
We
have seen young love, married love, and the love of an aged mother for her son.
We
have heard the music, tasted the drinks, and looked at colored houses.
What
more is there to do, except stay? And that we cannot do.
And
as a last breeze freshens the top of the weathered old tower, I turn my
gaze
Back
to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara.
