The Periscope of the Eye

At cocktail parties submerged 
But still struggling, craning my neck up 
On the street talking to others 
Or not talking, how keep the periscope of the eye open 
Wide enough? 

As the underwater days rush by 
Fists knock at my hull, political prisoners 
And South African refugees reach for me in the dark, 

But with all my bells going off, electrically wired gates,
Like everyone else 'there are groceries I must buy, taxes, 
My family's heads to be held up 
Right now, of course there's never enough time 

To think about how trapped we are, how terrified 
Of drowning, of losing ourselves in the ocean 
Out there with all those others …

My friend says to be able to bear it 
We must put on our blinders at the train station, 
But once everyone's aboard, in the subway's oddly marine light 
There's no calm, no float 
And no salt, either. 

In the backwaters of earth, in poverty, in oppression, 
Surely people speak to each other, because there is nothing else 
They sing whenever they can, sometimes they even manage 
To tell each other the truth, 

But here we are free to lie, 
From Maine to California to Kansas, 
Here almost all we have are lies 
We believe are true because they soothe us:

My friend says Poetry blooms best 
On bread and water, even slipped through the barred 
Metal hatchways of prisons, 

But here Poetry is invisible:
As strange silos thrust themselves up 
Out of the troughs of the unconscious 
What, would you have us look out the window of opportunity 
For someone else? 

Pretending I don't care, hurling myself into the statistics 
In the land of instant gratification I am not gratified: 
The minute after I eat ice cream, 0 I am shriveled up, 
My fat tongue drums uselessly in my mouth, 

For the well-fed periscope is a vacuum cleaner 
Swallowing whole continents of information and then choking 
On its own loneliness, who is that calling from the top deck? 

Long ago it was Emerson, then Whitman with his wooden rafts, 
Then Dickinson keeping the log, meticulously
Up there in the crow's nest scouting for God, 

But down here what we have are a few exiles, 
Granite lighthouses brandishing the great Book 
And what can we do really? 
On the horizon there used to be Pasternak, 
Ahkmatova, Neruda trumpeting like a bull elephant 

But now all we have is our own life jackets, 
In steamy saunas of self-help 
The spirit expends itself by counting: 

One drop for me, one drop for you, 
And one for the itemized convoys, the trucks 
That probably won't get through. 

Cruising along in the one body 
That keeps me and my family safe, 
Now all that interests me are a few seamounts rising 
Silently, from their trenches,

As one or two livid faces, hands 
Waving for help flash by 
And disappear instantly, on the deck 
Just below the conning tower I hear footsteps, 

My neighbor's stooped silhouette 
And then something that looks like a child, my child! 
About to be swept into the sea 

Unless I can stop it, how can I, 
Mouth filled with self-pity, 
Or any of the rest of us, drifting 
To the rhythms of unknown laws 

And refusing to think about it, outside 
Every circle there are others 
Widening and widening, already the first odd

Irritable scratches are sputtering 
Over the submarine's sides like the probe 
And crackle of giant claws: 

As more and more power leaks from my eyes 
In the blare of patriotism, myself 
The sole measure, how can I say what fish 
Are too big for our nets, 

What immense songs may be moving 
Right now, out there beyond all instruments?