Conceiving Himself

Conceiving Himself


Night after night after hot night
in the clearing.
Stars, odor of damp grass,
the faint sound of waves.
The palm trees around hardly visible,
and the smell of the jungle beyond.
Hour after hour of the drumming
on bells, while young girls danced
elegantly in their heavy golden costumes.
Afterward, groping his way back
along the dirt paths through blackness,
dazed by the trembling music,
the dancing, and their hands.
(Pittsburgh so long ago.
The spoor of someone inside him.
Knowing it sometimes waiting
for a train in snow,
or just a moment while eating figs
in a stony field.)
One evening the rain spilled down
and he ran into the tent behind the altar,
where dancers and musicians crowded together
in the unnatural light of a Coleman
lantern: the girls undressing,
rain in their hair,
the delicate faces still painted,
their teeth white as they laughed.
None speaking English,
their language impossible.
The man finally backstage in his life.

Jack Gilbert

Posted over on Poetry Foundation