Charles Clifton

Charles Clifton, who teaches creative writing and literature at the Johnstown campus of the University of Pittsburgh, is the dauphin of Fredonia.  His poems have appeared recently in The Elk River Review, The Sow's Ear Review, Explorations and Heart Quarterly. Clifton, on your left in the photo, has also had a one-act play, Cowboy Love, produced by the Pittsburgh New Works Festival.

(PHOTO HERE)

I Was That Boy

I was that boy whose papa
took him far into the city
that never closed to the Horn
& Hardardt Automat, universe

of bright windows filled with
manna or chicken pot pie
too piping hot to touch, bought
with a shower of nickels

carried to a table of strangers
where none had guns or talked
to himself too loud and one lady
in rouge said hello honey.

My father and me, our bellies
full, driving and dreaming
down the dark streets at
about a hundred miles an hour,

puffy scar beneath his chin
from when he fell asleep behind
the wheel in Brooklyn, spectre
of failure sitting on his neck

and me beside him, I was
that boy who stole a silver spoon
from the Horn & Hardardt
Automat. I wish I had it now,

a real thing in a world of dreams
already vanishing, reflected
in a spoon, a glimpse of delicate
quick fingers, secret rooms.

The Hedonic Calculus

The warm lamp reveals
a torn, puffy wingback chair,
the man, the cat at his
right shoulder moving
down to poke her nose
against his elbow, then
descending with a small
chirp as the man edges
unconsciously forward
to make the necessary
room and the cat shoulders
herself down onto the cushion
causing the man to think
of finding his newspaper
or an orange from the fridge
as the small but powerful
cat basks, sinks in her claws
and under the warm sun
of the goodly universe she
has created you could
imagine she is smiling
while the man stands
wondering in the kitchen
how did I get here, and
and what its it that I wanted?
Letter to My Daughter

Sue, I was too proud
to call you, now
you've sprouted wings
and flown to Pittsburgh.
I like to think of you
walking with Louise
near Schenley Park,
the smell of Carnegie
and Mellon money all around,
and she shows you
where she used to sleep
in the houseless woods.
She offers you a little
package she has been
carrying for such a long time
in her purse and you
put it in yours. "Keep
It for me, will you?"
she asks, "I may need it.
It's all my suffering, I mean
it's for my suffering.
You can taste it if you like."
She says she doesn't want
to meet strange men in bars
anymore, that life is done,
she wants more women friends.
I remember the vision
you were given as a girl
in a dream, the elephant-buffalo
who spoke to you, and while
he spoke you understood,
and let you ride his back.

No friend better than you
in the pride of your independence
and the humility of a heart
open to fathers and strangers.

I'm still too proud to call
but I'll send along this letter,
skinny on the page, to tell you
your elephant-buffalo is saddled,
ready for you to come home or roam.
Departures

After the day's work, the book,
slender in my hand, falls; Basho
must be starting on his long
journey across my eyelids. By
the time he returns to Kyoto
I will be asleep. He is asleep
someone whispers--my daughter
must be visiting--He is resting
his eyes, he is only pretending
to read another voice replies
and then the lights go out
but I cannot feel their absence
on my eyelids, only the slow
procession of Basho and his
little band of poets journeying
to a far province. Pretending
now to sleep on the long coffin
of the living room sofa, I hide
my thoughts in the dark, thinking
the dead must feel like this, the
absence of their lives like lights
turned off as lightning bugs flash
their semaphores into the delicious
dark and disappear into the late
summer night and all the while
familiar presences speak quietly
of "the mooring rope's sad sound,"
the places they have visited, the
emperor, and how they were received.

the long night

The woman I love sits
in a big chair with a good book
and cat. She does not hear
above the purring of the cat
my song of figs and honey
winding its way down the stairs
from the corner bedroom
or think on my wakeful anguish
under cold and distant stars,
the poems blooming in my mind,
strange, unseen flowers, as I
make my way to the bathroom
to pee and bang my head
on the open cabinet. fuck.
A songful snore floats up
the stairs, and my thoughts
turn to my mistress, who lives
out of town. I write her a letter,
begging for a visit since she
is always the one who comes
to me. My darling dear, love
you all the time, wish I could
find the words to tell you
what you mean to me And now
the second-story birds begin
to sing. The long night ends,
a woman is lying next to me
and in my shoe a piece of paper.