AS ONE

DAVID JAFFIN
AS ONE

The Elizabeth Press
NEW ROCHELLE, N. Y.

Acknowledgments
Some of these poems first appeared in the following periodicals: cave (New Zealand), the clare market review (London School of Economics), contrasts (England), crab grass (Northern Ire- land), THE DECAL REVIEW (Wales), DESCANT, ELIZABETH, THE FREE LANCE, THE GALLERY SERIES POETS, GLOBAL TAPESTRY (England), here now (England), hierophant, little word machine (England), new headland (England), oasis (England), open places, orbis (England), poet (England), poetry and audience (Uni- versity of Leeds), the university of portland review, samphire (England), scrip (England), Washington and jefferson literary MAGAZINE, THE WHETSTONE, & WORKSHOP NEW POETRY (England).
late march was published as a broadsheet by The Sceptre Press (England), © 1973 Sceptre Press.
© 1975 David Jaffin • printed in italy
as always for Rosemarie, Raphael and Andreas

CONTENTS
AS ONE	II
TOUCH	12
THE ROSE	13
QUIET NOTE	14
SHELL	15
BUT THE ONE	l6
BALLERINA	17
VERMEER	18
ANNUNCIATION	19
THE CUP	20
CHESS PIECES	21
TO DAPHNE	22
PRISONER	23
MANNEQUIN	24
BIRDS IN A CAGE	25
FRÄULEIN T.	26
a belief (of Nathaniel Pink)	27
CLARA	28
IN LIGHT	29
sunday: hind legs	30
PASTURES	31
AND AT THE END	32
AT THE RIGHT MOMENT	33
SYMBOLS	34
TIME PIECE	35
americana (Southern, 1880s)	36
SIMILAR CONCLUSIONS	37
A HOUSE OF WINDOWS	38
OF THE SAME THINGS	39
HOUSE OF DEATH	40
OF HER, NOW	41
DISTINCT	42
LATE MARCH	43
ACCEPTED	44
AS ONE

AS ONE
The sound of these words
the image and sense are one
if the reflec- tion of I
in the vvaters in the late
afternoon is the sanie.
TOUCH
When I touch this lamp I pull the stars down
it closes light
simply the touch my fingers
teil its thoughts your face imprinted to
this sound
for the lines break a
night of separate stars you think what I touch
and the dark
glimmers its light through
US.
THE ROSE
The rose is that rose to me: stilled
petals, soft repose (but complete)
to the fic- tions of touch, primed
(considered), refined— the mind
wanders as the hand, delicate
breaks.
QUIET NOTE
Autumn has a quiet note as well
the way the birds turn to the wind
that their co- lor is known.
SHELL
I touched at its wings when the tides were in
and I was sad before the waves rose to their height
and I could not hear my sadness.
BUT THE ONE
You told me two truths
but the one (your eyes)
transitional.
BALLERINA
The world was balanced on a single toe.
The dance was over, we’d all applauded
the curtain feil but she didn’t move.
We shuffled from our place the lights went on
that curtain feil again but she didn’t move.
Her eyes, her thoughts and all she ever was
suspended from a single toe.
VERMEER
She wouldn’t look to where we wanted her face to be
didn’t quite come to focus
but kept turning away, touching aside to the tangible objects of that place
shy in a way but we knew her then as he turned that light in
that she touched, as of herseif
each feature with those self- enclosed fingers.
ANNUNCIATION
Its shadow
(was it taken
as light)
broken and still for a moment defined the wind—
It was spring (its coming)
That afternoon clear and known;
She saw the sta- tues touched, a sun grazed
their heart, distinct now.
THE CUP
The cup was shared and clean, de-
cipherable (too) for the present
want; as it touched his lips the
lights suc- cessively di- minished as
a flame put out with co- vered hands;
he drank, but his thirst was dry.

CHESS PIECES

Time’s exact, the clean spaces be-
tween, po- lished to the phrase, carved
and rarified— Touch would gleam as
touch, the eye confined as glass
refine its chosen pre- sence.
TO DAPHNE
My mind’s cold the leaves are conscious formed
your face refrains from thought;
My mind’s the cold and conscious act the leaves are glistened, gold
your face withholds the outline of its
form.
PRISONER
His loneliness pained him but
once
when he passed by mirrored wall
regrettable (in- deed)
his face reflec- ted
scarcely there.
MANNEQUIN
Her dress spec- ially fit,
tailored to fine phrases,
the scent attri- butable
(if spurious)
as of fingers on
cloth curled and
consumed these
strictures of fact.
One doesn’t like being closed in like that
to such a shortness of space and with wings that couldn’t fly,
provided they were taught to flutter harmlessly by,
looking pretty, perhaps, but performing less;
And one tires of gold, too tarnished at that that need be cleaned from time to time and of looking at oneself (two faces) in the mirror re- volving
or looking out at what’s looking in.
FRÄULEIN T.
A bird flew in her room one day,
She wouldn’r believe it though
ran for her colored bird book
found the proper wings
as she was looking
the bird flew away
She wouldn’t believe it though
sat long with her book by the window.
A BELIEF (cf Nathaniel Pink)
My life is predicated on the belief
that birds fly westwards in the afternoon, in the late afternoon
and leave shadows behind, gather silences stretched out their wings
I feel a purpose in that, something for me to
believe I at the centre of things (as they pass overhead)
Unobserved I stand anticipate the Start the flourish of wings,
feel the expanse of sky (I at the centre of things)
marking out that place at angles to myself, leaving shadows
behind, gathering silences there.
CLARA
She was made of the things she took with
her fingers according to season and want,
berry and branch, the bloodless thorn that ran
straight to her veins.
A bird uncovered sound, prepared its wing
shadows kept close to the leaves
the sun slate
its heart written straight across the claws signed them all,
SUNDAY: HIND LEGS
Sunday:
birds Sprint among thc branches
upsetting the winter stillness
a dog sirs in snow,
hind legs the pillars of his house
times are made that way:
permanent scene
sudden thought the arch of sound
constructing a position to watch from.
PASTURES
He was like a horse
in a meadow without a fence.
Someone had put him there he couldn’t remember anymore about those workings the early rompings the seasoned markings pressed to his side, ingrained for more than enough years
Eie was like a horse in a meadow without a fence looking for water and a hand that could close him in
He reared fast to the side, saddle and stirrups a- libied
domestic stillness
He wouldn’t come,
the years had passed
the pasture cropped with his
takings and I wouldn’t
build a fence there
even if he told me to.
And at the end you’ll ask,
as you’ve always done, but then I won’t answer—
Will you remember, thar
l’ll simply Stare, set still as a face of stone,
And if you ask again, a little louder your face concealing concern
I won’t answer ei- ther—
please, don’t expect that of me.
He came at the right moment for the room was empty.
He closed it quickly behind concealing himself there.
He turned the key, he covered the Windows with shadow.
He took his shoes and the sounds of his thoughts, off.
He removed himself from that moment softly aside
He stood where nothing could have been.
SYMBOLS
You always agreed
(either to what I
said or the ar-
guments opposed), Assumed, accepted satisfactions be-
tween us Time stayed still, a cat curled with-
out will of its own;
but I’ve grown into that Symbol of his-self,
at my feet (long since asleep)
the cat.
TIME PIECE
And the day after yester day
When you put this apple in my hand
and compared it (metaphorically speaking)
to the rose
All the world's round after all
William Teil couldn’t have cared less
and Eve hadn’t been named to the board of directors
yet
Sin has its price too I suppose
all the leaves come down whether you like it or
not
I found this apple on the road
just rotting away by it seif.
AMERICANA
(Southern, i88os)for my nephews
On a long summer
day when shadows leaned their
width full length against
some other to be described, inopportune structure inappro-
priately referred to as
a fence,
when birds scrawny eyed looked like straw hats tipped too far afront
and one wore bluejeans brass buttons/ comic cobbed pipe
between one’s molared lips
proud of it all, increasingly aware of
that aforementioned.
SIMILAR CONCLUSIONS
A radio isn’t
a room
even if we’ve gathered about the same thing
and Windows could look the other way out
not back
stairs don’t lead to
similar conclusions
unless we’ve taken the wrong way out com
pared
to that assumption a chimney with
out smoke’s
a radio with
out a room
to listen in.

That house was simply Windows
it looked out at me
as persons without names.
It was stone and I thought it so
it had a gate and I couldn’t enter.
Birds sang, however bright, there through shadow
one passed it by
even when the lights were on
and one could feel one’s Steps, withdraw.
It was a house of Windows simply Windows
looking out.
OF THE SAME THINGS
And you didn’t look when I came in the room
It was raining outside
the door closed behind
and we sat at the same table,
the room itself was shadow, sound and object
with a light in the middle
and Windows at the sides.
You didn’t look when I came in the room,
when I took my hat in my hands
when I closed my coat on the chair
when I sat as any other object in that room
It was raining outside
and we could hear the sounds of the same things.
She was cold when we came
Hands stiffened ex- tended upwards
wouldn’t remain in their place,
Face swollen still
that room alive and active
wanting silence with- out her.
OF HER, NOW
And what do we have of her, now:
Those pieces we can’t seem
to place, just right as they were;
Smiles of that livened face
that yellow at the sides;
A house that’s provided for others,
long since repainted
A memory, a meaning here or there
as the touch of free- flowing hair
and a stone they’ve carved out since,
quite clearly.
DISTINCT
The clock was turning sound
leaves stood in the late af- ternoon
by the window your flesh muted in light
I saw your face looking through itself
(the circles of sound)
A silence that could be touched
in this room a shadow crossed
birds held in flight
as your hands thought, feit the edge of cloth
The clock ticked a sound
that the darkness was distinct.
LATE MARCH
Late in March there was a windstill on the lake
the sky mirrored itself and we walked the winds our way
Three boys stood at the bridge trying the water with their line
though the land was want of growth
and their fingers kept with cold
the touch of the dead, this last of winter
They gazed within the water
searching for light
Swans moved along the surface
floating on sound
the clouds closed within themselves
Late in March,
This windstill on the lake.
ACCEPTED
He grew old in the afternoon, shadows became of him.
He could have sat with a book in his hand, closing the Corners be- tween them.
He could have talked outloud if he wanted as one talks to a child thinking oneself increa- singly smaller
or he could have cleaned and cleared away
all that unevenness others referred to as himself
but instead he grew old in the afternoon,
shadows became of him.
This edition of AS ONE designed by Martino Mardersteig is limited to 400 copies printed from Dante type on Magnani rag paper by Stamperia Valdonega
VERONA MCMLXXV