What the white whale was to Ahab, has been hinted;
what, at times, he was to me, as yet remains unsaid.
Autumn Afternoon, an Alpine Hotel
A table of elderly German ladies
after Spaziergange in autumnal rain
revive themselves with coffee
in the overheated hotel lobby
before retiring to dream before dinner.
They speak politely over crochet-edged napery,
filling the room with the gutturals of their ruined voices,
admiring the pale and mighty elegance of the Jungfrau.
Muffled in paisley cashmere
and half-forgotten memories,
they go quiet by turns,
unfolding within themselves
years-ago walks at this time of year or earlier
in these Alps or the Italian ones,
with husbands or lovers --
though aloud they touch upon the weather
the quality of the day's menu, mountain train schedules,
the private lives of young servants.
The Grand Dowager,
a Brazilian emigre on her 50th visit,
exacts the highest privilege.
Alone at her pulpit,
separate from the others,
she meditates over her plate and cup.
Interrupted by a compliment
to her perfected snowy coif,
she rises roil-browed
from the creamy wake of Die Zeit
to pronounce gracious acceptance.
From her collection of meadows,
and husbandly pricking long survived,
she's earned her solitude and others' reverence.
From my table by the window,
with Moby Dick and a glass of red wine,
I plumb my mature philosophy,
the aging heart in Melville's depths and mine.
I watch the pale mists
obscure, then reveal, then obscure
the whiteness of the maiden, the mountain.
Before, leviathan glowed before me
like everything unknown
and too dearly desired,
the looming of violent romance.
All prospects, Pacific and otherwise,
lay in the far pursuit of sperm.
The voyages tattooed me, sharpened my teeth
for the taste of salt, gave me idols
for a pagan worship.
Now I feel the white whale
turning within me as the moon fades.
My mates navigate me to the whaling grounds
to fill my holds with magic ambergris,
the roil of thought
and fate retreating or advancing or retreating,
the mysterious turmoil of love held in
to twist with the pale ghost of my mortality.
Wengener Hof, Wengen 1993