People At Port Trakl Part Two Poem by Daniel Brick

One of Us

The aging Englishman
lived alone, and
even a steady flow
of whores could not dent
his 'essential solitude, '
as he put it,
bragging into his gin and tonic.

He lived in a furnished room
in the luxurious Hyperion Hotel,
perched on a cliff overlooking
the ocean and the port. Were they
not the Antipodes of his life?
Once he had captained ships,
now he could not master his daily life.

Often he would be absent
for days and nights, presumably
indulging in a fierce binge
in his lonely furnished room.
When he resurfaced finally
at one of our Port Trakl
dives, he looked as if

he had stared at Death, face
to face, never having flinched
even once. Soon his appearance
improved, his wit returned,
he was funny, a delight to be
with, a shallow drinker,
with some of the sea captain restored.

But no friendship ensued. He could
not be trusted. His wit turned
venomous, his speech, although
perfect Spanish, became boorish.
We looked away, we walked away,
tense days followed, a week or more,
before we relocated our rapport.

So we were surprised, stunned
really, when an English woman
arrived alone at Port Trakl
a month after his death,
claiming to be his widow.
Her papers were all in proper order.
She left in two days with the body.

Only then, after we had lost him
a second time, only then, in subsequent
months, when life settled stolidly
into routines and habits, only then,
when empty chairs and boredom
reminded us of the light he had shed
did we grasp, He was One of Us.


Portraits of Two Young Poets

I
The young poet combs his hair
gently but firmly. He will not
tolerate even a single hair
out of place. His only suit,
a tropical off-white affair,
is frayed, worn through, and
impeccably pressed. He faces
the world with pride every day,
whether it is a crowd, or
a single friend. When you engage
him in conversation, he fixes
his gaze on you, and you can
feel the ancient rhythms
of verse coursing through his being.

II
The young poet combs her hair
gently but firmly. The dark brown
tresses fall gracefully past
her shoulders. She trusts they will
behave themselves. Meanwhile, she
writes poems for herself alone,
sometimes even addressed to herself.
She is too shy to share them, but she
carries them everywhere. She longs
to be recognized by a kindred spirit,
or a soul mate. Gardening displays
her tenderness, her care for living
things. Because of her nurturing,
flowers bloom in Port Trakl's only garden.

III
They met through music: it was
an affair of the mind. They became
familiar through poetry: it was
an affair of the heart. Neither the boy
or the girl believed in luck, or even
good fortune. They were early resigned
to a life of suffering. But that first
night they always recalled as magical,
when she stepped in for his drunken teacher,
playing piano to his violin playing,
and the hearing of three hundred citizens
was blessed by Beethoven's Spring Sonata.
Later that week they exchanged poems,
and each embraced the soul of the other.