Rudman - The Millennium Hotel

THE MILLENNIUM HOTEL Wesleyan PoetryOther Books by Mark Rudman POETRY: By ContrariesThe Nowhere StepsRider CHAPBOOKS: In the Neighboring CellThe Mystery in the GardenThe Ruin Revived PROSE: Robert Lowell: An Introduction to the PoetryDiverse Voices: Essays on Poets and PoetryRealm of Unknowing TRANSLATION: My SisterLife and the Highest Sickness, poems by Boris Pasternak
(with Bohdan Boychuk) Square of Angels: The Selected Poems of Bohdan Antonych
(with Bohdan Boychuk) Memories of Love: The Selected Poems of Bohdan BoychukEuripides Daughters of Troy Mark Rudman

For my father Charles Kenneth Rudmanand my son Samuel Hardie Rudman Wesleyan University Press University Press of New England, Hanover, NH 03755 1996 by Mark Rudman All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 5 4 3 2 1 CIP data appear at the end of the book Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the magazines and anthologies in which sections of this book first appeared: Mixed Messages, The Alembic; Aesacus, The Diver, Aesacus Risen, Arion; Gratuitous Act, Semaphore, Boulevard; Wood Floors (1,2), Colorado Review; Poolside, Columbia Magazine; On the Wheel Of, Pool Hall, Crab Orchard Review; Easter Weekend in Denver, Denver Quarterly; Role Play (after Horace), Partisan Review; In the torrent (after Johannes Bobrowski), Motel En Route to Life Out There, Pequod; Above and Below in Mexico, Ploughshares; Loves Way, Yellow Silk. The following poems appeared in these anthologies: Aesacus, The Diver in After Ovid, edited by Michael Hoffman and James Lasdun, Farrar, Strauss & Giroux; Screen Image, The Killing Spirit, Overlook Press; Waterfall (after Pierre Reverdy) in 20th Century French Poetry, edited by Paul Auster, Random House. I would also like to thank Carol Ardman, Christopher Benfey, Ted Blanchard, Lawrence Joseph, and Katharine Washburn for their careful readings and encouragement. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of Lannan Foundation in the publication of this book. Todays the riders birthday. Would you rather I... Would you rather I...

What is this I. You have none. Todays the riders birthday. Except hes dead. In a contrary mood today? Not in the way youd think. Im your friend, remember? And I cant hurt you.

I have no body. Neither does Krang. K? The bodiless brain. The Ninja Turtles nemesis. The guy who oversees all of their activities. And yet you carry him in your pocket like a good luck charm.

You perplex your son who cant see the humor in your perversity because to him Krang is just, to put it plainly, disgusting. Just his brain. On the show and the Nintendo game his naked brain is always safely encased within a robots body where his stomach and not his head ought to be. Ought? I thought we had done with the realm of could-have-been. The realm of shoulds. And just because the rider is deaddoesnt mean that today isnthis birthday. April 17. April 17.

Im fine, really. I believe you. But the week has been. I know. But think of it this way: youre lucky that you can break down. I kept scratching my brain in imagination trying to remember if this was the week when B died a year ago.

And J the same week the year before. After each death something went wrong with your body. All right, all right. Even though I had the flu I dragged myself to the gym to stretch out on the mats and listen to some calming music on my Walkman. This was going well. , but when I reached for my toes I... convulsed and burst into tears. Good thing youd worn your sunglasses. Yeah. Yeah.

I knew that the tears could have been mistaken for sweat and the groans for... and while it was days before the date, as if emblazoned (would stare me down-to-distraction) I just could not stop thinking about the intimate quiet moments we shared; our rare and wonderful moments of true solitude together... ; the unforced gentleness and sense of mutuality... : Buber... Thats so unimportant. I dont see whats so strange. I dont see whats so strange.

His birthday was approaching. You were sad. Thats perfectly normal. But what pierced me at that moment like an ax was the recognition that I never had a conversation with my (blood) father. Dont be dumbfounded. My feelings about the two men are always in dialogue, crissing and crossing.

Lying in that relaxed position on the exercise mat listening to the intervals in Ry Cooders mesmerizing Paris, Texas score, it hit me that as my fathers birthday approached, or the hour of his suicide neared, that I felt mildly aware, mildly sad, but not remotely devastated and torn that I had lost someone with whom I had an intimacy that could never be repeated. Nothing can. You know I dont mean it that way. Then be precise. Someone who, at least at crucial times, communicated a warmth and love and care without competing with you and undercutting you at every instant like
your blood father. Thanks. Thats what Im here for. Thats what Im here for.

So I was torn by a new perplexity with regard to my real father. I never lived with him but we spent countless hours alone together and he was often, before he hit the bottle, quite friendly, easy-going, low pressure. A compaero. We liked to hobo around together. But even looking at clusters of the best moments we had in each others presence we still never had a conversation. , to lead me onto better paths for I am in no way criticizing his motivation in trying to help me GROW it was just that he had no EARS He knew in advance anything I could possibly think or say. But it wasnt personal. But it wasnt personal.

It was just the way he was. You brought
a friend to dinner who was stationed on a ship outside Nankeng
Harbor. Your father appeared to listen to his sea storiesand the thing that most blew his mindwhen the missile, launchedfrom the ship, landeddirectly ona peasant hoeing rice who didnt know where the hellhe was goingand blew him away completelyand the sailors laughedand your friend came apartand while your FACE showed proper astonishmentyour FATHER just pawed the place matto rid it of imaginary crumbsand with stern and solemn nodsthat withheld surprise at all costs and gravity of tone worthy of Lincoln! told your friend that the gist of war was boredomand he, perhaps unused to such practiced delivery during

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