I was thinking about musical performances I love and how they might have inspired—or at least have some connection to—my poems. It’s a little hard to explain, since music (like poetry) is a mysterious phenomenon, but it seems that the musicians I most admire are the ones who “speak” to me, and I mean this more literally than it might sound. It seems to me that the greatest musicians—not only singers but also conductors and instrumental soloists—are the artists who actually inject their performances, their “phrasing,” with the inflections of speech. My pantheon includes the pianist Arthur Schnabel, the violinist Joseph Szigeti, cellist Pablo Casals, oboist Leon Goossens, and even a conductor who is usually not associated with “dramatic” music-making, Pierre Boulez. A singer like Maria Callas or, from an even older generation, soprano Maggie Teyte, even while they’re singing, also sound as if they’re talking. I think this is what people mean when they refer to the importance Callas gives to words. One of my favorite examples of this quality is a 1936 recording by Maggie Teyte, from her album of Debussy songs accompanied by the French pianist Alfred Cortot, who shares her quality of “speaking” the notes: Debussy’s setting of Verlaine’s bitterly ironic “Colloque Sentimental” (“Sentimental Dialogue”). Two lovers, or their ghosts, are walking together in a desolate park. One asks the other if his (or her—there is nothing to identify gender) heart beats faster at thoughts of their past love, or if he (or she) still sees the other in dreams. Verlaine’s couplet ends with a most unsentimental and abrupt “No.” In Teyte’s recording this sung-but-spoken moment is bone-chilling. So many of my poems include someone speaking. My first book, These People, was made up almost entirely of monologues and dialogues. For some years I had seriously wanted to become an actor. When I think about my life, all these predilections, personal and artistic, seem to fit together.

—Lloyd Schwartz


                        GISELA BRÜNING





Why should I remember now? More than 20 years . . . The Paris

            Opéra! My first trip to Europe.


            In the next box: Gisela Brüning and her handsome

            blond son. Had she sensed how lonely I was


            or just how uncomfortable, craning

            from the back of my box to see the stage?


            “. . . Maybe you would like to join us?”


They helped me over the partition (an usherette

            outside, on guard against people

            sneaking in where they didn’t belong).


Her English was good; her son’s

            better . . . He’d have been 16—small for his age,

            with a tense, serious look on his pale,

            baby face; I was 24 . . .

“From Hamburg, we are.

            My husband stays at home.”


            (They resisted my attempt at German: I was

            their opportunity to practice English.)


Even from the Brünings’ front-row seats, the opera was

            hard to see. Roméo et Juliette

singers I’d

            never heard of. The soprano, “mature” for

            Juliet, wore a hip-length blond wig.

            (At least she could sing the famous Waltz.)


Our discussions animated the intermissions. Past midnight,

            lingering near the Metro, we eventually

            decided to meet next day. Gisela

            wanted Holger to see Chartres—


            so we went to Chartres.


* * *


They embarrassed me, and I was embarrassed

            for them, these cultivated travelers turned

            tourist stereotype—

shouting to each other from

            opposite ends of the vaulted nave: f-stops and

            light-meters; which film; what scene to shoot.


            (One photo they’d send—a chapel with

            burning candles—came out rather well.)


            “It is good to remember such scenes,” Gisela said.


* * *


We corresponded. Each air-letter had a motherly

            postscript: concerts they’d heard;

            museums she’d taken Holger to.


And the same invitation: Wouldn’t I

            please visit? There was a bed for me. Plenty

            to eat. Operas. Museums.
Hamburg was a

            great city: so very many fine things to do—


            please do not refuse.


* * *


The following summer, I planned a trip to Greece—and a week

            with the Brünings. (They’d have loved to come

            with me: Gisela wanted Holger to see Greece.)


* * *


Would I mind? Holger had written they were

            vegetarians. And sure enough:

sunflower seeds and

            raisins for breakfast; sunflower-seed-and-

            raisin sandwiches for lunch. Bowls of

            seeds and raisins on the table all day long.


            In the War, Gisela and her husband were forced to eat

            stray cats (if they were lucky to find any)—

            she could never eat meat again.


Herr Brüning was much older than his attractive,

            high-strung wife:

reticent, accommodating,

            avuncular (more Dutch than German?); happy to be

            so thoughtfully taken care of; “courtly.”


            And proud of his only son’s accomplishments: first oboe

            in his high school band (though too

            shy to practice at home).


* * *


Gisela took us to the museum. She loved

            the German expressionists—recognized

            where all this luxury of color


            could lead, but loved the danger

            too, the brinksmanship.


Holger followed where she led, debating light meters

            and floor-plans (how to get “There” from “Here”).


            Gisela hardly minded contradiction from such a clever

            boy who knew his own mind (even if she was never

            completely convinced he was correct)—


            they argued like sparrows.     


* * *


We went to the opera. One night,

            Rigoletto: arias in Italian, choruses in German;


            once, Benjamin Britten’s Ein Sommernachtstraum

            a midsummer night’s dream of a production (all lights

            and shadows); its sublime quartet


            of awakening lovers . . .


* * *


She took us to the red-light district. Young men, she said,

            should know about such things (and it was

            Hamburg’s most famous attraction).


Olive-drab military barriers guarded each end of one

            narrow street:

rows of narrow houses

            with wide, open windows; buxom women leaning down

            and out in gaudy peasant blouses (low-cut

            elastic bodices digging into fleshy chests);


            crowds of men cruising, stopping to inspect, to



We nudged and giggled, but Gisela was serious. She

            approved of this system. Men, she said,

            need to be relieved of their tensions.

And at least

            these women were forced to stay clean.


Holger’s outspoken, enlightened mother made him blush.


* * *


They took me to meet Holger’s English teacher (his favorite).

            Distinguished, dapper, his suit meticulously

            pressed—he pressed my hand, pressed

            me to return . . .

But Gisela had every minute planned:


            so many interesting things for a visitor to do.


* * *


One excursion took us to Lübeck: Bach’s church; Thomas Mann’s


                       bathing cabinets, bikinis, and naked

            children frolicking in the grey Baltic.


Was this the field trip I have the photo from? Holger in

            lederhosen, I in my brown English raincoat;

            a deserted grassy ridge.

We’re perched on a bench,

            sitting on our crossed legs, eating—like tramps

            out of Beckett. (Gisela must have taken this picture;

            I’d forgotten she was there.)

* * *



Once, the Brünings had company: three or four

            stylishly-dressed women—old friends.


            There would never have been a war, they were

            still complaining, if it wasn’t for the Jews . . .


            Gisela never commented on this visit.


* * *


Once before I left she asked what was my

            favorite food: she would make, she

            insisted, anything I liked.

I was dying for

            a steak.


Was it thirty years since Gisela had prepared a steak?

            She must have cooked it over an hour (like


                     I ate every leathery bite, while

            the Brünings munched their healthy legumes.


* * *


Gisela packed me a lunch for the train: bread and

            sweet-butter, raisins, fresh eggs.


            We shook hands warmly (she had a vigorous

            handshake: a tight squeeze, then two brisk pumps).


            When I later cracked open an egg, it was

            still soft (Gisela!), the entire compartment

            laughing themselves to tears at my eggy


* * *


Holger’s letters began to arrive at

            ever-widening intervals. He’d formed his

            own wind ensemble (photo included); was studying

            harder than ever at school.


            The last one had bad news.


Gisela had bought a car, and taught him to drive.

            They were touring; there was an accident (he

            was driving)—


            his mother had been killed.


* * *


I can’t remember the house.


I see a big, old-fashioned kitchen: on the table, bowls of

            raisins and sunflower seeds. In a cramped bedroom, Holger

            sleeping soundly in the next bed,

just out of reach . . .

In one dream, I’m locked in an opera box—everyone

            singing a different language. Or I’m all


in the red-light district . . .


Gisela trying to placate her reddish frizz; brushing

            the cornsilk strands out of Holger’s eyes (his narrow,

            ironic smile).

Herr Brüning at the breakfast table:


            his pipe in his left hand—his contented,

            knowing look.


There’s no car. Every day we walk to the station, on our way

            to a museum—Gisela preparing us for the morning’s


                            her arms are exclamation points; her

            voice shrills with excitement . . .


But the street is blank. The house is a blank.


Why can’t I picture what it looked like? Why should this

            particular gap in my


            memory disturb me so?



                                    —Lloyd Schwartz (from Goodnight, Gracie,
University of Chicago Press)









I’m writing a poem about you.


            You are? What’s it about?


It’s the story about your childhood, the horses in the river.


            The ones that nearly drowned? . . . I saved them.


You told it to me just a few weeks ago.


            I should dig up more of my memories.


I wish you would.


            Like when I lived on the farm and one of the girls fell

            down the well?




            I forget if it was Rose or Pauline–it was a deep well.


I remember that story.


            Have you finished your poem?


I’m still working on it.


            You mean you’re correcting it, with commas and semi-colons?




            When can I see it?


As soon as it’s finished.


            Is it an epic?


It’s not that long.


            No, I mean all my thoughts, the flashes of what’s going

            through my life, the whole family history . . . living

            through the woe, the river and the water.


I know.


            Will it be published?


I have to finish it first.


            It’s better to write about real life, that’s more important

            than writing something fanciful.


I try to write all my poems about real life.


            You see, the apple never falls far from the tree.


I guess not.

            You’re my apple.


There’s probably a worm crawling through that apple.


            Then it’s got something sweet to chew on.


Well, you’re my tree.


            Yes, I’m your tree—you’re an apple, I’m a tree.




                                    —Lloyd Schwartz (from Cairo Traffic, University of Chicago Press)










            Every October it becomes important, no, necessary

            to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded

            by leaves turning; it’s not just the symbolism,

            to confront in the death of the year your death,

            one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony

            isn’t lost on you that nature is most seductive

            when it’s about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its

            incipient exit, an ending that at least so far

            the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)

            have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe

            is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception

            because of course nature is always renewing itself—

                        the trees don’t die, they just pretend,

                        go out in style, and return in style: a new style.








            Is it deliberate how far they make you go

            especially if you live in the city to get far

            enough away from home to see not just trees

            but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high

            speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were

            in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves:

            so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks

            like rain, or snow, but it’s probably just clouds

            (too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder,

            given the poverty of your memory, which road had the

            most color last year, but it doesn’t matter since

            you’re probably too late anyway, or too early—

                        whichever road you take will be the wrong one

                        and you’ve probably come all this way for nothing.









            You’ll be driving along depressed when suddenly

            a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through

            and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably

            won’t last. But for a moment the whole world

            comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—

            red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,

            gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations

            of burning. You’re on fire. Your eyes are on fire.

            It won’t last, you don’t want it to last. You

            can’t stand any more. But you don’t want it to stop.

            It’s what you’ve come for. It’s what you’ll

            come back for. It won’t stay with you, but you’ll

                        remember that it felt like nothing else you’ve felt

                        or something you’ve felt that also didn’t last.



                                                —Lloyd Schwartz (from Goodnight, Gracie)


                        NOSTALGIA (THE LAKE AT NIGHT)






The black water.


Lights dotting the entire perimeter.


Their shaky reflections.


The dark tree line.


The plap-plapping of water around the pier.


Creaking boats.


The creaking pier.


Voices in conversation, in discussion– two men, adults–serious inflections (the words themselves just out of reach).


A rusty screen-door spring, then the door swinging shut.


Footsteps on a porch, the scrape of a wooden chair.


Footsteps shuffling through sand, animated youthful voices (how many?—-distinct, disappearing.


A sudden guffaw; some giggles; a woman’s—no, a young girl’s—sarcastic reply; someone’s assertion; a high-pitched male cackle.


Somewhere else a child laughing.




Tires whirring along a pavement . . . not stopping . . . receding.


Shadows from passing headlights.


A cat’s eyes caughtin a headlight.


No moon.


Connect-the-dot constellations filling the black sky– the ladle of the Big Dipper not quite directly overhead.


The radio tower across the lake, signalling.


Muffled quacking near the shore; a frog belching; crickets, cicadas, katydids, etc.– their relentless sexual messages.


A sudden gust of wind.


Branches brushing against each other–pine, beech.


A fiberglass hull tapping against the dock.


A sudden chill.


The smell of smoke, woodstove fires.


A light going out.


A dog barking; then more barking from another part of the lake.


A burst of quiet laughter.


Someone in the distance calling someone too loud.


Steps on a creaking porch.


A screen-door spring, the door banging shut.


Another light going out (you must have just undressed for bed).


My bare feet on the splintery pier turning away from the water.

                                    –Lloyd Schwartz


                                    (from Cairo Traffic, University of Chicago Press)





“You can be so inconsiderate.”                                                   “You are too sensitive.”

“Then why don’t you take my feelings into consideration?”

                                                                                               “If you

weren’t so sensitive, it wouldn’t matter.”




“You seem to care about me only when you want me to do

something for you.”

                                “You do too much for people.”




“I thought you were going home because you were too tired to go with me to a bar.”

           “I was. But Norman didn’t want to come here alone.”




“I’m awfully tired. Do you mind taking the subway home?”


“You could stay over . . .”


“I’ll take you home.”





“Why do we have sex only when you want to?”

                                                                            “Because you want to have sex all the time.”




“Relationships work when two people equally desire to give to each


           “Relationships rarely work.”




“Do you love me?”

                               “Of course–; but I resent it.”




“Why aren’t you more affectionate?”

                                                            “I am.”




“Couldn’t we ever speak to each other without irony?”





“I love you, you know.”

                                        “Yes . . . but why?”




“Do you resent my advice?”

                                             “Yes. Especially because you’re usually right.”




“Why do you like these paintings?”

                                                         “What isn’t there is more important than what is.”




“Your taste sometimes seems strange to me.”

                                                                         “I’m a Philistine.”

“A real Philistine would never admit it.”

                                                                 “I suppose you’re right.”




“Aren’t you interested in what I care about?”

                                                                        “Yes. But not now.”




“We should be more open with each other.”


“Shall we talk things over?”

                                              “What is there to say?”




“Are you ever going to cut down on your smoking?”

                                                                                    “It’s all right—I don’t inhale.”




“Sometimes I get very annoyed with you.”

                                                                    “The world is annoying.”




“Your cynicism is too easy.”

                                               “Words interfere with the expression

of complex realities.”




“Do you enjoy suffering?”

                                           “You can’t work if you don’t suffer.”

“But we suffer anyway.”

                                        “I know.”




“Do you think we ever learn anything?”

                                                                “I’ve learned to

do without.”




“You’re always so negative.”

                                               “I feel death all the time.”

“Are you afraid of anything?”

                                               “Not working.”




“What shall we do for dinner?”

                                                   “It doesn’t matter-whatever you’d like.”




“Why don’t you care more?”

                                               “I do.”


Lloyd Schwartz was born on November 29, 1941 in Brooklyn, New York. He graduated from Queens College of the City University of New York in 1962 and earned his Ph.D. from Harvard in 1976.
Schwartz’s most recent book of poetry is Cairo Traffic (University of Chicago Press, 2000), which was preceded byGoodnight, Gracie (1992) and These People (1981). He is also the co-editor of a volume of Elizabeth Bishop’s collected works for the Library of America.
His poems, articles, and reviews have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Vanity Fair, The New Republic, The Paris Review, and The Best American Poetry. In 1994, he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Criticism.
Schwartz has taught at Boston State College, Queens College, and Harvard University, and is currently Frederick S. Troy Professor of English at the University of Massachusetts in Boston. He is also the Classical Music Editor of The Boston Phoenix and a regular commentator on NPR’s Fresh Air.


These People (Wesleyan UP)

Goodnight, Gracie, (Chicago UP)

Cairo Traffic, (Chicago UP)

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