Ernest Hilbert Reads with Deborah Fries at the Green Line in Philadelphia
by Ernie on 14/06/10 at 9:53 am
Ernest Hilbert with Deborah Fries, hosted by Leonard Gontarek
Note: this is not the Green Line Café on Clark Park. It is a second location on the corner of 45th and Locust.
Green Line Café
Tuesday, June 15th, 2010
7-8PM
4426 Locust Street, corner of 45th and Locust
Philadelphia, PA 19104
215-222-0799
TRANSIT: Green Line Locust is within two blocks of two bus lines. Take either the #21 or #42 bus, signal for your stop at 45th Street. From the #21 bus, walk south to Locust Street and you’re there! From the #42 bus, walk north 1 block to Locust and you’re there!
“Arriving at X” by Deborah Fries
And so we have come to X, the traveler writes—
leaving us blind, without GPS certainty or
Mapquest directions or a whiff of its weather.
We have to trust him, believe he will parse relevance
of place like ingredients in butter cookies, let us know,
as we wait here in our reading rooms, all we need of locale.
Whether the grasses are high, the mosses wet. Whether
the guest house floats upon a Silurian reef, the age
of the dogs, weave of curtain material he fingers, shape
of the dark hills beyond the spring house. We depend
on his generosity. And so we have come to X,
he writes, and still I am unable to sleep. We feel his
disappointment. All that stands between us and
restoration—car alarms, tree frogs, pox scares,
pacing mates, trapped moths, jake brakes – might travel
with us, refuse to be kenneled. But I would like to stay
here for awhile he writes. We understand. Some places
require a patient openness to charms thrust our way,
a willingness to examine violets or sip dogwood tea. For
those places, we pack watercolors and cameras, good pens.
We hope to meet someone on the trail. We imagine
arriving at a place we cannot name, colluding with the jam
makers, towel folders, stable hands and naturalists. Even we
could be trusted with its secret lat and long, able to sleep deeply
on a chaise, wrapped in white steam rising from the pool.
“Stargazer Lilies” by Ernest Hilbert
The vase itself is a spent shell casing—
Lush petals pour out like surging steam,
Lacquered battle-bent cuirasses, photograph
Of fireworks in humid July skies, racing
Into an umbrella of spark and cream,
Falling as luxurious glittered ash.
The arrogant smudged stamens jet high
And proud like vapor trails, the whole bouquet
Unfastening like a vast nebula,
Long pour of poisonous gas; arms fly
Out and fade, and the soft leaves, in late day,
Aim down, oar blades in air above Formica,
Limp and breathing in a dry universe,
Wet pennants, green ghosts, long surrendered spears.
