My Old Idols

By J. D. McClatchy b. 1945

I. AT TEN

1955. A scratchy waltz

Buzzed over the ice rink’s P.A.

My classmate Tony, the barber’s son: “Alls

He wantsa do is, you know, like, play.”

Bored with perfecting my languid figure eights,

I trailed him to a basement door marked GENTS

With its metal silhouette of high-laced skates

(Symbols, I guess, of methods desire invents).

Tony’s older brother was waiting inside.

I’d been “requested,” it seemed. He was sixteen,

Tall, rawboned, blue-eyed,

Thumbs hooked into faded, tightening jeans.

I fumbled with small talk, pretending to be shy.

Looking past me, he slowly unzipped his fly.

II. CALLAS

Her voice: steeped in a rancid syrupy phlegm:

Whatever’s not believed remains a grace

While again she invokes the power that yields:

Splintered timber and quick consuming flame:

The simplest way to take hold of the heart’s

Complications, its pool of spilt religion:

A long black hair sweat-stuck to the skin:

The bitter sleep of the dying: the Jew in Berlin:

Who sent you here? the sharp blade pleads:

Stormcloud: thornhedge: starchill:

Blood bubble floating to the top of the glass:

The light, from fleshrise to soulset:

The world dragging the slow weight of its shame

Like the train of pomp: guttering candle: her voice.

III. IN CLASS

Parasangs, satraps, the daily drill . . .

Beginner’s Greek its own touchstone.

The sophomore teacher was Father Moan,

Whom I longed to have praise my skill.

The illustrated reader’s best

Accounts of murder and sacrifice

Only suggested the heavy price

I longed to pay at his behest.

He’d slap the pointer against his thigh.

I quivered. What coldness may construe

Of devotion was an experience

As hard to learn as catch his eye.

I kept my hand up. Here! I knew

The right answer. The case. The tense.

Source: Ten Commandments (Alfred A. Knopf, 1998)

Biography

J.D. McClatchy’s poetry is marked by formal adeptness, lyrical control and a wide range of influences—including classical literature, music, and opera. Praised for their polished, erudite surfaces as well as the depths of thought, philosophy, and feeling beneath the facade, McClatchy treats subjects as diverse as Japanese history, the body, and his own autobiography. Often depicting the unsettling and disturbing realities that . . .

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