Elda Gentile aka Elda Stiletto, 1949-2018
by Gerard Malanga
Elda,
Am I asking the impossible beyond your time and mine
had fate rolled our dice out differently?
Had the gods blessed us with eternal bliss,
had the seasons reversed themselves to satiate our wanderlust,
to find ourselves in a hotel splendide on Lake Genève
or a beach–front cottage out in the misty Hamptons,
a hide–away deep in Maine’s upper northern reaches?
There are no photographs of us that I recall
that show us as memories resisting memory
or where we sensed to be.
Our dream selves.
How did this all come not to be?
The timing’s off.
We came together once one late night after closing time at Max’s,
1969 —
I was house –sitting for Charles Rydell —
and then we slept in —
smothered in our sensuosities, c. this & c. that . . .
and then it’s 1992 suddenly,
the one time I can claim a date exactly.
No, I correct myself!
You reached out
and suddenly there we were in Woodstock
where you interviewed me
and God knows where that tearsheet’s been misplaced
among those archives sleeping.
And I’ve been lucky trying to remember for the both of us
and still our angels blessed
us nonetheless
where we picked up last in that deep dark confusing sleep,
too early yet to prophesy.
Alexander Liberman, editorial director of Condé Nast & Artist, 1912-1999
by Gerard Malanga
Dear Alex, Mr. Liberman:
This is a letter that will never reach you I’m afraid.
Words I’ve penned in the dark as nite moves on
before my dreams evaporate,
or in my mind’s eye
the very way you’d stand observing canvasses or a single swatch.
Or in jovial conversation
in a public setting, say a vernissage.
I’ve tried standing there myself,
using you as mirror image,
like in a tap dance.
When was the last chance the last?
I’ve practiced placing the right foot forward just a bit,
the forward glance.
That class–A act.
Your hair combed back.
It could be raining slightly,
but the pitter patter rounds out that look
of the bon vivant, as you dash into Café Flore,
or any shoppe along the Saint–Germain–des–Prés,
Midtown Madison, the many twisting turns of Oxford Street.
Life’s just a soft midday breeze,
café au lait,
news of the day
as you fold the Times in half
the way I learned it in 8th grade class
with I’ve forgotten whom, I suppose, it’s been a while.
The cool collective nuance of a life
knowing who you are or where life finds you,
where you’ve gone & coming back.
The perfect stance, near–perfect,
explaining little. No need to.
Your vision in full swing,
as near to perfect when trying on a suit
to feel the fit is right.
The rule of thumb:
to match the color of your eyes, then some.
Dear Dick, Professor Eberhart
by Gerard Malanga
How do I address thee in the golden hour,
in the afterlight
as my day wanes,
as night comes on with its sometimes nasty dreams,
its simple observations,
its cruel realities, its sadnesses.
I was in my high school then.
My last year
I had no idea
that I’d be reaching for your satchel after class
what I’d been taught rightfully,
as we paced it to the nearest outdoor café in far–flung Cincinnati.
A quiet gesture, nonetheless.
Your words would shake me as your senses shook
at the sight of change, so senseless, so exclamatory.+
A groundhog’s death is what you made me see.
What little that remains
when last you saw the bits of hair,
a twig or two
tangled in the wetted grass.
Time gains in meaning when least observed
in how a poem remembers it
in spite of us & through a sunlit trembling, a coalescence,
if there be such a word . . . & so there is.
Craig Sipe
Craig Sipe: is the author of the poetry collection Lovely Dregs. His work has appeared in journals including The Maine Arts Journal, Right Hand Pointing, Spank the Carp, and Iconoclast. He is a poetry editor and audio editor for the quarterly art and poetry journal The Café Review. He lives on Orr’s Island, Maine.