Ron Padgett - How to Be Perfect

I’ve fallen in love with the poetry of Ron Padgett. I was aware of his work only generally, having (I think?) seen something in one of the Best American Poetry anthologies. So I put him on my big “to buy” list. I, fairly randomly, chose his 2007 book, How to Be Perfect. I started reading it last night, and I've gone all crazy with it.

Here are a couple poems at random:


For Morris Golde

It might have been when
I was standing in front of
Kierkegaard’s grave thinking
that his name means
churchyard that Moris
Golde was breathing his
last in St. Vincent’s, where
Jimmy died too, and what
was I doing then—and
what am I doing now?
Death throws everything
into high relief, itself
the highest—its uppermost
crag is where we sigh,
relax, and stretch out as
far as the mind can go.
I’m partway there is
A “deep” thought I can do
without, though I just
had it. I wish it would
get lighter faster. If it
were two weeks ago it
would be bright outside
instead of blue-gray.
Morris, you old thing.




Bastille Day

The first time I saw Paris
I went to see where the Bastille
had been, and though
I saw the column there
I was too aware that
the Bastille was not there:
I did not know how
to see the emptiness.
People go to see
the missing Twin Towers
and seem to like feeling
the lack of something.
I do not like knowing
that my mother no longer
exists, or the feeling
of knowing. Excuse me
for comparing my mother
to large buildings. Also
for talking about absence.
The red and gray sky
above the rooftops
is darkening and the inhabitants
are hastening home for dinner.
I hope to see you later.