THE TRUTH OF MATERIALS
“ . . . Brancusi taught me the truth of materials.” – Isamu Noguchi
In my father’s house is a propeller,
Not a work of art, or nature, not steel
Or driftwood, but a little of each by way
Of City Hall, one blade, one of four once,
Curved like a wing, fastened along the edges
By brass studs, sitting in a corner through
Generations of judges in City Hall,
Half a corridor block from my father’s
Office, until he retired as Chief Crier
Of Quarter Sessions Court, bringing home his
Gold badge, which I can’t find, his Brancusi,
Which I’ve never lost sight of, yet no plane’s
History of military service
Or flying banners over the beaches
Of Atlantic City. It must have seen
Flight duty of some sort, but landed one
Day in the courts, and stayed for thirty years,
Cigar smoke instead of mist the only
Hazard, court officers and lawyers shouting
In marble halls like mechanics in hangars.
It didn’t move for changes in government,
Weathered political storms, since, unseen,
It was unused, an unfound work of art,
An inflected wing of polished wood,
The block attachment to the axle-shaft
A natural base on the floor of the Hall
In Philadelphia.
Finally he told
The President Judge he’d like to take
The blade home. Now the old court officers,
Who were so devoted to the racing
Form, wonder what it is they miss, a shape
With a familiar sweep, the politics
Of pure air. They lean on marble window
Ledges, wondering what the Chief Crier
Took home with him, two sons shouldering
Something wrapped and tied in a couple
Of discarded judges’ gowns.
