James Longenbach

1 Outside the room where you have lived a long time Are other rooms, another building, just like yours. Each night a ship sails past, wider than the building, taller than the highest church. And though the passengers would like to visit the city, No one in the city ever boards the ship. Would you? Each night this spectacle is seen by you. The street surveyed, The air inhaled. Grapes from the west, Cinnamon from the east — If I’ve employed too liberally the passive voice, Remember it’s the thoughts, The feelings that are of consequence here, Not the one who feels them. 2 Shall we walk to the market? You could walk there blind, like Gloucester, smelling your way. Shall we stop for coffee? Which café? The one that’s commandeered by women, delicate cups? Or the one where men preside, baristas in tuxedos, the coffee rich enough for rainy days? A window, the desk, a lamp, and a chair — You’ve liked the room, you like to rearrange it for winter, Put things back for spring. But you’ve been young for a long time, An embarrassingly long time. Look what you wrote! Remember how much, despite Your ridiculous behavior, you’ve been loved. 3 The city never changes, it’s never the same. Sometimes the inhabitants restore a building, patch it up, But in a generation they’re dissatisfied, they try again, Expose the old parts so you see them Plainly, ruined or not. Who schooled you? What made you scared of change? Vividly you remember a child’s body; likewise you remember a man’s. You woke up one morning, There you were, a stinking adult. What happened between? What will it be like, You’ve seen the images, to watch your body spoiling From the inside out, your lungs, your arms, The muscles in your face — Look out the window, Choose a single brick. Once, a long time ago, the city was old. 4 Clouds desire the sky, the sky the sun. The wave Desires the land on which it trembles, Repeating the same question, day after day — Am I allowed to ask for what I want? And every day the land responds, Of course you’re allowed. You’re allowed to be angry, to rail, You’re allowed to curse the God who put you here. I’ve buried many people, old people, young people. I’ve buried children while their parents wept beside the grave. But I’ve also seen miracles. Remember when they told you You might die? You didn’t, you’re alive. And every month since then, each minute, every second is a miracle. What happens next you cannot know. Is it better or worse to live longer? Really the words better and worse do not obtain.

Accompanied To the Campi Flegrei By a shadow, She listened to voices rise From the darkness, Then recede. Instruments Sustained them. When one had finished Others played. False proportions Sung boldly. Rain on the roof tiles. O selve, o campi.

When I painted, everybody saw. When I played piano, everybody heard. I ate your raspberries. The sign no trespassing applied to me. Now, the hemlocks have grown higher than the house. There’s moss on my stoop, a little mildew In the shower but you’ve never seen my shower. I can undress by the window, I can sleep in the barn. The sky, which is cloudy, Suits the earth to which it belongs.

One cuts blocks From the abundant river, Hauls them house to house. One falls, unseen, The heart Inoculated cold Against a sky still moving. Moving even now Above the river, The canal. Willows shimmering Across the water, Muskrats diving out of reach. The river whispers Till it freezes— A body Twirling sluggishly Beneath the surface as again One stack, then Spreads the straw. Another falters, Slips, or Puts a sliver on your tongue To feel it melting there— The ice-lit Underworld Of someone else.

Today, no matter if it rains, It’s time to follow the path into the forest. The same people will be walking the same dogs, Or if not the same dogs, dogs that behave in similar fashions, Some barking, some standing aloof. The owners carry plastic bags. But this is the forest, they complain, we must do as we like. We must let the dogs run free, We must follow their example, The way we did when we were young. Back then we slept, watched TV — We were the dogs. By the time the screen door slammed, we were gone. Nobody really talks like that in the forest. They’re proud of their dogs, Proud especially of the ones who never bark. They’re upset about the Norway maple, it’s everywhere, Crowding out the hickories and oaks. Did you know it takes a million seeds to make one tree? Your chances of surviving in the forest, Of replicating yourself, are slim. Today, the smaller dogs are wearing raincoats, The bigger ones are stiffing it out. They’re tense, preoccupied, Running in circles, Getting tangled in the leash— It’s hard remaining human in the forest. To move the limbs of the body, To speak intelligible words, These things promise change.

Imagine cities you’ve Inhabited, streets Paved in lava stone. You never intended to pray In the temples, had Nothing to sell. Now imagine yourself Returning to those same cities. Hunt for people you knew, Knock on their doors. Ask yourself Where are the vases, animals Etched in gold? Where are the wines From distant places, Banquets ferreted From the bowels of the earth? While you were missing Other people wore Your garments, Slept in your bed. How frightening The man who said In his affliction Wood has hope. Cut down It will flourish. If the root grows old And the trunk withers In dust, at the scent of water It will germinate.

1 Just as there were reeds along the riverbank, Just as there were clouds Above my head, my lute was lying beside me on the grass. I placed the little finger of my right hand on the soundboard, Just below the strings. Not the tip of the finger, the side. I curled the palm of my right hand towards me, Covering the strings, so that I played The bass note with the thumb, The next with the index, And the top note with the third. The sun retreated, the night turned cold. Rain began to fall, softly at first, Though surely rain had fallen here before, as rain falls everywhere. With my left hand, I positioned my thumb and index finger Opposite each other, bearing no weight, As if the neck of the lute were not there. 2 At this they all laughed. Then the Count began afresh: My lords, he said, I am not pleased with the young man if he is not also a musician, and if, besides his cunning upon the book, he have not skill in like manner on sundry instruments. There is no ease of labor more honest and more praiseworthy, especially at court, where many things are taken in hand to please women, whose tender breasts are soon pierced with melody. Then the Lord Gasper: I believe music, he said, together with other vanities, is mete for women, also for them that have the likeness of men, but not for them that be men indeed, who ought not with such delicacies womanize their minds and so bring themselves to dread death. — The First Booke of the Courtyer of Count Baldessar Castilio 3 For many years I lived apart, in happy oblivion. In retrospect, I understand I’d been a child, Though lacking comparisons I couldn’t have said so. I learned things, things no child, left to himself, could possibly know. My head, which had been empty, now was full. My head would grow larger. How could it not? At night, standing in the shower, I closed my eyes. The water trickled down my forehead To my nose, from my nose to my lips, my chin, then disappeared. But some of what stayed in my head Should not have been there. 4 Listen, said the reeds along the riverbank: the nymphs Are weeping for Daphnis. His mother embraces his body, railing against the stars. Nobody drives his cattle to the cool stream, no one could drink; The mountains echo with the beasts of the desert. Daphnis, it was you who yoked them to the chariot, Who led us in the dance, weaving Together vine leaves with reeds. The vine exceeds the tree on which it climbs. The grape exceeds the vine, The calf the herd, the corn the field. Now, where we planted barley, thistles grow. Where once were violets, hyacinths — nothing but weeds. Scatter the ground with flowers, shepherds, Set out two bowls, One of milk and one of oil. Then carve these lines from Virgil on his tomb: I was Daphnis in these woods.The stars knew my name.Beautiful the flock, more beautiful the shepherd.

1 In the Forest of    Wearisome Sadness, Where one day I found myself wandering alone, I met my heart, who called to me, asking me where I was going. The path was long and straight, row after row of conifers receding To a horizon that because of   the geometry Seemed farther than it really was, Like the door at the top of a staircase in Versailles. But as if   the forest’s maker had been offended by elegance, A pile of rocks disrupted the rows: the forest once Had been a field. I remember that field. I was carried there by my father, beside him My grandfather, who planted the trees. Until they were tall enough to survive, He mowed the field, piling up rocks, taking down brush with a scythe. How, since I’ve known the forest almost since birth, could I have been lost? Why, since the forest is beautiful, is it not a place of delight? Repeatedly I asked these questions of my heart, But like a good physician, he elected To keep silent, leaving me to answer for myself. 2 Late at night, when I’m lying in bed and cannot sleep, My heart reads to me from the Romance of   Pleasant Thought. Always I’ve heard the story before, and typically, Since the stories are true, I am their hero. I’m riding my tricycle on the sidewalk near the house where I was born. Because I am unsupervised, I indulge in what seems at the moment A daring wish: I ride the tricycle beneath a sprinkler. Immediately I am overcome with remorse. The evidence of my trespass is everywhere to be seen, And for the first time in my life I contemplate a lie. Would my shirt dry faster if I stood in the sun, where it’s hot, Or in the shade, where cool breezes rustle the leaves? In the version of this story that appears now In the Romance of Pleasant Thought, I admire not so much my ingenuity As the evidence of my early devotion to empiricism, The way I manage terror by examining how things work. 3 It’s done, there’s nothing more to say. My heart is gone from me. Because he has fallen in love He has abandoned me. It’s pointless making myself uncomfortable over this By being mournful or sad. It’s done, there’s nothing more to say. My heart is gone from me. He does nothing but mock me. When I tell him pitifully That I cannot live on my own, He does not listen. It’s done, there’s nothing more to say. After Charles d’Orleans